Paging Dr. Wanker...

I was walking through the grocery store earlier, picking up a few things to do some meal prep for the week, when I had a couple of self-discovery moments. First, when Snoop Dogg's "Drop It Like It's Hot" shuffles through the ear buds, it's really hard not to dance. Really hard. When the pigs try to get at me...

The other moment caused me to pause in my tracks. I saw one of the Hims. You know, a Him--one of those dudes that did something to you or said something to you and it put a placeholder in your life. Good or bad, there's a memory there. This one was particularly humiliating as his placeholder was in his office and he decided to give me a lecture about pre-marital sex while he held my birth control prescription hostage. I was a grown woman, I'd graduated from college, and that lecture was the last thing I expected. Looking back at my life at that point, with all the booze and drugs I was ingesting, if a doctor were going to make a moral judgment on this patient, the judgment should have been, "Praise be, she's using contraceptives!"



But I let him blather on and threw another brick on the "Things that are Wrong with Me" pile. It was already a fairly impressive pile at that point.

That whole scene played out in my head while I was standing there watching him, just walking through the store, probably to buy dinner for his wife and legitimate children and grandchildren. Although I never went back to that particular doctor, I hadn't realized the degree to which I had internalized that shame I felt that afternoon. His name, his nurse's name, which exam room we were in--I remembered all of it from the freezer section.

At that point, I really just wanted to get out of the store and go home, but of course he was in the checkout line next to me so I turned up the ear buds.

And then I remembered a worse experience at a doctor.

We place a lot of faith in doctors. We expect them to have answers and knowledge. We expect them to be able to fix us in our acute situations. After all, they go to school for many years, internships, residencies, and on and on and on. Actually surviving the training shows a lot of gumption, whether or not someone will actually be any good at practicing medicine is an entirely different conversation.

I'd been in a long-term relationship with someone who I knew fucked around on me, but the extent to which it happened didn't become clear until after the relationship ended. I was embarrassed and ashamed. But most of all I was terrified. I wanted to get into my doctor immediately and get a full battery of tests done. Reality Bites was correct, the rite of passage for our generation was the HIV test.

I wasn't able to get into my regular doctor, so I ended up calling around for the first available appointment that accepted my insurance. When I arrived at the clinic, I was still pretty keyed up. I'd managed to stay sober, so I was pretty happy about that. But my terrified had switched to pissed off. That's the bitch about trusting someone. I had only slept with the person I was in the relationship with for the past five years, yet there I was in that fucking waiting room, feeling stupid and used. Throw another brick on the pile...

When the doctor asked why I was in today, I explained that I wanted to have STD testing done, including an HIV test. I know I was pissed off and panicky, but I really just expected him to be professional. I knew the insurance wouldn't cover everything, but I didn't know how to put a price on peace of mind. So I asked that he just do the exam and get the samples so I could go about my day. And wait.

So he did just that.

But then he felt the need to be funny.

"Maybe you should start boiling your dates," he said.



A medical professional actually said that. I don't know if he was trying to break tension or being a judgmental dick, but the right thing to say would have been something about when the labs would be back. He didn't know that the woman sitting on his exam table was a rape survivor who managed to get sober and thought she found someone with whom she was going to spend the rest of her life until it blew up in her face. He didn't know that, but I will not make excuses for his ignorance. He should have kept his fucking mouth shut. Me today, I would have verbally eviscerated him and filed a complaint with the medical board. Me then was so sad and tired that I didn't say anything at all.

My mouth gets me in trouble from time to time. I talk about things or use words that make other people uncomfortable, but I guess I feel like I have to now. I have to speak my truth and use my voice now because of all the times I didn't have the strength to in the past. When I think about it, I am always reminded of one of my favorite poems by the incredible Audre Lorde:

A Litany for Survival

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children's mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother's milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive

- Audre Lorde

Runner's Diary: Portland Edition...

Since I don't like to carry my phone during a run, the Kodacrome in my noggin takes mental notes and I see what I can string together for all you folks later. I may be a social media whore most of the time, but I like keeping these close.

Runner’s Diary: Portland Marathon

The alarms, yes, I set multiple alarms, began at 5 am. I should point out that that is an everyday occurrence—three alarms is the reg for me. There’s the wake-up, the “You better have your shit together,” and “Your ass better be heading out the door” alarms. It works.

Oatmeal was McGuyvered with the hotel coffee pot 123 minutes from start.

I was assigned starting corral F. “F is for fucker,” I reminded my cheering section after I was asked several times. I know my cheering section might not always appreciate my mouth, but I DID help them remember my starting corral. I visited with a cool chick named Anna, who was from Seattle, and a wacky mother-daughter team of half marathoners from California. Note: Portland runs a marathon and a half marathon simultaneously and the first 11 miles are run together. If you are considering the race, go for the marathon. All the best views are after 14.

Mile .25: Some poor lady went down like a ton of bricks a few people in front of me. Of course, the folks around her helped her up and checked on her. I hope the next 26 miles went better.

Mile Three: A ginger held open the door to the porta-john for me. They do have souls.

Mile Seven: Cheer groups ahead, fun. I wonder what they… oh Christ, they are dressed like pirates. Why do adults enjoy dressing like pirates?

Mile Eight: Someone yelled, “BARF!” Hundreds of eyes scanned the ground. We were all starting to stink at that point, so the potential stank was not a worry.



Miles Seven through 11: This industrial park sucks and it is really hot. Railroad tracks everywhere. I thought Portland was beautiful. Holy Jesus, that lady with the walking poles is taking up a lot of space. I will not trip on the poles, I will not trip on the poles.

