Detour

I've been thinking about how we trick ourselves into believing that we know how things will play out. This has been a particularly shocking revelation for me as I have tried to control nearly every aspect of my future for as long as I can remember. There were parts of this that were conscious (get good grades, go to school, use birth control, wear a helmet, limit carbs, don't be too dumb) and parts that were working underneath my veil of awareness this entire time. It wasn't until my infant son was diagnosed with a disability, for which we have yet to learn the severity, that I realized how much I assumed I knew. Turns out, this moment, this one right here, is all there is. 

We project into the future visions of being at our child's soccer game, because surely, they will be ablebodied and have the physical prowess that we have all enjoyed. Why wouldn't they have use of their legs? Disability is something that happens to other people and as I type this, I chuckle because our able bodies are but on lease. Age, disease, accidents, they are all waiting for most of us. Very few of us enjoy happy, healthy, happy, healthy, dead. Instead, there is a period of time where our spirits and our bodies disagree. 

My son's diagnosis is called Polymicrogyria, which for the life of me, I cannot pronounce. I am taking this to mean that the diagnosis is not actually that important. Some people live with Polymicrowhatever their entire lives without knowing and then discover after they've hit their head and receive an MRI, and others are profoundly disabled because of it. I'm learning it really depends on what parts of the brain are affected and how badly. There are lots of encouraging signs about Andrew's prognosis but it is a waiting game and to be honest, I find it ironic that of all the scary diagnoses out there, he was given the diagnosis with no prognosis. I have caught myself thanking the Universe for this because it let me keep the magic of possibility, determination, will, manifestation, which are all the things I owe my life to anyway. Of course they would be part of this journey too. 

We waste are normalness anyway. Our beautiful bodies, our incisive intellect, our ability to learn a new skill without help from a physical therapist. Our voices. The assumption that we will develop alongside the grand mean. The blind hope that our children will bury us and not the other way around. We take it all for granted and wollow in our existential torment. It can take us most of our lives to stand up and say, "I'm not doing what you tell me to do." But people like Andrew come in saying that. And he's not only unphased, he's wildly amused. 

I'll be writing about our journey and my continued existential torment (just kidding, mostly) on my new blog www.joypractice.org, which I hope to launch this month. My intention is that JoyPractice becomes a place of hope, miracles, and fun about parenting different, relationships, people who park their carts in the middle of the aisle, signs from the universe, and really, really good recipes that you can make in one paw patrol episode or less. 

8 Weeks

This just in, I can't do this for another two months. This baby is fu**ing huge and when I do so much as eat a pear, I feel like I've consumed a basketball and chased it with a puffy down jacket drenched in water that weighs 80 pounds. There is no room. No room for food, for air, my organs. And I have two months left. What the shit am I going to do?

I know, the third trimester is designed to suck this bad so that I'll convince myself that labor is a good idea. I also know that I have no socially acceptable alternatives but to accept my situation. It still sucks.

My homevisitor, whom I love, gave me a depression screen the other day and low and behold, I'm depressed. Well, no shit I'm depressed. I'm in the field, and even if I wasn't, the fact that online shopping does absolutely nothing for me anymore was indication enough. Don't fret, I'm not going to drown the baby or drive us into a lake, which always seems like a god awful way to go, no it's not that bad. It's just that I can't wear my jeans, or go for long runs, or drink my rose while I'm cooking food that doesn't nauseate me. I can't eat blue cheese or salami, or anything for that matter, without seriously paying the price. I can't exercise the way I want to or do the yoga I want to do. Also, I can't sleep and if you've ever been depressed you know that sleep is just so awesome. Nope. When I try to sleep my esophagus fills up with burning acid, and down south, we've got the restless legs. T O R T U R E. I do eventually fall asleep and then around 2 am I wake up and lie in bed researching the epidemiology of serial killers, starting with Hannibal Lecktor because he's my favorite. By 3:30am, I'm dying of thirst and I have to pee but I'm too terrified to leave my bedroom so I lie there until Rich wakes up and it's safe to wander about the house. (I realize some of that is my fault.)

THEN, my favorite thing happens. I get to drink my one cup of coffee, which admittedly has become a cup of coffee with half a cup of whipped cream on top. It's the best part of my day. As I near the end  of my cup, my heart sinks, for I know it's all downhill from there.

I do appreciate you listening. I should probably stop whining and start dinner. Cod po' boys with a hell of a lotta remoulade. Doesn't that sound delicious? It was seriously the least disgusting thing on Pinterest.

Peace.

