Not Quite Betty Crocker

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The food.  Chile with every meal – breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks.  Yum.  Real chile, the kind that takes your breath away and makes your tongue sweat.  I miss September when green chile is harvested more than anything.

Of course, now that I’ve been gone a while, I’m a big chile wienie, so I can’t hang so much anymore.  Very sad.  Very sad.

These go together, so I’m answering them together: I don’t know.  I think I got lucky.  When I got the email letting me know I’d been accepted as a ‘bee, my first thought was, “Oh, shit, now I have to get him to read all this stuff before it posts!”  So we sat together in bed, me biting my nails and forcing him to read every word to make sure he knew what he was getting into.  He read every word, then looked at me and said, “Well, everything you said was honest and as balanced as you know how to be.  And I know blogging is how you work things out, so if it’s good for you, I support it.”

So that’s what guides me.  Am I being honest?  Am I being as balanced as I can?  Am I presenting a picture of myself – and him – that’s fair?  I set him up to have my WB posts emailed automatically, but he didn’t read them and ultimately got a new email account.  Is that a guy thing?  If someone was writing about me, I’d read every word!  But he doesn’t, so I consider it a gift.

And, um, okay, I’m fairly certain that he doesn’t read anymore and that gives me some freedom (gulp), as does the fact that he doesn’t really realize how large my readership is.  When a neighbor (who works with my bff) remarked that she saw a picture of our bonus dog on my blog, he blanched.  When I explained that Jen showed it to people at work, he was fine.  I think it would be worse if this was a small audience made up of people he knows.  A large audience made up of relatively anonymous people-who-don’t-live-on-our-street is fine.

Long story short: I try really hard to keep my perspective tight – this is one place where being self-centered is a good thing – and trust that his past reactions will continue… and then I don’t make a big deal out of it.

And I may or may not have once or twice hinted to my WB friends that comments indicating my hubby’s hotness would be appreciated.  Maybe.

If I were you and my husband was concerned, I’d ask him to read every word, but offer veto power, not editing input.  Slicing and dicing words gets messy; the goal is to make sure that things that aren’t fair game don’t get posted.

I wanted to, but Joey thought I was nuts.  In fact, we fought about it on the way to the therapist. (ha)  But when I mentioned it to my therapist (you know, when he asked why we were fighting), he said it would be unprofessional/ unethical of him to accept. Bummer. So on second thought, knowing that, I wouldn’t have wanted him to think it was a ploy for gifts. 

He gave me a way out by asking me to send him a wedding pic via email, which I did.  Maybe you can do that, or not invite but send a thank you card anyway?

Pet peeves: depends on the day.  Dogs who lick.  Slow drivers.  When my husband and every darned animal in the house is all up in my sh*t while I’m cooking.  People, mama’s got a knife in one hand and a smoking hot pan in the other… WHY MUST YOU BE STANDING RIGHT NEXT TO ME?

Dogs are in transition, but more often than not eat Pro Plan Chicken and Rice.  I sometimes make dog treats, but mostly give them Meaty Bones or Milk Bones, which is like saying I sometimes feed my kids healthy food grown in my garden, but most of the time they eat McDonald’s.  I’m aware of the dissonance, but frankly, we eat McDonald’s, so why should they get stuck with the super healthy diet?

And Indy eats table food regularly, because of the whole failing heart thing and because we’re suckers and because now at least we have an excuse for giving in to his every pleading eyeball.  The others do not, because they’re not dying but also because their stomachs rebel.

Cheesiest guilty pleasure: chick lit books.  I call them “empty calories” because they take no brain to read.

Ooh, good one, and (arrogance alert) I kinda like my body.  But I guess I’d like to be taller and have smaller boobs, so Jennifer Aniston.

My favorite scent is my husband’s neck.  Or any man’s neck, but let’s not tell him that since it’s not like I’m going around sniffing men’s necks anymore.  I’m a one-neck woman. I like the way a man’s skin smells.

Why ARE most pizza options pig-sourced?  Chicken is a crazy new-age-y topping, but sausage is old school, you’re right!  No eggs, either.  Did Italians raise pigs but not chickens?  Hmmmm.

Somewhat relevant: I may or may not have launched into a rather terrible rendition of “Things That Make You Go Hmmm” by C&C Music Factory… and my younger hubby didn’t know it.  He’s only a few years younger than I am, so I think he was just out of the loop. Right?  Right???  Is this thing on? *tap, tap, tap*

Last night, at 1:30 in the morning, I needed a cuddle. 

“I need a cuddle,” I whispered as I wormed my way into my husband’s embrace.  Lately I’m asking for what I need and it’s working.

But in a departure from our norm, he laid his head on my shoulder and snuggled into sleep.

And an epiphany slammed into my heart with such force, tears sprang to my eyes.

~~~

I have never held this man in my arms and wanted to protect him from the world.  Despite his youthful demeanor and silly little-boy quirks, I’ve always seen him as a man.

My ex-husband, to me, was always a boy.  I loved him like a child some times, like a father others, but never like a husband, someone with whom the tiny battles of intimacy are fought.

I never fought him.

Instead I ducked and lied and hid from him, as if only his vote counted in our life, as though his judgment on all things was final.  He was the parent I must have needed at the time, taking me in his arms and giving me the stability I must have wanted.  He was my protector, the person who would fix everything and make it all better.

And yet through it all, I was overwhelmed by the suffocating pressure of being responsible for him.  His life was mine to make good, and as someone not even grown up enough to take care of herself, I collapsed under the pressure.

I was eight years old again, trying to protect my divorced parents from sadness by changing the radio station to happy songs.

But he wasn’t my son, or my father; I was neither his parent nor child.  He was my husband, but I was too young and the only relationship I could fathom was parental.  I’d not become enough of an adult to see one in him.