Mile 10: Solo trumpeter plays “Eye of the Tiger” on repeat. I am sad for him. I pit stop to remove my bib from my shirt and attach it to my shorts. The shirt has got to go and I have zero pride left. Don’t like the jiggle, don’t look. I ate a lot to get this sexy. Plus, at least I am not soloing Survivor. Holy nuts, he is wearing a beret like the video. Sadness has turned to reverence.

Mile 11: Fuck, the pirates again. Now they are singing. I miss the trumpeter.

Somewhere between 14 and 20: Holy shit it smells like weed. Oh look, a Mile 420 sign. Yep, they gots all the weed there. Contact high. Why isn’t Cypress Hill playing right now? Ghost of Steve Jobs, don’t let me down now…

Mile 15: Tall, hot, bearded Portlander walks his bike (vintage 10 speed) against the marathon traffic. He smiled. I smiled. There wasn't time to ask if he wanted a salty motorboat. ‪#‎missedconnections‬‬‬

Mile 17: St. John's Bridge. Holy. Beautiful. The 45 degree (okay, it felt that steep, but I haven’t done the trig to figure out if that is legit), 3/4 mile to get there was forgiven. I stopped to stretch with several others and enjoy the view. "I only thought about jumping for a second," I deadpanned. The man in the orange shirt appreciated the joke more than the Japanese couple.



Mile 19: A man walked down the street with a black cat perched on his shoulder. Awkward eye contact with the cat ensued. Those things are so weird. A dog would never look at me like it wants to eat my soul.

Mile 19.5: I had enough sass left to yell at a group of people grilling and hanging out in their yard, "You guys are pretty quiet!" The crowd erupted.

Mile 20: Angelic young boy proudly holding sign that says, "Make Mile 20 Your Bitch!" I stop, look him right in the eye, and say, "I don't know who your parents are, but I like them."

Mile 21: The solo trumpeter returned. I think. I may have just imagined him because it was fun.

Miles 22 & 23: Lots of people. Some check my bib and cheer, “Go Schooly.” I’ve taken to winking at them because who doesn’t want to cheer for a flirty, shirtless, stinky girl?

Mile 24: “We are on Winning Way, how can we lose?” I commented to a middle-aged dude. “How CAN we lose?” he replied. It would have been a perfect moment for a slow clap, but who the fuck as the energy for that bullshit at this point?

Mile 24.5: Puking blond runner being comforted by the Greek God of the Portland Fire Department. I considered shoving a finger down my throat.

Mile 25: I eyed a man wearing a "Team Beef" shirt. I was slightly scared after the homophobic incident in Beresford, but inquired where his home was. "Idaho." I ran faster.

25.5: The oldest homeless fella in Portland screams, “Get your bitch asses out of my city!” Unsure as to whether the “city” to which he was referring was the sleeping bag, the block, or Portland, I trudged onward.

In all seriousness, there are so many homeless people in Portland. I realize there is a culture within the homeless population and that some people prefer the life, but what really struck me was how young the homeless population there was. READ THIS.

Runner's Diary Mile 26: ODB hit the Shuffle for my final song of the race. The ODB was my favorite doughnut at Voodoo Doughnuts. Remind me to tell you the Cock and Balls story from Voodoo sometime. #‎circleoflife‬‬‬



Mile 26.2: I smiled like a dorkus as I crossed the finish line and marched right up to a blond lady who was handing out medals and said, “I’ll take that.” No crying like in Chicago. A young man handed me a rose and said, “Congratulations!"

I wandered around the finisher area and ate all the food. Seriously, I had orange juice, chocolate milk, grapes, yogurt, potato chips, and mini candy bars in my guts within moments. After the Sioux Falls marathon, my body was like, “SUGAR!!” and I downed a Coke. After the TC Marathon, my body was like, “SALT!!” and I sucked down lots of chicken broth. The past two years, my body has been like, “JUST SHOVE CALORIES IN ME, YOU DUTCH BEAST!!”



In other news, I smelled like the ass of death and you could have salted a pretzel with my jawline.

Mile 28: Wearing finisher's shirt and medal. Lady rolls by slow and yells, "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!" at me.

All the miles after: ALL. THE. FOOD.

I adored Portland and will return. My sole/soul desire to return to Great Plains was my Bitches, and not just because they snore far less than my travel companions. Alli and Joey make my world. They would like Portland.

Runner's Diary Plane Ride: Arm’s length from three screaming babies and I never swung. ‪#‎growth‬‬‬

Runner's Diary Dog Pick-Up: Alli did laps, Joey jumped like Tigger, and I smiled like a fool. The signature on my receipt would not hold up in court. The gal who helped me load up the Bitches commented on what a nice dog Joey is: "She is so nice to humans and other dogs." I beamed. My little asshole is growing up. They were super chill the rest of the day, so they must have done their own little doggie marathon out at the farm.

Lonely, but Not a Hunter...

This blog has to start with a disclaimer. It isn’t written for my AA friends to ask me to join them at meetings. It isn’t written for my Christian friends to ask me to join them at church, or my running friends to ask me to a new group run. It’s not about fellowship. It’s not looking for a date. I’m just feeling the need to be completely transparent about something because I am sure I am not alone in my feeling.

I am lonely.




Loneliness isn’t about being by myself—I have no issues there. I like going to the movies by myself, having lunch solo, and running in the company of canines. This issue isn’t about needing to be around other people. I have many great friends in my life. This issue isn’t about self-esteem; I am an exceptional human today. Hell, being exceptional may even be part of the problem.

It’s a lack of connection.

It’s like you’re sitting in a stadium full of people and it looks like they’re all talking and cheering, but you don’t hear a thing. You’re on the 50 yard line, they don’t notice you, and you look right through them.