Been a Long Time

Around puberty, we start to develop the sense of a "perceived audience." We think that everyone is looking at us, judging our every move, and ultimately making determinations about our worth. It's an extremely stressful time that lasts for most, about 10 to 15 years. At which point, we realize, half disappointed and dismayed, and half relieved, that no one actually gives a fuck. We are much more self-centered, self-conscious, and too busy worrying about our own perceived audience to notice how well someone is performing for theirs.

I remember being yelled at by girls in junior high and high school for looking at them. They would say things like, "What the f**k are you looking at?" "Can I ****ing help you?" It was always extremely startling to hear as I was never looking at them. I was usually looking just beyond them, thinking things like, "I wonder if my mom will let me go out on Friday and Saturday..." "I wonder if I forge a note from my dad saying that I can leave at lunch, if Jade will come with me..." "Oh! I wonder if that cute guy is here today..." When the girls would yell at me and I would wake from my stupor and say something like, "Oh sorry, I wasn't looking at you..." they would become even more agitated, as if to say, "Well, why NOT? We are just so fabulous!" It was confusing. I learned to zone out on inanimate objects instead.

This is all to say that I've been afraid to write. It feels so much like I have an audience again. I get that no one (still) gives a fuck but I can't help but feel exposed. My life has changed a lot, which has invariably changed the lives of those close to me. It feels like people would appreciate an explanation. I'm annoyed by this. Still, when things change suddenly and feelings are hurt, explanations can go a long way. So here goes... my life changed because I was given a very clear choice between two alternative lives. One was not better than the other, but one was more in line with why I was put on the planet. I did my best to ignore the fact that a fork in the road was clearly becoming visible. Still, day by day, the fog continued to lift, events moved me this way and that way, and then eventually, it became clear. So I leapt.

Here's the thing about leaping, sometimes you don't splat. Sometimes, your wings emerge and catch the wind quite nicely. It's crazy as hell. What a ride. Seriously. A moment of pause...because this is divinity.

Now I'm going to talk about my perceived audience again, as if they are real. Thanks for humoring me. First, a justification: I do live in a small town and I am active on social media, so I might not be totally imagining this. I think we are all naturally voyeuristic to some extent. We are curious about other people's lives because we measure our own against theirs, which by the way, is not a great idea but still, we do it. This is what Facebook is right? I don't tend to post pictures of myself raging at loved ones. No, it's pictures of Ellis and I smiling cutely, #blessed, and I leave out the part where she has just informed me that today is the worst day ever because I won't take her to Twirl to buy a toy. So maybe I haven't hurt enough, or maybe I've made it look like these decisions are no big deal, they've been made lightly and without consideration of how anyone else might feel. Maybe that's how it seems.

So, for the record, that's not the case. And also for the record, I don't need to bash anyone else to justify my soul's purpose. And finally for the record, I won't bash myself either, for making decisions that feel right and true.

It doesn't matter what you decide to do. It isn't about the "what." It's the how and the personal why. Go this way, or go that way, it doesn't really matter as long as you do it for the highest good. My decisions have no bearing on anyone else's. Because I chose this way, does not mean I've done the right thing or the wrong thing and therefore you've done the wrong thing or the right thing. You do you. Just don't be an asshole.

So that's what's been happening in my world. Faith is an interesting thing and I'm enjoying my growing relationship with it. Love to all of you.

Forward. An Update.

Another mom tapped on my window at my daughter's school and when I rolled the window down, she became suddenly apprehensive. "What's up?" I asked. She hesitated and then with a guilty grin, she whispered, "I just have to ask...[she paused]. What is it like?" "It....?" I asked. "The freedom." The words rolled off her tongue imploringly.

I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped just a bit, but she continued, "I love my husband but the idea of having the house to myself. Time. Alone. Oh my god! So, what is it like?" I was careful. I was careful for a couple reasons. One, the freedom is equal parts amazing and anti-climactic. Two, if I have learned anything during this time, it's that I don't need to be doling out relationship advice. So I gathered myself as quickly as possible and I told her that the freedom was great but it doesn't come without complications.

I appreciated her question so much. I have appreciated all my fellow working their asses off women sharing how often they have been (or fantasized about being) in my shoes.  My mom worried so much that I would be blamed for the separation. I assured her that it was 2016 and we have come a long way. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Friends have distanced themselves. The syrupy waves of judgment have been crashing upon my beaches from multiple directions. An explanation is wanted, perhaps warranted, but alas, I am still working it all out for myself.

So for now, I'm returning to the World Series.

Forward

About four months ago, Aaron moved out.

There was no scandal, no fighting, no harsh words. It was a decision that we made together, lying in bed one night, holding hands and looking at each other for what felt like the first time, in a long time. It was not an impetuous decision. Not one that was made lightly or without sadness over the loss of a dream that we once both shared.