~~~

Joey and I have spent most of our relationship in locked horns, battling over the many things that form our life, but I’ve always seen him as a worthy adversary, perhaps the first in my long line of long relationships.  I’ve never felt the need to take care of him, or make his life good, or be his everything.  I’ve never wanted to wrap him in my arms and protect him from the world.

I’ve never even felt the need to protect him from myself.  {This explains the magnitude of many of our battles.}

This relationship has been hard for me because we’re forging new roles, figuring out life as partners, as adults who have to share.  Sometimes sharing sucks, and I don’t have really have adult partnerships to model. 

So in this dance, we have to step on toes to find the right rhythm, because we’re both responsible for our own feet.

~~~

The tears ended abruptly and a new lightness replaced the lump in my throat. I hid under the covers with my Blackberry, needing to put this understanding into words before it faded.

And another door closed on my previous marriage, this time with a comforting thud.

Looking around my home office this morning, I realize I never actually sit in the comfy couch near the window, but I like it there anyway.  I like to imagine that I’ll sit there, laptop in lap, notebook in hand, comfortably working my life away.  But I don’t.  I sit here, in my cold semi-uncomfortable office chair, just looking at the couch.

I’m happy that way.

When I travel, I like to stay at the same hotels, eat at the same restaurants, order the same food.  Seriously.  While in Indianapolis a few weeks ago, we stayed at the Hilton downtown – the one with McCormick and Schmick’s in the lobby.  We ate there three nights in a row and I returned again the next week without a shred of embarrassment.  And I may or may not have ordered the same thing two out of four nights.

I’m a born “regular,” and restaurants love regulars.

So while booking this week’s travel (and it’s a doozy, folks: Indianapolis on Thursday for a major presentation with a bunch of corporate bigwigs, Seattle on Friday for another presentation followed by six interview sessions), I debated following Penelope’s advice on surviving business travel and staying at the tried and true (for us corporate types) Marriott.  Hotel status is a happy thing.

But I like this hotel.  They have a wine reception every evening in the lobby, which I rarely attend but because they once allowed me to take a glass (or two!) to my room, remain forever in my good graces.  Their beds are super comfy.  For one dollar extra, I get a little ticket good for one free drink for every night I stay.  And the restaurant in the lobby is fantastic – and they let me take a tray of dinner up to my room so I don’t have to mess with politeness and chit-chat and staying awake long enough to eat, all while avoiding room service charges.

And, once again, I’m reminded that that (perhaps unintended) brilliance of Ms. Trunk’s posts isn’t that they are steps you should follow absolutely, but that they remind you to make the best decisions for yourself.  She is extremely good at being herself (one could argue she can’t help it), and I’m reminded every time I read her posts that I should be that good at being myself, too.

So I’ll be traveling on United for the airline points (due almost entirely to my loathing of Delta rather than any affinity for United) even though the schedules aren’t as great, but I will stay wherever I please, even if that means I’m at a Hilton.  First-world problem, I know.

I’ll try to get to the Q&A later this afternoon; if not, tomorrow!

I’m home.  As of this minute, I’ve decided I’m never leaving one day on a 6:00 am flight and returning the next day after midnight.  That might change in the next minute – because I get an extra night at home – but yowza, rough on a woman’s attitude, let me tell you.

I thought I’d be home next week, but no, not anymore.  Not only am I not home, I’m hitting two cities in two days: Indianapolis Thursday and Seattle Friday. Is that even possible?  I don’t know. 

I knew this new gig would require some travel, but not much travel.  And I haven’t even officially started it yet.

So again, I come back to: how does one maintain a happy marriage while on the road so much?  And again, I come back to: outsourcing.

Once upon a time, I moved in with a very clean and neat man (not this one!).  He liked his things just so, while I was (and still am) much more a tornado of stuff.  When discussing chores, we amiably divided them up… then I hired someone to do my half.  See, he felt strongly that cleaning should never be outsourced, that he’d never be happy, that he needed to do it with his own two hands.

Fantastic.  Not me.  I suck at cleaning.  So I paid someone, and eventually we paid someone, and all was well. 

Ten years and many, many raises later, you’d think I’d have figured this out, but no, I still keep trying to appease the cheap-ass in me by trying to do my own cleaning.  And this time, my husband is just as messy as I am, just as frustrated by the mess.

So I’m throwing in the towel and calling in help.  Last night, on my last flight home, my stomach started churning at the thought of being home for a few days because I knew we’d be frustrated by the mess.  It’s okay to deal when you have the luxury of time, but I’m taking 6:00 am flights in order to be able to spend an evening with my husband.  NOT CLEANING.

I keep counting the dollars in my head, wondering what else we should be spending them on, but I come back to: this is no way to live.  We, individually and collectively, are pigs.  We, individually and collectively, are stressed out by our pigness.  We, individually and collectively, have tried valiantly to be cleaner and neater and more in control.

We, individually and collectively, give up. 

And when I think about the money that could be spent elsewhere, I remind myself of the honest-to-gawd joy on the face of our house cleaner last year when she surveyed her work.  We’d hired her to clean in advance of our wedding and it was a Big Job.  Four hours later, she smiled. 

“It makes me so happy to know that you’ll be so much happier relaxing in your clean house.”

People, it’s like I’m spending the money to make her happy, you know?

I’m slowly letting go of the untruths I told myself to get through my divorce. 

“He was selfish and didn’t feel the same responsibility toward our household as I did.”

“He wouldn’t talk with me, wouldn’t support me, wouldn’t give me what I needed.”

“We were the wrong people for each other, should have broken up long ago, but we were too stubborn.  I was too stubborn.”

The one that feels most true – but still isn’t – is that my job, with its long hours and serious travel, was detrimental to our relationship.

“I’ll never travel full-time again.  I tried that once, and I wasn’t able to maintain a relationship.  It’s impossible.”

What’s impossible is maintaining a relationship when you’re immature, unskilled, and too self-centered to notice you’re hurtling headlong down an ugly, painful path.  The travel just increased the speed.

So here I am again, traveling for work.  I left on a 6:00 am flight this morning and will return less than 48 hours later – by choice.  Where once I would have left the day before, now I’d prefer to wake up at the butt-crack-o-dawn to avoid being gone one extra evening.  I’ll give up sleep to be home a day longer.  And without fail I’ll call my husband when my day is over.  Sometimes we’ll have little to say; other times the words will tumble out, mostly complaints, but still, I will call.  Despite my fatigue, and his, we will try valiantly to understand each other.

It’s not the travel that kills a relationship; it’s the willingness to go elsewhere for support.  So this time, no matter how frustrating or difficult verbalizing my struggles and needs might be, I will keep trying.  Stubbornness is good for something.

One problem remains: how do you keep up with your friends?  I’m rather terrible at long-distance friendships.  My entire professional life is managed by phone.  By the time I’m done with work, I don’t want to try to guess at anyone else’s non-verbal cues.  It sucks, though, because I love Laura, really truly love, but we’ve lost touch because I’m so sucky at phone relationships.