As long as I can remember, I have been lonely. I couldn’t be cuddled because I was too hot. I couldn’t watch because I made people nervous. I felt like a nuisance, a burden in the way of whatever the people around me were working to accomplish. (Remember, I’m the girl who even sent my imaginary friend away to live somewhere more relevant.) So I isolated, especially into books. Always wanting to be somewhere else, books were the perfect outlet for me. I could go anywhere. I could be anything. (Sing a few bars of Reading Rainbow, I know you want to. It’s cool.)



I also discovered pretty quickly that humor was my way in with people. Being lonely as a child sucked, but as soon as I learned how to make people laugh, I was hooked. For the record, it was Elvis Presley impressions on the playground. Some of you may remember. As always, what I lacked in substance, I made up for in style.

Hours of adolescence were spent walking and rollerblading in solitude. Thinking, not thinking, wishing I felt more connected to people, wishing maybe I would go out on a date before I died, and generally making everything better or worse than it actually was, like adolescents tend to do. Part of me has always loved people, but you fuckers wear me out. Or maybe I wore myself out trying to entertain you all.

And then it was off to college! YES! College, the place where I thought interesting people lived. They talked about interesting things. There was no way I could be lonely in college. No way.

I was surrounded by people—fun people. My roommate was a trip and I met lots of cool people. I also started drinking what seemed like no more than anyone else. The first time I got really good and drunk, it was like the lights turned on and I saw color for the first time. Skipping down 28th Street, laughing with my new friends, I thought that was it. I was light and silly, not serious and worried about politics or the environment. I could actually loosen up and have a good time. Liquid confidence. And the lack of hangover made me think I’d found a better version of myself. All it took was a little alcohol.

But I was still lonely.

The shitty part was that it never felt like the better me again. It’s the trick of it. I sure tried to replicate it. I was a bit of a social director in the dorm. I knew who to call to find out where the parties were, where girls could drink free, all that nonsense. Then the wheels fell off the bus. I’ve tried to write about that night dozens of times and the balance of telling too much and not telling enough is where I struggle. So today I will tell you this, when a young woman in her late teens goes to a friend of a friend’s house to a party, she certainly doesn’t expect it to change her life forever.

I was beyond naïve when it came to guys; I’d never been on a date or had a boyfriend. I was lonely. I was drunk. I remember being dragged up a flight of stairs and not entirely sure what was happening, but realizing I was stuck. The most disgusting thought during the rape was, “Well, you always wanted attention from a guy. Here you go. This is what it’s like.”



Hell of a thing for a lonely girl to think.

Of course, some would say, “Boys will be boys, “ or I was “taken advantage of,” but I’m gonna go ahead and call it rape. There’s like a one in four or one in five chance that you will be sexually assaulted while attending college, so I am gonna go ahead and call it rape.

Some of the party friends caught wind that I’d hooked up with this guy and instead of having the courage to talk about what happened, I made some joke about socks.

They called me Socks for the rest of the year.

They didn’t know.

The shitty thing about rape is that you never leave the scene of the crime.

The shitty thing about being lonely is that you are certain that no one could or will ever understand you.

The shitty thing about booze is that it tells you it takes all the troubles away.

Outwardly, I kept up the funny, party girl thing for awhile. Under the surface, I was raging. I was usually doing too much of something—booze, drugs, food, exercise—whatever. Anything to not have to face myself and the unlovable, unworthy, disgusting, sometimes violent mess of a person I was. By my third year of school, I was starting to push the good people away. The solo drinking got to be more and more of a thing. Isolation was easy; at the core, I had no idea how to accept love, be it friendship or romantic.

The old trick of moving to a new place didn’t help the loneliness and the partying escalated. I picked up a new trick, though—hang out with people who drink and use more than you and not only do you get to feel morally superior, other people don’t think you’re so bad.

Throw in a run of relationships that were never going to work, from the violent one who forgot to tell me that he had a fiancée to the dealer to the ones sick with addiction and it’s no shock that I have not allowed myself to connect meaningfully, intimately with another human. Honestly, I figured most guys were morons.

Having recently tossed myself back into the dating world, I asked my friend, Mr. Hardy, “Do guys typically show up on time and not drunk/high when taking someone out?”

(I should tell you that this happened to me for the first time ever recently, someone showing up on time and not fucked up.)

To paraphrase his response, if you’re 20 and going over to bone, then showing up slightly intoxicated may be acceptable. But a nice girl on a date, that is strange. He thinks I’m fishing in the wrong ponds.

And my therapist agrees.

Balls.

And where the fuck are the right ponds, then?

I used to think that intimacy was impossible, then I thought it was completely fucking terrifying. Now I think it’s a matter of finding another human who is equally exceptional as I am.

Till then, I’ll be lonely.

Allison Dogwood...

It started as just a little nagging, a thought stored in the back of my brain earlier this year. One of those things that I knew was inevitable, but just didn't want to deal with it.

Alli is getting older.

It's hard to think it, harder to say it, and a whole bunch harder to type it. That sentence took several attempts and a couple of big breaths. I knew it would happen--getting older is always better to the alternative, of course, and I knew I wouldn't have this baby forever.



She was a pistol at that size; the girl never stayed still, unless sleeping, until she was 18 months old. She saw the baby gate blocking her in the kitchen as an obstacle over which to jump, leaving her older sister, Hannah, the dutiful Lab, sitting in the kitchen wondering what the hell was up with this little German bitch. She was such a fireball, I often said, "The only thing that keeps you alive is how cute you are." If she were a boy dog, I would have called her Dickens, since she was full of it.

Allison came into my life on a whim. My ex and I had talked about getting another dog, since Hannah had so much fun with other dogs at the park. I had my heart set on a Bull Terrier or a German Shorthaired Pointer. Since the ex liked to hunt, he found a GSP breeder in a little town called Vienna the afternoon after our conversation.