Separating was decided upon because we love each other. Because we want the other person to truly be happy, to express who they are without censorship, and actualize their potential personally, intimately, professionally, spiritually. We couldn't do this for each other. It's not that we aren't compatible. In a lot of ways we are. It seemed that for whatever reason though, the particular chemical reaction of Aa + Do created an unyielding energy. An energy that required that one give up essential parts of themselves to accommodate the relationship. Turns out we love each other too much to ask that of the other.

Like awesome beasts who are best viewed from far away, we knew that the harder we tried to get closer, the more destructive we would eventually become.

In a lot of ways, uncoupling felt like a responsibility. Ellis. Ever present in our hearts. Loving her kept us together and loving her helped inform our decision to split. What is partnership? That is a question she, like the rest of us, will contemplate when she gets older. Whether or not we want to, we model what we see, and so we want her to witness and ultimately (hopefully) emulate a divine, loving, exciting, life-enhancing partnership, not one based on habit or obligation. We want her to see her parents in all their glory. I never want Ellis to diminish herself to be in a relationship.

I think the most challenging part of our separation has been dealing with everyone else's reactions. It seems that folks are more comfortable with an angry, dramatic breakup. Amicable just doesn't make sense. If it's so great, why are you splitting up? Ultimately it is no one's business and what is most helpful is our community supporting our family, as we are still, and always will be, a family.

I think it is brave to have a family, no matter how it looks or how it changes.

Boss Lady

I would say I am an introspective person, who, from time to time, borders on neurotic. Which is to say that on a good day, I am "looking in," to see how I can use any given experience to help me grow, evolve, become better. On a bad day, it means I obsess, worry, and take on way more than my fair share of the "introspection," leaving the other person entirely off the hook.

It doesn't help that I am witlessly drawn to narcissists and codependents, both of whom do everything in their power to make their issues about me. On a personal level, I have become much more attuned to these rabbit holes, land mines, anthrax laden envelopes, and can, mostly, give them a wide enough berth to see what is happening without taking too much of it on.

Professionally, it's a different story. There are so many conflicting narratives about what I represent on any given day, it can be hard, to say the least, not to fall prey to "feedback" that is actually an attempt to knock me down a few notches. This, by the way, does no one any good. Ever seen a parent in the supermarket, the moment he/she has lost a power struggle with their toddler. Not good when the "parent" feels powerless. Desperate times y'all.

I have always valued transparency and vulnerability above all else. I also value refusing to give up my power so those around me will feel more comfortable. This can, at times, feel like an impossible balance. Especially when so much of what I represent causes microbursts of reactions in the people I interact with on a daily basis.

As I write this, I think of some of my female mentors, Patsy, Stephie, Laurie, my mom, Susan, who all share an uncanny ability to say "Thanks, fuck off," in the same way a Southerner says, "Bless their heart," to the biggest asshole in the room. Must. Learn. To. Do. This.

I write this on the morning after receiving an email from a "trusted" colleague who's feedback was a.) not shared by anyone else in the room, b.) almost entirely meant to take me out at the knees, and c.) a blatent display of what I contend with on a weekly basis. It's exhausting y'all.

Thanks for listening.

The Pink Elephant: Public Announcement: I'm Staying Wierd

The Pink Elephant: Public Announcement: I'm Staying Wierd: A large part of my childhood, the part I most recall, was spent living in a house shaped like an octagon. The house was actually three octag...

Public Announcement: I'm Staying Wierd

A large part of my childhood, the part I most recall, was spent living in a house shaped like an octagon. The house was actually three octagons stacked on top of each other. As if one was not enough. The house represented to me, a palpable example of how un-normal my life was, and by association, how un-normal I most likely was as well.

A friend of mine lived near the corner of Valverde Street and Trujillo Lane in Taos, NM. On the corner sat a two story, territorial home, complete with red-roof and dormer windows, that led into what I was sure was a bedroom with a matching sheet set, duvet cover and shams. I drove by this house as much as possible. I found it impossible that a person could stare out of dormer windows everyday and have divorced parents and all the complexities that come with that.

My insistence on living in a square shaped house carried through to my adulthood. When Aaron flippantly suggested we buy a dome shaped home, I seriously reconsidered our compatibility.

My dad left when I was nine. He had many girlfriends throughout my childhood. All of them, except one, considered me a nettlesome reminder of the 1963 Michigan State Homecoming Queen runner up, my mom, the love my dad never recovered from. Needless to say, they were not warm. I learned early what it felt like to be disliked and envied by other women, for something I had no control over. My dad was the perfect storm for any woman who was attracted to unavailable men. I remember feeling a mixture of pity and embarrassment for them as they tried, relentlessly, to capture his heart. And I always felt sad for my dad because his heart remained beating for my mom. Leaving was his biggest mistake.