Jennifer’s still here (thankyougod), still available for afternoon beer-and-salsa chats, still willing to work around my ever-changing schedule, but she won’t be here for long, and between us, I’m freaking out a little bit.

We’ve quickly gone from seeing each other a couple of times a week to once if we can manage.  Theoretically we go snowboarding/ skiing together, but that’s time mostly spent alone (in frustration, kicking the ground and breaking one’s butt… or maybe that’s just me).

Even if we manage to fit in girls’ weekends every other month (and that’ll be challenge enough), it’s not enough.  How will we keep in touch?  Because folks, this is a friendship I’m not willing to give up, but I’m not sure yet how to keep it going.

Advice?

Go on.  Anything.  Jenna inspired me, so I’m taking the bait.

Ask and I will answer.  But not today, or tomorrow, because I’m back in the great city of Indianapolis for two days.

{True story: I’m in Indy ordering pizza for a meeting so I interrupt to ask if anyone is vegetarian.  The response?  “We’re from Indiana.”  Yes, I understand that, I reply, but perhaps you misheard me, I’m asking if you want a veggie pizza.  “Yes, we answered.  We’re from Indiana.  We like meat.”  Um, okay.}

Friday, though… Friday will be a good day for me to answer your questions.  Assuming you ask them.  Because if you don’t, I will either feel like a big loser or like an embarrassingly open book (or like a very boring person).  No pressure, though! 

Oh, and questions for my hubby are fair game as well, though I can’t promise on his behalf that he’ll answer them all.  I will promise he’ll at least blush and feel all special.

You know how some people decide they’re going to do something, and then they do it?

Not around here.  Nope.  We still have the bonus house down the street, and while it is (mostly) plumbed, it is not (completely) plumbed.  The outside still looks crappy and trashy, the inside says “storage facility” more than “lovely home” and the window trim still isn’t finished.

We blame the holidays, the cold, and our general unwillingness to make progress in favor of laying around and enjoying our weekends.

But a girl can dream, especially when that’s about all she’s comfortable committing to.

And so, here we are.  Our actual residence needs a fence because our bonus animal sucks.  Yes, we still have the bonus dog.  Yes, we’re still looking for a home.  Yes, you can absolutely have him, and in fact, I will lovingly wrap his breakables with bubble wrap and send him right over! (Name the movie.)

Indiana Jones and his beautiful broken heart goes out the front door, does his business, sniffs some things and checks the perimeter, then trots happily back to the front door for his treat.

The others, not so much.  Beau used to be a good dog, but weeks of being cooped up inside and the shenanigans of a run-like-hell bonus dog mean that Beau has found the love of the road, of the wind in his hair, of the owners driving up in an SUV to chauffeur his naughty ass home.

We need a fence.  I was out of town last week and when I came home, my husband’s third sentence was, “we need a fence.”  (First, “Hi, honey!” Then, “I’m glad you’re home!”  A man can learn, yes he can.)

We have a crappy temporary fence out back but the area enclosed is too small for running so the dogs just sit at the back door looking pathetic.  It’s like a glorified dog litter box, so we don’t even bother anymore.

I did research, and I fell in love with these (of course, no links because even after blogging for 18 months, it still never occurs to me that I might want to show images I clip to anyone, so I never grab the source info):

The one above is from HGTV’s website.

The one above is from Home Depot’s website.

Evidently I love strong horizontal lines and nice clean edges.  The thing is, I don’t want a privacy fence.  In fact, I’ve struggled against the idea of blocking off the view to the street all along.

We like our neighbors!  In the spring and fall, they walk by with their dogs or babies and we stand in the driveway and chat (because sitting on the porch would be just too quaint, I guess).  We glance out the window to check on our elderly across-the-street neighbors, walk out into the street to wave hello at our caddy-corner neighbors, shout our apologies to the other neighbors (they of the yard the dogs run through when they go for a joy run).

I wonder if you can skip slats on the horizontal basket-weave fence and still have it work (as in, not fall down, not sag, not look stupid).  Anybody happen to know?  And can those of you with design eyes tell me if a horizontal fence would look stupid in front of our house?

{Yes, that tree was just seconds from tumbling down, down, down onto our front lawn.  It was pretty awesome.}

We still have no idea where the fence will actually go.  He wants to fence in the left side and back only; I want to fence in more so we can use the whole yard and still hang out with the dogs.  Either way, it will only be four feet tall.

And can someone tell my husband that the window pane-ness of the garage doors is really ugly and only serves to emphasize their age and out-datedness?  I painted them that dark blue from a lovely (ugg) seafoam-ish green but lost the battle over painting them a solid.  Just goes to show you how far we’ve come in our relationship: today, I’d paint them like I wanted them to and if he didn’t like it, he could repaint them. :)

We still haven’t nailed the new job details.  As of now, I’m doing it in acting capacity, the job was posted and I applied, and 10 days from now they can make me a verbal offer.

We’re in agreement on the team (mostly), the goals (mostly), and the start date (um, a month ago).  I know they need someone in that role ASAP (you know, because I’m doing it and holy hell it’s a doozy of a situation), that I’m unusually qualified for this type of role, and that I make quite a bit less than my former peers, much less my current peers.

And yet.

I’m chickening out of negotiating.  Or rather, delaying the inevitable.  For the third time my new boss asked what I wanted and for the third time I rather elegantly put him off… but I suspect that’s not going to last much longer.

I think it’s a chick thing to be spending my time convincing myself my skills aren’t really that unique or necessary or important rather than convincing myself (and my company) of my worth.  I mean, really, it’s ridiculous.  I just spent the week at a client site in a kamikaze kind of a situation and handled it rather brilliantly, if I do say so myself.  I got kudos from one of our execs and appreciation from a general manager, and yet, here I am dwelling on the fact that, unlike my peers, I’m not an engineer.

Hello, crazy woman: you are perfect for this job because of the things you do that are unique for an engineering organization. 

Unlike 95% of my group (engineers, remember), I like customers.  In fact, I like unhappy customers most.  I am willing to travel on two days’ notice, have a background in services and development, and know enough about hospitals to talk my way through almost any ugly situation.  And I’m willing to take this job without a full team behind me, unlike most normal people who would prefer to be able to direct the work of the people doing the work.  Not me.  I’m good with a small team of a couple of people.

Somehow, though, that doesn’t feel as relevant as having once been an actual coder.  *sigh*

What now, then?  A script.  I’ve read too many studies indicating that women make less money because they just don’t negotiate (not “negotiate better,” “negotiate at all) to allow this chance to pass, but I’ll continue to chicken out.  So I’m going to write out a script I can follow when the new boss asks me, again, what kind of salary I’m looking for.  I’ll include things I can say for any number of his responses.

Want to help?  Here’s what I have so far:

Him: blah, blah, blah, salary, blah, blah, same page, blah, blah, might not get exactly but close, blah, blah, what are you looking for?

Option 1

Me: Would you mind telling me what range you have in mind?

Him: Yes, sure, we’re thinking xxx to xxx. {within my goals}

Me: That sounds like a fine starting point.  I think we should be able to come to an agreement once I have an offer in writing.