With my heart set on a GSP bitch, we had the choice of four little girls. One picked on Hannah, so she was out. One wasn't particularly interested in us, so she was out. The third was an absolute stunner and it was obvious she was gonna have a beautiful brownhead and lots of the white and roan ticking in her coat, just like the GSP at the dog park that got me interested in the breed.

I picked up the stunner and was giving her a cuddle test drive. But then, I felt something on my knee and looked down into the kindest eyes I have ever seen. It's been said that your dog actually picks you and my experience with that, well...



Maybe love at first sight is possible. I tear up a bit just thinking about that precious face. She was all liver, with a tiny white spot on her chest and a touch of white on the front paws. Not anything like the GSPs I looked at on the internet or saw in the dog shows. I dropped the stunner like a hot potato. There was no other dog for me.

We knew she was going to be named Allison, after my dear friend who had passed away that summer. Allison, the human, was a dog lover. She had cancer and was in so much pain at the end of her life. The last time I visited her at the hospital, she couldn't really talk, but I told her I was leaving to "Go walk my Bitch," and she gave me a huge smile. I know she was laughing.

Perhaps Allison the human had something to do with Allison the dog coming into my life. I just knew that needed to be her name because Allison the human would have giggled that I called her name when I wanted my bitch to come. Yes, Allison and I were cut from the same cloth.

So we fast forward 10 years and there's a little more gray around Alli's snout and a touch of cloudiness in her eyes. I had to make the incredibly difficult decision to start leaving her at home for the long runs after noticing her shoulder having trouble recovering after a 15 miler.

JUDAS!

JUDAS!

JUDAS!

Odd waters to navigate, this getting older. Our relationships with our dogs are so simple 95% of the time--damn the 5%. We take them in knowing we will almost certainly outlive them and still develop the strongest of bonds. I don't know if there is a stronger relationship where you take something from cradle to grave in such a short amount of time. And while I am sure that Alli has many good years left with me, witnessing the slower pace is humbling. I took for granted that she would always be able to run as far as I wanted because she was Alli, the kind, beautiful girl who outlasted any relationship that I ever thought meant anything. She was always the most important one. She is The Dog. She is always teaching me--if you've been reading any of these posts along the way, you know that. And I would have never been ready for Joey, the canine version of me, if Alli hadn't been here first, tidying things up and helping me learn how to live. Now she's teaching me patience.

Chick in the Hood...

I just watched "Straight Outta Compton" and I think I was the only one rapping along. Granted the theater wasn't very full and I live in South Dakota, but I doubt I look like the prototype for the N.W.A fan. The yoga pants and the "Well-behaved women rarely make history" shirt aren't exactly a giveaway for a group whose lyrics are misogynistic, violent, and homophobic. (I also LOVE Guns N' Roses, if anyone wants to make this a race thing. This all probably has more to do with my Han Solo Syndrome, but I digress.) I do find something satisfying about running through McKennan Park with The Bitches while rapping "I'm expressin' with my full capabilities and now I'm livin' in correctional facilities, Cause some don't agree with how I do this. I get straight, meditate like a Buddhist," or "N W A's fuckin' up tha program. And then you realize we don't care, we don't just say no, we to busy sayin' yeah! To drinkin' straight out the eight bottle. Do I look like a mutha fuckin role model? To a kid lookin' up ta me life ain't nothin but bitches and money."



My appreciation for that harder type of hip hop, the old stuff, is in the storytelling. N.W.A always felt genuine and credible. No bullshit, you know? Most people who listen to them never lived in Compton, but probably feel like they could describe some of the experience based on the honest voices in the lyrics. It's a snapshot of a very specific piece of American history and well, lots of pieces of American history aren't so beautiful. I suppose my constant craving for authenticity was what led me to become an N.W.A fan.

So you know I like the music, what did I think of the movie, the movie, the movie?

If you've seen any press on this, there has been lots of criticism on the misogyny in the movie. That's fair. The women are basically props. One can argue that it's a piece of hip hop culture and that N.W.A set that tone. And if I really look at myself, maybe I give them a pass because it's black women that are the typically the targets here, so I don't see myself within that context. Now there's something to think about...

Dr. Dre's well-documented history of violence against women is left to the wayside. The kid, Corey Hawkins, who plays Dre in the film is great. But I can't help but wonder how much more fantastic the performance would have been if some of the darker elements of Dre's personality weren't left on the cutting room floor. The only woman he had significant interaction with (read two scenes) was his mother, and she slapped the shit out of him in one of those. So if a viewer had no idea about Dre's violence in real-life, that viewer might just think he had an abusive mother. And frankly, let's just consider the fact that Dre had the balls to stand up to Sug Knight--I doubt that nice guys dared to. Too much's of Dre's story is left out. I get it, Dre was one of the producers of the film, so why finance a film that shows you in a negative light and potentially damage your brand? I would contend that he's reached a status where the brand can handle it.

And speaking of personal brand, let's talk Ice Cube. He's a writer, so I always thought he was the most talented and his star power through hip hop and film is huge. Many moons ago, when I worked at a youth center, one of the kids would run into my office at the end of the week and tell me, "It's Friday and I ain't got shit to do." It was so funny I could even get mad at him for saying shit. People are gonna be quoting Cube as long as we use words. I also need to take a moment to talk about how Cube's son is a complete carbon copy of him--it's freakish how much they look alike. Pretty rad that he got to play his dad in the film.

I just have to say this because it was laughable to me. The director felt the need to label each group member with their legal names and street names the first time they appeared onscreen, like "O'Shea Jackson aka Ice Cube." It was such a "Duh," thing, but then I remembered that 90% of N.W.A conversations never mention MC Ren or Dj Yella, poor dudes. Of course they were talented, but how does anyone compete with Dre and Cube? Pretty impossible. So label 100% for the people that forget 40% of the group.

