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The Time I Thought I Killed My Best Friend

I used to be a total stoner.

It was a different time in my life, but not all that long ago. I would ingest cannabis in some form or another pretty much everyday. One of my favorite ways to use weed was my really cool vaporizer. After you used this device you were left with the brown withered remains of your flower called ABV or “Already Been Vaped.”

The ABV still has a lot of good THC in it, so I saved mine for several months in a small jar until I had enough to make some potent weed butter. Butter and ABV sat in a slow cooker in my laundry room all day and my whole house reeked of burnt weed.

The next day when the butter had been cooled and the weed strained out, I made some brownies. They were delicious and strong. You only needed to eat a little at a time so they lasted for weeks in a plastic box above the fridge that said in bold red letters “WARNING ADULTS ONLY.”

One evening I was sitting on the couch watching TV and enjoying one of my brownies, when I needed to pee. I was high, so when I went to the bathroom I absentmindedly left the rest of my brownie on the arm of the couch. It was on a plate, I’m not an animal.

After a quick pee I came back to the couch and stared at the plate, which was now empty, for a long time.

“Wasn’t there half a brownie there?” I thought. “Where the fuck did it go? I swear I didn’t finish it.”

Then I looked around the room at my five dogs. “It wasn’t one of you, was it? You would not actually eat chocolate with weed in it? Right?” They didn’t say anything.

Shit.

The 5 suspects (plus my totally adorable child).



I quickly googled “How much chocolate would make an 18lb dog sick” becuase my smallest dog was about 18 pounds. It seemed like it wasn’t enough chocolate to cause any serious problems. Even if my smallest dog ate the brownie the worst that could happen was some puking and diarrhea. Phew.

Next I googled “How much cannabis would make an 18lb dog sick?” Not so much info there. But it didn’t seem like anything really bad could happen with such a small amount.


I decided the best course of action was to keep watching TV and keep an eye on the dogs and see if anyone got sick. About 30 minutes later Josie, my smallest dog, started slowly tipping over as she sat on the couch. She had been sitting straight up and slowly, like ice cream, melted right into the couch.

It takes several hours for a dog to get sick from chocolate. My dog was high as fuck.

A recent selfie with Josie, my BFF.



I felt like total shit. I kept crying and saying “I double poisoned my dog!” as Josie would go through periods of trembling and then try to walk around and stumble. I was only partly convinced from the research that she would be fine in a few hours.

The problem is that edibles stay in your bloodstream for a while and there is little that can be done to speed up the process of being high, you just have to wait it out.

I brought her up on the couch next to me where I could hold her and keep her safe from falling, while she was still uncoordinated from being high. I spent the rest of the evening being high with my dog feeling terrified I had accidentally killed her, even though google said she would be fine. I kept watching her close for signs of danger and none ever appeared. Eventually we went to bed. Josie sleeping with me like always.

Josie in her favorite spot, under my blankets.

Josie has started sleeping with me the very first night we brought her home. She was the first dog my husband and I adopted after getting married. Ace was actually the one who pushed us to get a dog. He really couldn’t stand the idea of living without one. I was perfectly happy with our two cats. I was in school, and did not have the time to walk a dog several times a day.

Not long after Ace had moved in with me a doggy daycare opened near our home, and I became a lot more open to the idea of having a dog. A dog could go to there the three days I was at school all day and I wouldn’t’ have to leave her alone in our little townhouse.

I decided to start searching for a dog in early 2008, in hopes of having a puppy by Valentines day. Ace was set on having corgi named Josiah, after his college best friend. I thought that was a terrible name  for a dog (sorry Josiah) and asked what the female alternative would be, “Josie of course” he responded. I felt a lot better about that idea. I just couldn’t picture myself yelling “Josiah!” to call my dog. That is not a dog name.

One day while I was in class, instead of paying attention, I decided to browse petfinder and see if there were any adoptable corgis. Astoundingly I found a dog listed a chihuahua corgi mix named Josie. She was 6 months old and was expected to stay small, perfect for our small house. I called up the rescue and made an appointment to come see her right away.

The foster home was in the city, not too far from my sisters apartment, so I used that as an excuse to keep Ace from knowing why I was really driving into Chicago that afternoon, to visit Josie.

The foster home was dark inside. The lights weren’t turned on despite the fact that it was a cloudy day and little light was coming in the windows. It was sparsely furnished and you could tell lots of dogs lived there, by the baby gates, dog crates, dog hair on the floor, and of course, the barking. The foster mom, Sam, greeted my sister, also named Sam, and me at the door and invited us into a front room with no chairs while she went to get Josie. I waited anxiously in this lady’s house while dogs barked from the basement.

When she brought in the small fluffy pup, I couldn’t help but be wooed by her big brown eyes and curly yellow tail. I sat on the floor cross legged and Josie immediately came over and sat right in my lap. I don’t remember anything else after that except loving this dog, who was clearly not a corgi, to death. I didn’t want to leave her behind in that loud dirty house, but the rescue group had a policy of waiting at least 24 hours after you applied before handing over the animal.