~~~

Him: Yes, sure, we’re thinking xxx to xxx. {not within my goals}

Me: Well, that’s a bit lower than I was expecting, frankly, given the amount of responsibility and impact this role will carry.  Given the travel requirements and visibility, I’d expect more like xxx.

Then what?

Option 2

Me: Well, given the amount of responsibility and impact we’ve discussed, I think xxx,xxx sounds fair.  I can start right away and have an immediate impact on your work and those of the development teams. {Is that last sentence even necessary?}

Him: That sounds fair.  I’ll talk to HR.

~~

Him: That’s higher than we’d normally pay, and anything above a 10% increase requires the approval of the HR board.

Me: Okay, I understand.  When will that happen and is it retroactive?

~~

Am I supposed to be prepared to defend my position?  I assume yes.  I have reports from Payscale.com and Salary.com indicating what I’m asking for is slightly above median… but that’s a pretty significant jump from where I am.

I hate this stuff.  Something about talking about money gives me the heeby jeebies.  I’ll negotiate almost anything else – and enjoy it – but this I’m just not good at.

The problem, I think, is disappointment.  Dollar figures are so black and white, so clear who won and who lost.  I feel like I’ll spend a week convincing myself I’m worth xxx and then be disappointed when I settle for a lower offer, even though it’ll still be a raise… you know?