The part of the group you can't forget? That's easy. You see what I did there? Easy-E, who really did deal, so maybe he was the closest thing to what the group espoused about the culture. The dude had charisma, you can't deny that, and the portrayal in the film made me appreciate him in a different way--more human, less of a whore, and much more complex. It would be simple to write those young men off as gangsters or thugs, but that's just not factually accurate. They were talented, articulate, and hard working and that's why we're still talking about them today. While the film doesn't capture the complete picture, it gives some interesting insight into the legacy, for better or worse, of five Black men straight outta Compton.

The Committee Shant Convene...

The running types like to congregate, probably because we spend an inordinate amount of time talking about mileage, nutrition, what races are our favorites, and of course, our disgusting blisters, callouses, and much worse. I'm certain we annoy the non-running types with all our talk, making them tell us how bad running is for our knees while they slurp down a liter of soda or smoke a cigarette. I digress, this isn't a blog about making fun of anyone, but rather my thinking about why I run.

Obviously there are health benefits. It keeps the weight off, training for a race is the perfect motivation for me. It was what finally got me over the hump to quit smoking cigarettes. I've developed a bougie love of dry-fit fabric and have met some really incredible people. Plus, even though I am slower than Christmas, I always feel like a bad ass when I total up my mileage.



And if you know me at all, you know it's a big part of my recovery. I would go so far to say it is the primary part of my recovery because it keeps my head straight. When I was drinking, I used to listen to The Committee, that shitty group of voices in my head that called the shots. Those bastards owned me--me, not the meat skeleton running down the bike trail, but the me I didn't even realize was so completely hijacked at the time. Me, the creative spirit, the one who knows how to move through fear, the one who isn't afraid to speak her mind or find the humor where others may not. The strong, beautiful spirit that is me was completely under the spell of those voices.

They knew what to tell me. They knew booze was my best friend. They knew that everyone but them and my best friend was not to be trusted. They helped me push decent people away. And they knew that I knew I was a bad person who just didn't fit. They knew I was damaged goods and I would never be good enough, smart enough, or pretty enough.

They told me this bullshit over and over, sometimes even using other people to really make their point. They visited my dreams, they rode in my car, they sat on my shoulders and whispered sweetly, "You don't mean anything to anyone, so you might as well feel better right now."

There wasn't an exact moment of clarity where I realized I could tell them to get bent. Where me decided to re-join this ride we call life. It was kind of a roller coaster and the funny thing is that it didn't happen until I'd been sober for a considerable amount of time. That's the thing we all had to learn on our own--getting sober is just the first round. Meaningful recovery is getting all the way to the Final Four. Sure, you feel like a beast sometimes, and you have those moments of grace--that's the Sweet Sixteen. It's a process and it certainly doesn't happen overnight.

And the bastards never fully go away.



After I let the dogs out this morning, I was walking up the back steps into the kitchen and looked up at the progress on #remodelordietrying. The countertop, the backsplash, and the cabinet looked really nice and I thought, "That is looking really good." And BOOM, there was one of them, "You don't deserve a nice kitchen. You deserve to live in a mess because you are a mess."

He was fleeting but he was there. My immediate thought, "Of course I deserve nice things," which was followed quickly by, "Maybe I don't and putting any resources into this is a bad idea."

It all happened in a few seconds. He caught me off guard. But he's still there and has been sitting in my thoughts today. I don't think the rest of The Committee is present--no quorum for you, assholes. So I just told him to get fucked, out loud, as the Bitches sleep next to me, gearing up for their morning run. And I will sleep soundly, content that now I am always running to something and never from anything.

I am periodically serious...

"It's more about owning your own comfort level and being confident in your own skin to do what you need to do to accomplish something. Really making it about yourself instead of about other people. For me, it was a bit of a metaphor. I was like, Running a marathon is a very, very big stretch for me. I need to do whatever it takes to get myself to the end of that line. We were running for a greater cause, we were running for breast cancer." - ​Kiran Gandhi

Inspiring, right? Sounds like a great woman--she's articulate, confident, and just ran a marathon for charity. And she is a pretty amazing young woman, she's a Harvard MBA and was on tour with M.I.A. But this quote is about a whole other story. A bloody story that has freaked out the internet in a way that does nothing to restore my faith in humanity. You probably have heard her story, but you may not have seen any of her intelligent, thoughtful quotes related to her story.

Kiran Gandhi is the chick who free bled while running the London Marathon.

Yes, she had the ovaries to free bleed a marathon.



Not my bag of Tampax, but I have never had issues exercising or running during my period. I think it helps. That's just me. Kiran talked about how sick she gets during her period, how she usually didn't run during her period, and how a friend keeping a tampon in her sports bra caused chafing and freaked her out. (Pro tip: SPIbelt for your necessities. Just sayin'.) But also understanding how we runners have all our weird little habits and rituals, I will respect her decision to free bleed and let it go. Why? Her lady parts don't affect me. The only lady parts that affect me are mine. And the Bitches, but I took care of that a LONG time ago. Things happen while running, like people pee themselves, shart, straight up poop themselves, spit everywhere, callous, blister, chafe, suck down GU packets, and sweat everywhere. Everywhere. I always warn someone who's never cheered at a marathon that he or she will see a dude with bloody nipples. Because he just wouldn't listen.

We are a disgusting lot. We're like hockey players with better vocabularies and more teeth.