My mom was remarried to her first husband, the builder of the three tiered octagon. He was equal parts cruel and magnanimous. Not the ideal choice for a thirteen year old girl, but I learned a lot about my own worth during this time. Either because he was showing it to me, or because he was openly challenging it. I learned to bend and sway but not break.

This is all to say that I now live in a square house. I drive an SUV. I'm married with a child. We have two dogs, a garden in the back, a 401-k, a mortgage, and a rainy day fund. I'm like the epitome of normal. I love my life but it turns out that normal is highly overrated. I like my weirdness. No, I NEED my weirdness. I like knowing that there are things you can't touch, see, smell or hear, but you know are ever present, moving you along, supporting you, cheering for you. I like saying the wrong things at the wrong times sometimes. Why not?! I like knowing that things don't have to be a certain a way. Says who? For what reason? There is magic in the Wierd. It's here to stay.

The Pink Elephant: Fallen. Off. Wagon

The Pink Elephant: Fallen. Off. Wagon: I find it interesting that it takes 21 days to form a habit and my yoga challenge has hit an abrupt stop at day 20. I was listening to some ...

Fallen. Off. Wagon

I find it interesting that it takes 21 days to form a habit and my yoga challenge has hit an abrupt stop at day 20. I was listening to some Teal Swan today and she was talking about self-sabotage. Apparently I'm guilty of it in lots of ways (stress eating a turkey melt in Costco today for example).

I do however, have an astounding ability to reframe just about everything so that I am either grateful for, or feel less guilty about whatever circumstances are arising before me. I believe that our natural state of being is one of joy. I know that when I feel most aligned with myself, my higher power, creator, etc., I feel pretty damn groovy. My nickname as a child was "bubbles." Young children tend to get everything right, have you noticed that? They don't give a hoot what anyone thinks, they wear sparkly pink princess dresses to funerals, they give people dirty looks when they're tired and hungry (something we all want to do, don't lie), they stare at the world in glorious wonder and then ask, "Mom, do we know the muffin man?" So, I figure I must have had it right as a child. Effervescence is my goal.

That being said, I always try to reach for a better feeling thought. "I have failed at my yoga challenge," or "I can't even do 30 days of a yoga," are thoughts that don't make me feel happy. I much prefer the following: I am so excited that I was unable and unwilling to do yoga for the last three days because it offered me a noticeable contrasting experience. I can say, without a doubt, that yoga subtly, and yet profoundly improves my life. It causes Well Being, and I would not have known this, not for sure, if I had drudged on and forced myself to do 30 consecutive days.

So much better.

Tomorrow is a yoga day. It's time.

Pace Yourself

This morning I bought a postcard that said, "People ruin everything." At 9 am I found it hilarious. By 3:30 pm, I felt like I had cursed myself for buying it. Today wasn't the worst day of my life, not even close, but it was on the sucky spectrum. People really did, ruin everything. I feel the need to clarify that I am not one of those morons who needs the world to act right for me to be ok. On the contrary, I'm freakishly happy even when I probably shouldn't be.

Still, managing a lot of people, in a business like ours, is not easy. Lots of vicarious trauma, displaced emotion, lots of stress, systemic oppression, caregiver fatigue, and a government who either doesn't care or doesn't know how to care about mental health and so therefore pretends it's not a public health epidemic of gargantuan proportion, effecting every single one of us everyday in someway. We also, I should mention, contend with the exact same pressure every other business experiences: meet your quotas, cut costs, hold people accountable, exceed expectations, provide superior service, do more, with less. 

My mission is simple: provide the best possible behavioral health services to Native America. This is what keeps me going. This is what focuses me when I intercept an email from an employee who is addressing her colleagues in ALL CAPS with five exclamation marks at the end of each sentence!!!!!   This is what keeps me going when I walk into a meeting and I am clotheslined by the tension in the room. So much so, that I forget how to train on a very simple substance abuse screen. This keeps me going when I have to fire someone, even when I know they have bills to pay.  

So, needless to say, I did not want to do yoga today. I wanted to drink a beer. Obviously. I managed to force myself to do yoga and because I'm a freak, I chose a class that was primarily balance poses. Definitely my least favorite. There is nothing more annoying for a Gemini, Sagittarius rising, ADD girl, than standing in the same uncomfortable position for longer than 10 seconds. Just to be clear, it causes murderous feelings inside me. 