Anyone else struggle with salary negotiations?  How do you get through it?

“He’s such a happy baby!” I remarked, sitting on the floor with her one-year old son.  “He’s always smiling.”

“You know, I think it’s because we never fight,” she replied, half under her breath because our husbands were around the corner.  Funny how women will talk about relationships with acquaintances, but men never do.

I thought everyone fought.  Hell, that was the big lesson of my divorce post-mortem: everyone fights, so instead of trying to avoid arguments, may as well try to get better at them.  But they never fight, never even an undercurrent of frustration between them, and I’m a darned good observer of couples’ interactions.  What am I missing?

~~~

At the funeral service for a dear neighbor, I sat next to a close friend and her husband, who are also neighbors.  Through the entire service, she fidgeted – bouncing leg, shifting in her seat, twiddling her thumbs. 

On the ride home, she laughed.  “You must really love me,” she said to her husband.  “I fidget all the time and you never tell me to stop!”

He stayed silent, apparently not feeling the need to confirm or deny.

~~~

Six months into our marriage, I often feel less stable than ever before.  I can’t explain it, despite multiple attempts to figure it out.  We’re very different, my husband and I, and in terms of time, we just haven’t known each other long.

“Someday you’ll reach the point where the years you’ve been together will outnumber the years you spent apart,” my therapist said.  I found that statement to be terribly depressing, having spent half my life with another person.

I’m thirty and have known him three years.  Assuming we’re only talking about adulthood, in a decade we’ll hit breakeven.  Wow.

Not the most helpful statement, but a reminder that we can’t take anything for granted for good reason.  We haven’t earned – through years of time together -- to assume anything about the other.  It’s time to stop trying to get somewhere and start just being.

~~~

2010 is the year of not losing my shit.  I lose my shit most in regards to my husband, because he’s what matters most to me.  Good or bad, my relationship with him is the culmination of some rough times, painful lessons, and what often feels like a path of destruction left in the wake of my maturity.  Living this life is something I choose every day.  Being with him is something I’m careful not to take for granted.

But the weight of my past can be a heavy burden for a relatively new relationship.  I have to remind myself that just because I’ve learned something doesn’t mean he has.  I’ve had the freedom to learn at my own pace; he deserves the same.

In past years I relied on mantras to get me through tough times: Keep moving.  Don’t run.  Timing is everything.  Anger requires action – go do something. 

This year, then, my mantra is this: Believe, Ignore, Look for the Good. 

When things go badly, I immediately think I made a mistake.  So this year, I’m going to push myself to believe.  When things go badly, I’m going to believe in him, believe in us, believe in goodness and light and getting through eventually.

But that’s only the first step.  While I’m fervently believing, I’ll be ignoring. Sure, my husband does things that drive me bonkers, but he’s human (and even my non-human family drives me bonkers: Frank, I’m talking to you).  We’ve gotten in the habit of mentioning every little thing we think the other should or shouldn’t do, as if just by saying something, we get closer to perfection.

Nope.  At least half the time I do something stupid, I already know it by the time it’s over.  No need to be told that it was stupid and I shouldn’t do it again.  The rest of the time, sure, I can use some input, but there’s such a thing as timing, and right when I’m feeling stupid ain’t it.  And I do the same thing to my husband.

So, no more.  I’m ignoring a lot more, on purpose rather than in the fog of lust, but whatever – same result.  When he’s all worked up over losing his keys, I’m no longer going to catch the passing frustration and make it my own.  When he says something ridiculous, does something reckless, or just plain drives me nutso, I’m going to leave it alone.  If it’s still bothering me later – when I can look at him and feel love again – I’ll bring it up.

And last, but not least, I’m going to spend the time while I’m believing and ignoring (and therefore not responding) looking for the good.  Hurt leads to anger, anger requires action, and my action will be to look for the good in the situation.

My dog isn’t going to live much longer, not even 12 – 18 months (because that estimate is from onset, not diagnosis, and we’re probably six months in), and that really sucks.  For me.  Because the best part of the whole thing is that he’s not human and therefore doesn’t know he’s sick.  Does he miss playing?  Probably.  Does he wish he could play?  Doubtful.  Research tells us canines can handle a whole lot of thought processes and feelings – jealousy, envy, happiness, maybe even joy – but they live in the moment, so the ability to wish for something different is pretty unlikely.

Thank God.  Because I wish for things to be different enough for both of us.  So I’m sad, oh so very sad, for myself, but at least we can make Indy happy as a clam by giving into his every whim, dressing him in weather-appropriate garb, and cuddling as much and as often as he’ll let us.  If he’s warm, comfy, and well-fed, how can he not feel loved?  And really, that’s the best we can do for him.

I’m believing in the power of love and time and being present to get me through the sadness, ignoring the fact that in a perfect world, he’d be a perfectly annoying and nutso puppy, and holding on tight to the only good I can see: we have enough warning to give him the best next six months (and maybe more, please, please more) we can.

If this mantra helps with a dying dog, surely it can help my marriage.  We’ll probably always fight and be annoying, but we have a lot of years to breakeven; may as well make the best of them.

So.  Against my better judgment, we are going snowboarding tomorrow night – the night before I take a 6:00 am flight to a week of work-related fun.  I know, I will regret it, but I am determined to continue to live my life despite a more challenging job.

Here’s the lowdown on my first snowboarding experience: I wasn’t bad, but that’s because I didn’t take too many chances.  I studied beforehand so I knew what was coming in the lesson (and yes, I had notes, shut up) and I did great.  On my first skid down the little hill leading to the chair lift, I did great, successfully traversing across it in both directions.  I didn’t ever really fall, though I did tip over once or twice, and all was well.

But then I had 2.5 beers in the bar. (We shared a pitcher in celebration of my husband’s 28th birthday.)

My responsiveness, as you can imagine, was slowed, as was my courage.  I didn’t get much better after that, and after two out-of-the-blue spills, I retreated to the training area to practice basics.  And you know how it goes when you’re learning something new: sucking takes way more energy than being good.  I got tired pretty quickly from putting on and taking off my board, or (blegh) stepping back up the hill.  Stepping sucks.  I’m ready to ride.

I am, therefore, asking for tips or tricks or even just “get your ass back up and keep trying, you big chicken who didn’t even make it on the chair lift” comments.  Help?  And I’m asking publicly even though a few of you have emailed me privately because perhaps others are interested in learning and can use the same tips.  {Ahem, and because I can find your tips more easily on my blog than in my out of control email inbox.}

Oh, and because I always find attire the most stressful part of any new endeavor, here’s my update: I love, love, love my pants.  My jacket is so-so –- functionally okay, but I still think the army green color makes me look homeless or wannabe or something.  Someday I’ll prep it up with a paisley hat or something. Mittens are fine for snowboarding, but I’m buying decent glove liners.  And holy, hell, who knew you could sweat that much in sub-20 degree temps?  Not me, that’s for sure.

Also, anyone know how to keep glasses from fogging up?  I eventually gave up, stuck them in my pocket, and winged it without the benefit of detailed vision.  Not the best option, ya know?

My dog is very sick.  Ill, actually*.  A muscle in his heart is progressively deteriorating due to a rare condition that we can’t fix, not permanently and possibly not even temporarily. 

It’s been a very rough day.

We are snowed in, my dog had to spend the night at the vet clinic because we couldn’t brave the roads to go get him, and he’s going to die much sooner than we’d anticipated. 

I don’t want to raise another puppy!  I want the full decade out of the work we did with this one!  This is unfair!