But the internet went crazy with this. One news outlet pixelated her crotch out of the photos attached to the blog. Let that sink in. It isn't safe to go to a movie or to church in this country, because you might get shot, but run a marathon without a tampon and we are so offended by your blood, we will pixelate your crotch. The average woman loses four to 12 teaspoons of blood in each cycle. Apparently four to 12 teaspoons--do your math, that's a max of 4 tablespoons--of a woman's blood is offensive, disgusting, and wrong to a great many people in this world.

And Kiran did have a point to sharing this story. She wanted to raise awareness not just for the breast cancer charity for which she was running, but also for girls and women around the world who are discriminated against while having their periods or don't have access to feminine hygiene products. Think of all the homeless women in the United States struggling with this issue.

I've watched sites and feeds of women attacking Kiran, calling her disgusting, an idiot, and an attention whore. Dudes don't seem to want to jump in, although I secretly hoped someone would go full-on The Donald and accuse all of us fighting about this of having our periods. (Just because I love a popcorn moment.) I think the attention whore commentary was the most fascinating as there was even a story line that she got her period mid-race and then made up the whole story and awareness issue to get personal attention. The people who called the threads "disturbing" just made me laugh. It's a period. Remember? Four to 12 teaspoons of blood. And frankly, for most of us, periods should be like Christmas morning; it's proof the birth control worked for another month.



So let's just get over ourselves. Granted, this is coming from a woman who once made a tampon cake (strawberry filling), but seriously, quit shaming each other. Let's quit second-guessing each other. And let's quit being so grossed out and ashamed of our bodies. We are rad. We are women. Period.

Adulting...

I'm trying to remember what I thought my adult life would be like when I was a little kid. I'm pretty sure it was non-stop doing whatever the hell I wanted without consequence. I was never the kid that dreamed about being married or having kids. I never really felt like I fit, so it made sense that I wouldn't want the traditional stuff. I do recall wanting to be a writer since books were my favorite thing. I remember a plan to be a hot dog vendor on Wall Street--my logic was that the people who worked there had a lot of money and would tip really well. I spent most of my childhood imagining I was somewhere else. I even had an imaginary friend named Roy. I sent him to live in New York City and he got a job as a janitor at the Empire State Building. He would toss quarters off the observation deck for me.

I have a good adult life. I'm fairly interesting, have a cool job, good friends, and live with the raddest Bitches on the planet. I've been doing that reflection and growth thing again lately, trying new things, and while I am decent at being uncomfortable, it's really kicked up some shit for me. But Schooly math includes "Uncomfortable + reflection = growth." Schooly math usually kicks in after I've been single for a while. I have to go through the broke and angry phase and just be pissed for awhile. And it's weird, whether or not I was the one pulling the trigger on ending the relationship, I've always felt better when it was over. Maybe some of us just aren't built for the long haul relationship. I don't say that to mean that some of us are innately incapable of having a healthy relationship. Of course, lots of us are damaged, but I really don't think anyone is hopeless. I say that because I think some of us have hit survival mode where we have learned to draw all strength from within and are completely independent.

The shit's really kicked up in the last month or so and I feel open again. Not open like I want a relationship, but open like I feel like me again. I'm getting uncomfortable, trying golf and painting, training for my race, and just being. I even found a renter so I can have some cash to get my kitchen remodel finished instead of staring at it and being angry. If that's not adulting, what the hell is?

I'm busting down my expectations to the roots and just trying to be a decent human every day. Remembering that only good lies before me and knowing that I can figure out how to get through almost anything.

Picasso's Bastards...

That isn't even a fair comparison, Picasso. I say that having never taken an art history class and having the most basic comprehension of abstract art and abstract expressionism. Yes, I can spot a Jackson Pollock, but if you wanna get granular about it, that's only because Ed Harris played him on screen and who doesn't love Ed Harris?

It's about art, though. I've always been surrounded by artists, some of exceptional talent, but I never really considered myself one, but for a few good writings and a handful of poems. But I think I may have expanded a bit in the last few weeks when I picked up a paint brush to see what happened.

The blame goes to Recovery Queen and her art show. I made a cake for the show the first year, since that's another medium in which I am quite comfortable. That was the cake Janot said, "Girl, you can't bring a cake and not expect a Black man to eat it," and turned it into performance art when he marched over a cut a big hunk out.



I laugh whenever I think of that night.

The second year of the art show, I didn't submit anything. I encouraged, er, prodded, a few other people to be in the show, but my cake game wasn't as strong so I sat out.

Recovery Queen bugged, er, encouraged me off and on during the year. She's an amazing artist, so I figured it was easy for her to say, "Everyone's an artist." And then I realized, everyone is an artist, just like everyone can sing or everyone can dance. It's a little about the degree of how well you do it, but more about having the guts to actually give it a shot and see what happens.

There was an idea floating around my cranium. It was tied to something one of my favorite professors told me once when she said, "Your ability to see the big picture will be your greatest blessing and your greatest curse." Yes, the big picture. The ability to connect the dots and see how things fit. A great skill. Great enough to make me want to rip my hair out at times. When I think about that big picture, sometimes it is oriented toward a specific issue or problem, but this time I was thinking in terms of my whole life. I've never had trouble getting in the helicopter and flying around above my life to see where the gaps are--I haven't ever been that good at doing anything with the information. But for the "Big Picture" art project, I thought about hovering about this whole life and really examining the emotional pivot points. What formed me? Where are the befores and afters? Where were those physical places and how did they make me feel?

I settled on five spaces to explore, some good, some terrifying, and some a bit of both. Intellectually, I have words to describe the spaces, but I guess it's just something I want you to consider coming to see at the show. The spaces are called, "The Place Where People Loved Jesus the Right Way," "The House on Potter Street," The Bronco," "The Brownstone," and "The Girl on the Run." They are just little canvases with cheap, acrylic paint slung on them, but I was surprised at the intensity with which I went at the work. There is definitely a lack of skill on my part, but the work is honest.