I was annoyed throughout most of it. I sent a few texts, took a video of myself (see below), just to help pass the time. I battled with wanting to quit and surrender to my bad mood. I wanted to yell at the dogs who kept licking me when I was twisted and contorted and trying not to fall over. I kept at it. My virtual yoga teacher, brilliant lady that she is, said, at just the right time, "Pace yourself. If you go too fast, you'll get frustrated and quit." For a second I forgot that she was referring to my dancer pose, and thought for a moment she might be talking about my life. Yes, I'm making yoga metaphors. Deal with it! Hearing this made me smile, laugh a little, and exhale so audibly the dogs finally gave up and collapsed beside me. Pretty groovy, I have to say. 

Hello, Day 13

Don't worry, my blog is not going to be exclusively about yoga henceforth. I am really into my 30 day challege though. Look, it's my yoga mat on a business trip with me. 

I also have a yoga mat in my office now. It's a good talking point. And even if someone doesn't ask about it, just the mere presence of it communicates, "I am a calm and centered person." That, or "I am so far from being calm and centered, I need to bring a yoga mat with me to work." Either way, it works for me. 

I find that anytime I go out of town, it is hard for me to stick to whatever "challenge" I may be torturing myself with. Luckily, I was not on a diet, as the Cubs were playing and they had my favorite beer on tap at the hotel bar. I sat next to a woman who was on a diet though, tiny as she was, and it was depressing. I'm glad I'm a bit more sane when it comes to what I don't allow down the hatchet. 

So, truth be told, there were two days during my trip that I did not do yoga on the mat. The interesting thing was, I didn't beat myself up about it, which is very yoga-esk don't you think? I tried to be mindful of my yoga practice off the mat on these two days, which I think I was fairly successful at, though I did talk a lot of shit during our long drive. I managed to only become mildly annoyed with my coworker, and when I was hiding from him at the bar, I was very mindful of my thoughts and posture. 

We do the best we can, don't we? 

30 Days of Yoga - Day 6

30 Days of Yoga has become my appointment with myself, and since I really like Dorothy, it's working out.

I have to tell you that I attribute most of my continued motivation (I realize I'm only six days in), to my teacher. I find her irresistibly charming. I am very picky about my yoga teachers. Well, I'm picky about pretty much everything. Except food. I like all food as long as it wasn't tortured, contains carcinogens, or fibers (did you see that YouTube video about McDonald's?), is still alive and crawling (think, Thai restaurants in LA).

I digress. I love my yoga teacher. My yoga teacher, who has about 800,000+ hits on each of her videos (told you she's cute). She's the perfect blend of quirky, knowledgeable, kind, but motivating, and her timing is impeccable. By timing I mean, just when I'm about to say "Eff this, let's see what's for dinner instead," she looks at me and says, "Come on. Stay with me." OK Adrienne. Anything for you.

I think I'm going to need a better, more eclectic blend of stretchy pants. Today Adrienne wore tiger pants. Every time she did a forward bend she was eye to eye with a tiger. These are the things I find helpful when on the mat.

Unfortunately, yoga has not cured me of my shopping habit. 

Look, it's my new yoga mat at happy hour. Cheers!

Day 3 (was yesterday and I did yoga)

I'm not going to lie. I don't hate it.

I'm highly skeptical of course, and being a statistician (totally by accident as I always hated math), I am willing to say there is an association, maybe a correlation, but causation is going too far, for right now at least, but my interest is certainly piqued.

In the three days that I have been doing yoga (I am one of those people who works out once and thinks she's lost weight by the way), I have noticed the following:

1. My formidable morning low back pain, wherein I resemble a 75-year-old woman, groaning in discomfort, terrified I might slip a disk, has nearly disappeared.

2. Evening tension headaches. Gone.

3. Homicidal fantasies towards coworkers (one in particular) have decreased markedly.

4. The idea that I take yoga with me throughout the day, when I'm late to my meeting in Ohkay Owingeh and I'm stuck behind an RV from Oklahoma, when my child is rolling on the floor crying because she thinks that Nina (the dog) doesn't love her anymore, when I see a homeless animal, MSN somehow sneaks onto my homepage, I think of any of the thousand clients we serve and the battles they are waging. Bringing my awareness back to the present moment. Back to my breathe (I know! Seriously, I did this today). Back to my truth, which is and always has been, things are always working out and most things are not that big of deal.

5. My body is pleasantly sore.

6. Someone called me lazy yesterday. I looked at him, shocked. He looked slightly frightened at this point and then relieved/confused when I shouted, "Thank you!" (I'm about as non-lazy as you can get so I appreciated the compliment).

I don't want to get all religious about yoga. I refuse. I mean, I will buy a new yoga mat because thirty days is a long time and I need motivation, but I'm not going to start wearing beads and googling trips to India. I am merely conducting a scientific assessment of the changes in my mind and body as I progress through this journey.