~~~

Early in my relationship with my husband, I told him I didn’t want to rely on him, because then what if he left me, what would I do then?  His reply: “you’d adjust right back.”

Why yes, yes, I would, wouldn’t I?  I’d adjust right back just as quickly as I adjusted at first.  So why was it so scary?

I’ve been struggling with how to reconcile being someone who can take care of herself with being someone who is and has a partner, but I’m not sure I have to, not in a broad sense, anyway.  I can be whichever I need to be in the moment.

I’d just left my dog at the specialist’s office.  I had to walk away from my pup’s imploring eyes, feeling like I’d violated his trust by asking him to follow me into that scary exam room – and then leaving him.  Why did I have to deal with this alone?

Because I can.  My husband couldn’t make it so I do this alone. I have lived in a life where I had only myself to rely on.  I know I am capable.

But wait.  I don’t have to do every moment alone…

*switch*

So I called my husband, told him how haunted I was by Indy’s fear, how I wished he’d ignored me altogether because at least then I wouldn’t feel like I abandoned him.  I asked my husband to join me in picking Indy up later because if the news was bad, I didn’t want to have to be the strong one.  I am the emotional one, remember?

*switch*

But then my husband couldn’t make it.  The weather was terrible.  I had to rescue my husband from an aborted drive home (me: SUV; him: Ford Focus) but couldn’t get to my dog.  I was driving in an ice storm surrounded by idiot drivers on my way to get my husband and wishing I wasn’t the one who had to do the saving.  I sucked it up and made it to pick him up.

And then I couldn’t switch.  I got stuck.  I couldn’t go back to leaning, being stuck in my resentment over having to stand.

~~~

Last night I tried snowboarding for the first time and I had a great time.  I was very good at coasting and staying perpendicular to the ground and falling well, but I got stuck when it came to transitions.  They scare me.  I can go straight; I can turn this way; I can turn that way; I can’t link them together.

The difficult part about transitioning is that it feels awkward, unknown, unstable.  You have to let go of something you know and leap toward something you don’t, even if only by lifting your toes.  Scary.

And in much the same way, I have a hard time letting go of my unhappiness at having to go it alone.  Who knew letting go of resentment was going to take the same kind of courage as throwing my body down a snowy hill on a piece of plastic?

Apparently I believe in perpetuity, wanting to always be one thing or the other.  But my dog -- the puppy I swore was the last I’d raise for a decade, the dog not even two years old, the sweet puppy who drove us nuts and taught us lots already – only has 12 – 18 months to live, if we’re lucky. 

Perpetuity is bullshit.  It’s time for me to get better at transitions.

~~~

*Complete heart block with Persistent Atrial Standstill and early heart failure with a ventricular escape rhythm, bradycardia, and a significant systolic murmur.

This is the year of not losing my shit.

I’m going to spend big, dream big/ plan big/ do one little thing, and travel more.  Each one is an attempt to manage personality quirks so that I don’t lose my shit so often this year. 

This quirk: I over think everything, which leads to my believing that things are scary that won’t actually hurt or kill me.  I’m not saying that emotional pain isn’t a big deal, but when I start to be afraid of feeling bad, I need to get out and do more.  It’s all about perspective.