If you are interested, the 3rd Annual Recovery Art Show will be held September 4 at Exposure Gallery in Sioux Falls.

Han Solo Syndrome...

"Never tell me the odds!" - Han Solo

Not so long ago, in a town one state away, my brothers and I grew up on Star Wars. It was one of the few things on which the three of us agreed as awesome. I was several versions of Leia for Halloween over the years (and R2D2 once when I was quite small). I remember the Christmas my older brother got the Millennium Falcon--his wonder and amazement at his new toy must have been like a a trip to Mecca or the Vatican for some. My mom would put the story records on at bed time and I'm pretty sure I always fell asleep before Vader captured Leia, but I think more of the story sunk into my dreaming brain.

Leia was the only princess I ever wanted to be. She was smart, pretty, and brave. She shot a gun, just like any other Rebel and I thought she was so cool for that. The girl with the big castle waiting for the prince to come save her or rescue her to his castle never resonated with me. Her special man friend, Han Solo, did resonate with me. Han was my first crush. He was so cute and well, different. He wasn't lock step with anyone, he did his own thing, which made much more sense in what my child's mind thought of as a good rebel. He said things like, "I take orders from just one person: me." He hung out with the bad guys, but he wasn't a bad guy. And there was something sort of fun about the way Leia and he acted like they hated each other, but we all knew they really liked each other. Han would have definitely pulled Leia's braids and teased her if they were in school together. But the other thing my child's brain latched on to was the idea that Han was sort of a lost guy who just needed Leia to save him. He needed to love her to make him see what was important. He needed Leia to save him from the life of smuggling and give him a reason to join the Rebellion and have purpose for himself.

As you're probably guessing, this storyline had a fairly profound effect on me. I call it my Han Solo Syndrome. It's slightly fueled by my Anne Frank quality, where I try to find something good in everyone (even Hitler LOVED his dog, Genghis Khan was tolerant of different religions), but I also think Leia being the rescuer instead of the rescued was huge. (Star Wars nerds--not interested in an argument about Obi Wan being her only hope and needing to be rescued from the Death Star. I'm going macro-level on IV-VI here.) Not a lot of strong women in the fairy tale-type stories, especially when a beloved was involved.

It was the perfect storm of the woman I wanted to be and the man I wanted to love.

It just isn't such a great blue print for today, in this galaxy.

The thing about our world is that our Hans don't get encased in carbonite. Our Hans get encased in far more sinister things like booze, powders, pills, gambling, and mental illness. Measured against the likes of those real-world issues, rounding up a group of friends to plan an escape from an obese, desert gangster sounds pretty feasible.

We can't save our Hans here. Maybe things just work out better in other galaxies far, far away.

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring--it was peace.”
― Milan Kundera


Just wanted to share this quote with the you since I haven't written in forever. I took a personality/style assessment for a leadership class I am in and my results in the four areas nearly made a square. Apparently this makes me Steady Eddie or a chameleon, depending on one's view. The results in the four different areas are tallied on a scale of one to 100. Some people in the group had 99s in an area and as low as eight in another; I was in a 43 to 67 range. Hip to be square, I guess. But somehow over the course of the discussion, someone posed the question, "What excites you?" Of course, the first thing I thought of was the dogs. Excitement used to be a roller coaster of artificially-induced emotions. Now excitement is, well, nothing, really.

I love going for runs or walks with the Bitches. It's time to process or shut it all off. On Sunday we went out for a walk and ended up covering eight miles. That's over 42,000 feet. And not a single complaint from either of my companions. Just quite company, minus a couple of squirrel or bunny scents.

Doing nothing with them is never boring, Kundera's description of peace with dogs is perfection. They are my peace. They are my confidants. They are my consistency. They are my friends. And only a dog could do their jobs; a human would be crushed under the weight of those expectations. They are so good at being who they are because they can't comprehend the magnitude of their job.

Bitches' Resume

Intelligent
Loyal
Athletic, including training for numerous marathons and half marathons
Not picky eaters
Beautiful
Velvet ears
High-quality snuggling
Enjoys kissing children
Excellent secret keepers
Will do photo shoots for cheeseburgers

Not Opening a Can of Anything Right Now...

I suppose I’ve opened a few cans of worms in my life. You’ve been there, sometimes you say things out of curiosity, sometimes it’s more of a game of poke the bear, or sometimes you are clueless about the effect your words or actions may have on others. It’s a tricky one, balancing between thinking you’re over-important and being aware of the feelings of those around you.

That’s what I’m writing about, on some level I’m writing about how our little seemingly insignificant actions can have really heavy consequences for the ones we love. On some level, I am actually writing about a can opener.

(Side note for anyone who reads these things and remembers the blog about Timmy, my grandma, and Kris Allen, “Live Like We’re Dying” just started playing on Pandora. It’s all tied together, not always with a perfectly placed bow, but it’s tied.)