There's one more.

7. I feel more comfortable in my own skin, which is manifesting in a decreased desire to exaggerate (though I do love a good story). That being said, I am not a statistician. I do statistics. Sometimes.

Day 2

Internal Dialogue

12:10 PM - Could work be anymore stressful today? Stupid question. Of course it could. But why, why must we all implode on the same day? Can't we space it out? Maybe it's good they all do it on one day because then I get it over with. This would be a great time to do yoga. Right now. Right when my blood is boiling, my smile is turning fake, and my eyes are squinting at the receptionist who keeps asking me questions that are all leading up to, "Am I getting a raise?" Can't you tell this is not a wise time to ask me for a raise? Yoga will be good today. So glad I made this commitment. *Note to self: bring yoga mat everywhere. Yes, be that person.

3:47 PM - Son of a bitch! I do not want to do yoga. I want to drink wine and watch Harry Potter.

5:03 PM - So. hungry.

5:30 PM - Oh, lasagna...

9:12 PM - Oh my God. Still haven't done yoga. Actually went back to work after dinner to avoid doing yoga. I am so fascinated by myself. I didn't know I could be so avoidant! Crazy. Ok, I can't handle how mean and judgemental I will be to myself if I don't do this so, here we go. Bedtime yoga sequence. Will check in after if I stay awake.

9:22 PM - Returning work emails....

I did it.
It was delicious [Rolls eyes at herself].
No, but it was. I am a ball of stress. My body makes noises when I move my limbs. I'm not going to do something stupid and commit to stretching before bed for the next 30 days, but I can see how that might be helpful. In other news, pushing a baby out of my vagina for 36 hours did a number on my hips. They're tight as f**k. This may have something to do with my nearly constant low back pain.

I fell asleep in savasana, which is par for the course. Was happy that my open mouth snore was caught only by this guy (see below). He's really good at savasana by the way. He practices all day. They say it's the hardest pose. My yogi Jaco.

Alright, y'all. Let's see how tomorrow goes. Should I take my yoga mat to the Albuquerque office and bust a move? That staff is still getting used to me. I rapped to them about essential oils last time I was down there so I may as well whip out my yoga mat, keep 'em guessin'. 

30 Days of Yoga

I have committed to 30 days of yoga and I'm already pissed off about it.

Yoga and I go way back. Mom used to take me to her yoga classes when I was about four or five. I found them dreadfully boring. I did however, enjoy the 1980's yoga outfits that looked like they hailed from The Chorus Line. This could be the root of my fascination with thongs. Yoga and I then met again in my early twenties when I was living in LA, and of course had to jump on the Bikram bandwagon. I still love Bikram yoga even though we are fairly certain the founder is a daft pig who hates women. Regardless, I watched a woman literally transform before my eyes by doing Bikram everyday and abstaining from Burger King. Powerful stuff, that sweating is. THEN, I moved back to Taos, felt lost, couldn't find a job, and so I spent most of my time at the gym, in the mountains, and in dying warrior. Within a few years, all my yoga teachers moved away so I took it as a sign, threw in my yoga mat and started jogging instead (Truth be told, I jog sometimes. Like twice a month).

I don't particularly like yoga people. This sounds terribly judgemental and I don't mean to dismiss an entire group of people. By in large though, if I see a "I <3 Yoga" sticker on your volkswagon, we probably won't be close friends. It's not you. It's me. I'm fiercely competative and there is no avenue for this in yoga and so I take it out on all of you. It's unhealthy. I know. I practice at home now, beacuse I'm such an asshole.

Like most insane relationships, yoga summons me. It's been summoning me now for a couple years. I have every single yoga studio schedule saved on my ipad. I never go. To any of them. Sometimes my phone dings at me in the middle of the day reminding me that it's time to go to yoga. I haven't been to a yoga class in three years. Still, my resistance to yoga is interesting to me because it has the potential to vastly improve my life, as it has done for me many times before.

This is all to say that I have decided to start a 30 day yoga journey. I completed my first day today and I found myself thinking about beer for most of it. I like my online teacher though. She's funny and cute and has a strange haircut like a Portland, OR based yogi should. I'll keep you posted. If, by the end, I run out and buy an "I <3 Yoga" sticker, I will totally understand if you don't want to be my friend anymore.

Cheers to Birthdays

I don't have much to report on my birthday except that I'm sitting on the couch in my underwear drinking an expensive bottle of Pinot Noir. I don't plan on drinking the entire bottle but let's be honest, it could happen.