Make sense?

Learning new physical things is scary for me.  I’m a technical learner, needing to understand the mechanics and technique intellectually so that I can tell my body what to do.  So learning a new thing is good for my brain because it makes me think really hard.

But it’s also good for my brain because sometimes you just have to stop thinking.  You have to trust in techniques that don’t feel right, trust in your body to do things without active brain intervention, trust your coaches and teachers and advice-givers.  Okay, so learning new things is also a trust exercise and I can certainly use some practice trusting.

And more than anything, doing things that might actually injure reminds me that emotional pain will not.  This is good for not losing my shit so much over emotional things.

So.  Doing real scary things.  Like riding my motorcycle more often.  And learning to snowboard.  And hiking and camping and doing a headstand in yoga.  That’s the plan.

The hilarious part is that I’m not a big risk-taker, so my version of motorcycle riding is pretty darned safe.  My goals for snowboarding are pretty darned low. (And I have written notes stashed in my jacket pocket culled from hours of watching instructional videos in preparation for the real-life lesson.  Yea, I’m a nerd.)  Hiking?  Not really scary.  But it’s all relative, so I’ll still get the benefits.

Yesterday I wrote about one of my resolutions: Spend Big.  This resolution is similar in trying to build mechanisms for dealing with personal quirks.

This quirk: I dream but don’t plan, plan but don’t dream, and then don’t actually do anything at all.

Let me explain.  I’m a practical girl, a cheap-ass, and someone who wants a quick pay-off.  I’ve lived in rentals for most of my adult life so spending extra on something sturdy and lasting always lost out to making changes quickly and inexpensively.

While I often look at pretty pictures and dream, those ideas rarely get turned into a feasible plan.  When I do plan, I limit myself to what’s easily sourced, paid for, and slapped on rather than dreaming.  Regardless of the scope of planning or dreaming, though, nothing gets done.  I dream and plan and re-dream and re-plan and somehow live in my imagination rather than the mess that is our house.

So.  New plan.  At some point this year, I am going to dream my way through every room in our house, building inspiration files and paying attention to what we need now (and guessing what we might need later).  Then I’ll make functional needs lists and mock-up some color schemes and find things I’d like to buy or make – the plan, but based on the dream, not based on what I can do with twenty bucks and a weekend.

{Yes, of course, I’ll review and adjust with my husband, but I’m learning to accept that my process and his process are really, really different, so things work better if I start a plan and he tweaks it.  Remind me to come up with a resolution for not being so pissy when he tweaks the bejeezus out of something he’s had no hand in creating.  But that’s for another post. Or rather, series of posts on relationship resolutions.}

And last?  I’ll pick one small thing and do it.  I’m often left paralyzed by the overwhelming-ness of a big change, but the best plans are those you act on.  So it won’t matter which one thing I do, only that something (anything!) get done.  Having a plan that costs out to a ton of money doesn’t mean we have to spend it all at once, but it does mean that anything we spend should move us in that direction.

Ideally I can use the same process for vacations (where I tend to limit my options to those theoretically costing $300 and a weekend, but of course we spend thousands anyway) and job stuff (where I chicken out on insisting on big changes in favor of staying in favor with people who aren’t responsible for my career).

Dream Big, Plan Big, Do Just One Thing.

Are you sick of reading about other people’s resolutions yet?  I am, but only halfway.  While I can’t stand the end of year round-ups everyone does, finding them overwhelming and stressful (am I really supposed to sit and click through the 100 best anything of any year, really?), I do find it interesting how others structure their resolutions.

There are the list-makers, the goal-setters, the pretending-I-don’t-do-resolutions-because-I’m-afraid-I’ll-fail people.  I’m a theme resolver. 

A few years ago was the year of “getting my shit together,” financially, emotionally, psychologically.  Then there was the “tie up loose ends” year – I finally did the paperwork for my divorce, paid some old random bills, and dumped stuff that wasn’t mine.  Last year was the year of “finding grace,” at which I obviously failed, but I learned a lot along the way about how I lose my shit when things don’t go well.

This year, then, is the year of not losing my shit.  I think I’ve learned enough to not only understand how things go badly, but stop them before we’re careening down a narrow road to an ugly crash.  That’s my goal, anyway, and I’m sure I’ll be blogging more about it all.

I’ve realized that I tend to lose my shit over little things – many, many, many little things.  Eventually all the shit-losing overflows into a storm of, well, shit.  The top blows and all the little frustrations turn into one gigantic relieving purge.  It’s not pretty. 

So in order to stop losing my shit in a big way, I have to find a way to manage it in all the small ways.

And I feel most crazy when it comes to money.  I have no perspective, so I can either not spend, or I can spend it all, but I’m completely lost in between.  I’ve stared at hair dryers for 20 minutes and ultimately walked out without a single one because I wasn’t sure if I was getting the best deal.  On a 20 dollar hair dryer.

Craaaaazy.

So my 2010 resolution is to spend big.  What does that mean?  It means that the thought of any purchase over a hundred dollars causes me great stress, so I debate and waffle and research and shut down.  In the meantime, I will have spent a hundred dollars on a bunch of little things I don’t even remember.  Okay, let’s be honest: multiple hundreds of dollars are spent while I hunt for a good deal that might save me ten bucks. 

This is crazy.