As a kid, one of my primary caregivers was my great aunt Ann. We never had to go to daycare or have babysitters because Ann would watch my brothers and me. She taught me how to read and braided my hair, so how big of a fan of hers I was really goes without saying. She completed her high school education—not a lot of women did this in rural Minnesota back in the day and she loved to read. She was also a writer and kept these amazing little notebooks of what we kids were up to, our progress at school, and funny things we would say. Like my older brother, “Timmy” in the notebooks, went through a phase where he insisted on calling me a “Peterson Girl” whenever I wore this white hat. He’s 40 and we still have no idea where that came from…

Ann’s husband was killed in a car accident when she was pretty young and she never remarried or had any children of her own, so the great nieces and nephews turned into her grandkids. She really loved kids, so she was also a bible school teacher and a Girl Scout troop leader. She also drove a ’49 Mercury. So imagine being a little kid tooling around town in the early 80s in that old car. I’m sure there were many brief discussions over the years about getting a different vehicle, but Ann never was one to need to replace something if it worked.
That’s another really important piece of Ann’s personality. She was a child of the Depression. Anyone under the age of 30 who might have come across this is super confused right now. Yes, they probably heard of Black Tuesday, the Dust Bowl, and the Depression. But I don’t know how many of them got to spend much time with someone who could make everything last longer than anyone thought possible. Anyone here make their daily driver last 40 years? Who saves every plastic tub from the store? Why would you BUY plastic storage containers when you get one every time you buy cottage cheese? She even used an old wringer washing machine, like the 50s never happened.

But it wasn’t like she was stuck in a time warp, it was just who she was and what she valued. Plus, the car was super cool, so that trumped anything seeming weird.

She never missed a day with any of us kids, so it was a shock when she got sick. Even though she was old, she was Ann and Ann didn’t get sick, so my adolescent brain was alternately confused and angry. She didn’t waste anything, ever. She not only always went to church, but she taught classes and was in those ladies groups. She helped with Christmas programs and Girl Scouts. And now she had to lie in a bed in a nursing home for however long the he/she/it she spent her life serving decided. She’d had a stroke, which eventually meant that part of a leg had to be amputated, but immediately meant that she could no longer speak. The voice that helped teach me to find my voice was silenced, replaced by taps and attempts at pointing on a picture board.

My mother, another relative, and I spent many hours cleaning out Ann’s house when she first moved into the nursing home. It’s always the same story when one doesn’t have the long-term care insurance; the bills were mounting, so the assets needed to be sold.

I still dream about being in that house from time-to-time. It had a laundry shoot, a pull down ladder from the attic, and a pantry for canned (canned at home, people) goods in the basement. A single garage just big enough for the Mercury, standard living room, two bedrooms, and a single bathroom with only a tub, no shower. I’m not sure how a relator would spin it into magic—post-war charm?

But the kitchen was really cool. Not because of the spill over of Ann’s sizable salt and pepper shaker collection or the big table she kept, even though she lived by herself. Again, it was the old stuff that got me. The stove from the 40s, those mountains of reusable margarine containers, lightly-stained cabinets with their sensible hardware, and the laminate countertops with the metal edging. The ladies said if there was anything I wanted, I should just ask. Since I wasn’t sure where we would put the stove, I figured scoring a few of Ann’s super cool kitchen utensils would be appropriate. I spend more time baking and cooking with my actual grandmothers, but they were both a bit more modern, so going through Ann’s stuff was really treasure hunting.

Because I didn’t want to seem pushy, weird, or any of those other things a teenaged girl is concerned with, I selected only two items for me personally. And of course, they were weird: a potato masher and a can opener. I can honestly say that I didn’t use the potato masher for a good ten years or so, but it makes the best mashed potatoes. You see, for years I didn’t think I even liked mashed potatoes. Really, I didn’t. Least favorite thing about Thanksgiving: Mashed potatoes. I can’t tell you why I picked the potato masher that day way back when saying Michael Jackson was a national treasure didn’t raise eyebrows. I can tell you that, years later, I learned that I liked boiled potatoes, with the skins on, with a little butter and cream, mashed with that potato masher. Skins and lumpy. Who knew? I guess Ann did.

The can opener was old school, plain silver with a church key. That was how she opened cans of pineapple and drained the juice first, so I wanted it.



The can opener lived many places with me and was used a lot. It was the most simple, sturdy thing in my life and I thought of Ann every time I used it. When life was shitty, I wasn’t cooking much and I didn’t want to think of Ann when opening bottles, so I got a key ring opener for that. During those times, the can opener went to the back of the messy kitchen drawer.

When life got better and stayed better, I started cooking more and cans of tomatoes and beans needing opening for some crock pot wonder or chili. And every single turn, the can opener worked like a charm. It wasn’t rusted over or cranky, it just was. I have no idea when or where she bought it, but it certainly inspires the idea that “they don’t make things the way they used to.”

But then one day the can opener was gone. I tore the kitchen apart, inexplicably wondering how I could have misplaced The can opener. Ann’s can opener. The thing that reminded me of her with every good turn.

I asked Man Friend and his reply was easy enough. He’d taken it to a job site because he grabbed a can of tuna to make a sandwich. He must have left it there. It was a friend’s place. It was no big deal. He would get it back.

And I was standing in my kitchen, crying about a can opener.

I told him why it was important to me. I don’t know how effective, “But it was Ann’s, Ann’s” really is through snotty tears. Maybe someday he will see this. That was well over a year ago.

He tried to make it right. He brought home a can opener.

“This is the only one that was there.”

But it wasn’t Ann’s. It was shiny. It turned so much harder. It wasn’t a full church key.

It was something you could find for three bucks at Walmart and use to go camping.

I know man friends around the world die a little, whether from concern or annoyance, when our tears start, but I couldn’t help it. I felt so betrayed. I felt ashamed for losing something so important.

Honestly, a part of me is still upset about the betrayal. I know, it’s just a can opener, but every time I used that stupid one, I still think of Ann, but now I feel like I let her down.

So tonight I am asking Ann to let me be wasteful and silly. I am going to throw the perfectly good can opener that I hate away. I am not interesting in finding it a good home. I am only interested in getting it out of my home. I think she’ll understand that. Ann knew lots of things and I’m sure she knew that sometimes, not matter how much you want to love something, you just can’t. And she’ll help me pick out a brand new one the next time I am at the store, maybe even an upgrade, but nothing fancy and certainly not electric.