I love my birthday. Always have. Even though I struggle with all the same insecurities as everyone else, and maybe a few more, deep down I really do like myself. Which is why this moment, alone, couch, underwear, wine, is so divine. I have never minded being by myself. I don't like being by myself in the forest because I'm convinced that there are forest ghosts who will eat me. I also don't really like being alone at night if any scary movie previews have recently snuck into my psyche. I feel much safer now that I have a child, which I realize makes absolutely no sense whatsoever but still, she protects me when Aaron is out saving the forest ghost's homes.

I also like my birthday because I love cake and I love an excuse to do whatever I want for an entire day. For the most part, I'm pretty hard on myself. I work hard, it's usually never good enough and so once a year I like to relish in the practice of utter relaxation, celebration, laziness, gratuitous online shopping, avoiding phone calls, and whatever else strikes my birthday girl fancy.

I always indulge myself in some reflection of the year that has passed. For instance, I became a wife this year. That was a pretty big deal. I scored my dream job (I have a few dream jobs. One down, three to go). Ellis turned three and learned to say things like, "Actually mom, ___________ [insert demand], that's the deal." And "I love you mom, this many (and she holds up her splayed out fingers and toes)." I embraced my OCD and got rid of all the furniture in the house that was causing psychiatric distress. I committed again to my spiritual practice which never fails to transform my life in every possible way. I completed a squat challenge, but unfortunately my ass still doesn't look like the asses in the magazines (speaking of asses, mine is doing much better. Thank you for your support and happy birthday to me). I stopped saying everything that came to my mind. Turns out, that doesn't work for me, so I'll be going back to the way I was before. You've been warned. I went to Belize, which was nice but apparently what happens in Belize, doesn't stay in Belize. Hashtag double botfly abortion. I learned some new things and made some new friends. Also huge, I mastered self-tanning lotion. I had a million, maybe more, I don't know, wasn't counting, moments of complete contentment looking at my child, laughing with Aaron, listening to the Aspen leaves slapping hands, watching water move effortlessly around obstacles in its way, comparing my hands to my moms and realizing for the first time that we have the same pinkies.

I think this year I am grateful for my gratitude. I'm happy I can recognize how fun and sweet my life is. Cheers you guys! I think 36 is going to be the best yet!

Pain in the Ass

In my line of work, we talk about all kinds of morbid things. We enjoy a dark sense of humor. I mostly surround myself with people who either work in the same field as me, come from a bat-shit crazy family, are themselves bat-shit crazy (most of us are in some way or another), or have watched enough Oprah, Dr. Phil, White Oleander, Girl Interrupted, any movie Clint Eastwood directs, to at least stomach my sense of humor, if not appreciate it and chime in from time to time. I considered myself a real tough bitch when it came to talking about the "hard stuff." I can play socialite with the best of them but I will always find the group of people who are talking about someone having a mental breakdown and want to join that conversation. Yea, I like the dark stuff. Except when it involves my ass. My thrombosed hemorrhoid ridden ass.

There I am, doubled over in pain, crying as hard as I did during my 36 hour labor, telling Aaron, "There is no way in hell I am going to get help for this. I would rather die of pain than explain what is going on with me." "I'm sure they see it all the time Dorothy." He responds coolly. "They see way grosser things than this." He adds. "EVERYONE KNOWS ME IN THIS TOWN. I sit at committee meetings with these people. There is no way. NO WAY!" I retort dramatically.

1500 mgs of Tylenol, 800 mgs of Advil, three google searches, two sitz baths, and one heart-to-heart with myself in the mirror later, I announce that we are going to the ER. For being a drama queen, I sure do not like over utilizing the medical profession. I needed to be in more pain that I could stomach to stomach talking about my pain. I was there. It was bad. Active stage of labor bad.

I was mortified enough that I sent Aaron to breakfast so I could suffer in silence with my hopefully, visiting ER Doc. He was very nice. I told him what was wrong. He was sympathetic and I hid my face in a pillow while he checked me out. Hearing him say, "Oh yea. That's a big one. We are going to need to lance it. It's clotted," helped me feel ever so slightly better because a.) my google search was correct and b.) you're Goddamn right it's a big one. I can't walk. Or sit. Or sleep.

I have a love-hate relationship with lidocaine. It's the opposite of most of my relationships though. It starts out bad and then gets so good. When he stuck my 'roid with his needle, I thought I might die. Then, euphoria. 48 hours of excruciating pain, gone in an instant. I love drugs.

He pulled out some rather large blood clots, which I insisted on seeing. "I didn't peg you for the type?" He said before showing me. They were as big as jelly beans, but flat and round. Little assholes. He discharged me with a big maxi pad, sitz bath instructions, a script for some narcotics, which he cryptically added, "you're definitely going to want these.", and told me to follow up with a surgeon asap.