Instead, I’m keeping a “Things to Buy” list.  When I want something, it goes on the list.  When I spend money, it will be on something on the list BEFORE I buy something else.  And I’m trying to be specific.

Let’s take snowboard pants as an example.  My husband snowboards; we live 30 minutes from a little ski run; we live two hours from many other ski runs; snowboarding makes my husband happy.  I’ve decided to learn skiing/ snowboarding.

But I know that I hate to be unprepared so proper attire is necessary.  {I know, I know, you can wing it any number of ways.  I know this.  But I know that I will hate every moment.  So: proper attire.}  I tried on a bazillion pairs of pants and fell in love with some that were (wait for it) NOT ON SALE.  Not even a little bit.  So I looked around, tried them on three different times, looked around some more, and finally, with my husband pushing me into it, bought them.

AT FULL PRICE.

I love them.  Love, love.  Jump up and down love.  Wear them secretly because I love them, love.  Then wear them not-so-secretly while working in my home office because they’re warm and love them more, love.  Love.  This is $150 well spent.

So my list will say, “North Face LRBC Freedom Pants, XS, black” not “snowboard pants,” because my cheap and crazy-ass will buy cheap pants and hate them every minute rather than spending $60 extra for the ones I love if I’m not specific.  And I’ll spend that $60 on who-knows-what.

I’m also trying to be okay with the waffling and regret that comes with those kinds of purchases as just a part of the process for me, not a sign that it’s a bad decision.  I bought a jacket (on sale) that’s not at all what I would have thought I’d like, but I put it on and thought, “Yesss.”  Then my brain kicked in and started wondering whether the color and style were too “hi, I’m a wannabee hard-ass” and I’ve been stressing ever since.  Given a quick review of my purchase history, I’m sure that I’ve stressed over every good purchase I’ve made, so this probably is one.  We’ll see.

The mittens that don’t quite fit, though, are getting exchanged tonight.  No more "making it work,” Tim Gunn’s advice notwithstanding.

That’s what “spend big” means: spend money on things big enough to matter – the right things - rather than on a thousand little things that aren’t memorable.

I thought I had the relationship thing figured out when I learned that a good (or bad) one is made not of big moments, but of the sum total of small ones.  I don’t think all people get divorced because of big huge transgressions; some go from pretty good to desolation in steps so small they barely notice where they’re headed.  And then someone looks up and thinks, “holy hell, how’d we get here?”  The series of tiny steps needed to get back to good is overwhelming.  Someone gives up, thinking that starting over with a new person couldn’t possibly be harder than getting back to good.

So little moments became really important to me. 

Did I do the right thing just then?  Did I say something wrong?  How do I fix it?  How can we get back to good now before we’re so far gone we feel hopeless?  What if I wasn’t wrong, but I say I’m wrong, and then next time I am wrong because this time I gave in?  Then how do I fix that?

~~~

This morning my husband was frustrated.  He gets up before I do every morning, makes coffee, brings me some (in bed if I ask nicely enough), chats for a while, then showers and heads to work.  On good days (for me), he takes the dogs out.  On bad days, he doesn’t, forgets to tell me, and all hell breaks loose.  I’ve gotten in the habit of asking him if he will take the dogs out just to know where we stand, fully expecting that if he’s running behind, he’ll say no.

This morning my husband didn’t have time but did not say no.  When I noticed his frustrated face, I asked what was wrong.  He, true to form, said, “Nothing.”

Hmmm. 

Should I press him, or will that just make this blow up? Do I even want to know?  If he’s not willing to verbalize, isn’t that on him, not me? I really shouldn’t be in the business of guessing what he’s thinking.  But then, what if this festers?  He festers, we know this. 

But every moment doesn’t have to count; some just suck.  The total of the moments is important, yes, but every single one doesn’t have to be perfect.  We can be annoyed at each other and have a good marriage.  We can be angry and still be happy together.  We can dislike each other for a little while and be okay.  Everyone gets to feel; it’s their right.  Being married doesn’t mean we’re not human.  And paying too much attention to moments sometimes makes them into a bigger deal than they should have been.

So off he went to work with his annoyance; there I sat in bed with my uncertainty.  By lunchtime, we’d both moved on.  Heck, within a few minutes we’d both moved on.

Do you find that you make the same resolutions over and over?

One of my goals for 2010 is to take more real vacations.  Aside from our honeymoon, we don't often leave town, instead getting caught up in the daily routine of dogs, cleaning, winding down and never-ending DIY'ing

I can't remember a year that I didn't vow to plan ahead, make time, spend money and go places.  And yet, my spending patterns and stress thresholds prevent me from doing this - every year.

But this year, things are coming together.  Unlike years past, I'm doing pretty well in every part of my life, so I have hope that the kinds of goals that encompass lots of those areas are possible.

Like this vacation thing.

On my 30 in 30 list, I put "go to Tampa."  I love Tampa.  Tampa was the first place I (psuedo-) lived outside my hometown.  Every week for months I'd board a plane and two flights later, be in Tampa for the week. In Tampa I first understood that places have more similarities than differences; that you can be yourself in a different city pretty easily; that flamingoes exist in the wild.

Almost every thread of angst in my 20's played out in Tampa. Every relationship except the one with my current husband had a moment there, sometimes overlapping in high drama, always including a silent moment of solitude on a balcony like this one.