I went home, crawled into bed and enjoyed another twenty minutes of pain free existence until suddenly, and without warning, I was in mind-numbing pain. It made my vision blurry. Tears shot out of my eyes and I scrambled for the pain meds. It was too late. I was behind the pain. I knew I had hours of this to look forward to. I surrendered and sobbed until it passed. I kept on a healthy, every 4-hours, pill pop regimen after this. I slept soundly but still couldn't walk the next day.

After 20+ sitz baths, a liquid gold Doterra concoction from the blessed Annette Gano, a clairvoyant healing from the magical Stephanie Harrison, a chiropractic visit (I don't know! I figured it couldn't hurt) a whole lotta' fibrous foods, and three days in bed, I am thankful to report that I am definitely on the mend. I'm terrified to meet with the surgeon. Afraid he's going to want to cut my butt open, which turns out, is really painful and should be avoided if at all possible.

This whole experience reminds me of birthing Ellis, which by the way is where I first met my roids. I remember being in a lot of pain "down there" but I had this little, amazing creature to take care of so I didn't think much of it. It healed, she survived, it's all good. I hope this has a good ending too.

I'm writing this not in hopes of grossing anyone out but I have to protect my rep. Roids are officially on the can and will talk about list. I know I'm not the only one. Google says I'm one of 100 million sufferers. That's a whole lot of pains in the asses. As always, thanks for listening.

The Pink Elephant: Where I'm At

The Pink Elephant: Where I'm At: Seriously you guys, I am really sucking at life right now. I'm losing my patience at work, with Ellis, with Aaron (this is not a new thi...

Where I'm At

Seriously you guys, I am really sucking at life right now. I'm losing my patience at work, with Ellis, with Aaron (this is not a new thing), with myself, my sweet mom, my sock drawer, my cellulite, my endless pile of post-its on my desk with little notes that have some relevance, may have some relevance someday, but maybe not, in which case they are just taking up space. I'm losing patience with the fact that my house is never clean. Like, never ever. I clean everyday but it's still not clean. I think maybe if we move out it will be clean?

I am aware of a few things that I have done/am doing that are adding to my general state of assholeishness:

1. I have an overactive nervous system. I have a million things going on at all times. I always have and when I don't, I feel agitated and lazy. The other day I told Aaron that the thing I miss most about being single and childless was staying in bed all day watching movies. Ironically, I've never actually done that. What's the best remedy for an overactive nervous system? Exercise. At least for me. It's my medicine. I'm not a psycho exerciser. As exercisers go, I'm a slacker. I do however have to do it at least every other day. Everyday is best. So, as you've probably surmised, I have not been exercising. 

2. I am lucky not to suffer from food sensitivities. I avoid certain foods because they make me feel like crap. Sugar, simple carbs, strangely, popcorn, are the three biggest offenders. When I eat them on a regular basis I become so grumpy. My body feels sluggish, bloated, I become hyper vigilant about everything I eat, and not in a healthy way. So, needless to say, I have been living on a diet of bread, Dove chocolate hearts, and wine. There's some bacon in there, a little of that $10 cheese from Cid's, and of course, green chili.

3. I have been actively and steadfastly minding other people's business. Always a recipe for disaster.

4. I am obsessed with making cushions for my breakfast bonco, refurbishing my great grandmother's hutch, ripping out the office in our bedroom so I don't stare at it thinking of all the work things I need to do while I'm supposed to be doing all the other things you do in bedrooms, redecorating the bedroom, fixing up the backyard, installing a pull-out shelf for the trash. C H I L L  Dorothy...

5. This is the hardest one to talk about. I have been a terrible parent for the last couple weeks. Ellis has entered a new phase and I feel wholly unprepared or blindsided or both and I have no time to catch up, brush up my parenting skills, deal with my lifelong struggle with, um, life. I am frantically reading my Circle of Security notes, while I eat Dove chocolate hearts, and it all seems like a really good idea but then Ellis has a mental breakdown because I won't let her wear flip-flops during the biggest storm since 1991, or this is a good one, she doesn't have a bra. I know that if I was taking care of myself, my reservoir of patience would be so much deeper.

So, these are my woes. Any advice on how to balance it all, how any of you have figured this out, I am all ears.

I know being grateful also helps so before I go, here is what I'm thankful for: My new 2015 Passion Planner, my handful of new highlighters for said 2015 Passion Planner, The Bachelor, Scandal, my new snowboarding boots that fit my feet like a DREAM, my uncanny ability to nail scrambled eggs like every. single. time., my beautiful child who is perfect, I am healthy, my family and friends are healthy, I LOVE my job. Today I met the man who saved Aaron from being in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, so I'm thankful for him and for our guardian angels.