I went home totally in love with that puppy. I wanted her. I couldn’t contain how excited I was all week and by Sunday morning Ace correctly guessed what I was scheming, “Oh my gosh we are getting a puppy aren’t we?” “Yes! Today!” I replied, “Let’s go!”

The two of us drove the long drive from the far suburbs to the city, back to the small dirty house were Josie was temporarily living. That house was a big upgrade from the crowded kill shelter in Kentucky where she had been dropped “For chewing furniture and peeing in the house.” Clearly her former family had no idea what a puppy was like. They will never know what they gave up.

When I met Josie again a few days after the first meeting it was even better. Now she was mine, well ours, and this time I wouldn’t have to leave her. We had picked up a little green collar and leash on the way to the city, and on the way home we took her on a crazy shopping spree at Petco. We bought her everything a dog could possibly need including a crate, a bed, toys, food, treats, dishes, and even steps so she could get up on our tall bed easily. She never used the steps. Turns out Josie is a talented jumper.

The first picture we took of Josie! This is the night we brought her home, with our good friend Kyle. (Look at that engagement photo of Ace and I in our innocent youth, just look at it).

 

 



That night she snuggled up in the crook of my knees in our big bed, and she’s slept there nearly every night since, for ten full years now. I had been on a mission to find a dog for Ace, but it turned out I got a dog for me. She immediately bonded to me when we first met and we’ve had something really special ever since. I didn’t know how much I needed Josie until I found her.

Recently, my four year old nephew said “Alli, I want Josie to come outside with me, but she only follows you!” and he’s right, she does only follow me. Her and I are usually found together wherever we are in the house.

There is a joke among my friends that you can know where I am by looking for Josie. She waits outside the bathroom door, outside my bedroom door, she follows me everywhere I let her, just short of getting in the shower. She prefers to stay dry and I let her lay on a towel just outside the tub. 

My first selfie with Josie! Taken feb 4th, 2008! We’re both just young pups



In addition to being incredibly sweet and loyal, Josie is very smart. She can learn tricks fast. I once taught her to “play” the piano in under an hour. Recently I taught her to roll over (you can in fact teach an old dog new tricks). Josie used to do agility and she loved it. We were a great team, and she excelled at it until we moved to Portland and stopped training. She has been the easiest of the six dogs we’ve had in the past ten years to train and she’s even helped trained all the new dogs. My sister jokes Josie is her niece, because my relationship with Josie is much more like that with another person than with a dog. “Josie is people” is often heard around our house.

She’s the pet we’ve had the longest and I know it’s cliche as fuck, but she’s my best friend. Every girl needs a dog, and I have Josie.

That night when I left my brownie on the couch I was terrified that I had fucked up so bad that I had killed my best friend and the best dog a girl could ever want. I had a hard time sleeping because I was so worried about her. She really has a piece of my heart. 

The day after the brownie incident Josie woke up and was back to her normal self, besides having diarrhea. I have never been so relieved, except maybe when I heard Mark’s first cries after he was born, but that’s another story. Josie has had a few brushes with death, but that brownie is the only one that was squarely my fault. I was the one who fucked up, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.

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New Website!

If you are seeing this post you are looking at my new home for my writing on the internet! The site will be changing slowly over the coming weeks, so hang in there while I’m getting things ironed out.

I’ve imported all my blog posts from my free wordpress site, Living Small and Large and will be posting all my new blog content here. I will also be writing freelance pieces for other sites, and I’ll link those all here as well. If you have a blog or a website and are in need some content send me a message!

 

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All of the Feels

It always happens that right after I tell my therapist how great I’m doing I have a shit storm of a week. This time I felt so confident in how life was going I didn’t even schedule another appointment!

My life is a roller coaster and this week has been riding though loops. I feel both amazing and terrible all at once. I’m feeling joyous, excited, motivated, energized, while also feeling terrified, shameful, sad, hurt, and anxious. I have all my plans and all my doubts all wrapped up into one little me.

I know a big part of it was going on thyroid medication.

I’ve spent the last two years basically feeling like crap all the time. Very low energy, slow metabolism, anxiety, depression, nonspecific pain, and just feeling down for no apparent reason. A few months ago my new doctor finally helped me find an explanation, Hashimoto’s thyroiditis, a not uncommon disease, and especially not surprising considering my family history of autoimmune disease. I knew someday one of them would catch me. My thyroid function isn’t actually all that terrible (according to the labs), but being the sensitive person I am, just it being a little off has affected me in big ways. So my doctor put me on a very low dose of synthetic thyroid hormone.

After a few weeks of being on my new daily pill I started feeling amazing! I was calm and comfortable in my own skin. I was motivated and energized. I felt like a new me! But a few weeks later, as the hormone built up in my body, it was too much. I started having anxiety again, but it felt different, it was more like hyper active anxiety instead of depressive anxiety. For several nights I did not sleep well and the days in between were the worst, tired but unable to rest and full of anxious energy. I emailed my doctor and after talking to me she decided to discontinue the meds. I’ve only been off a few days and it takes time for the hormone level to come down, so hopefully in a few more days I’ll start to feel more “normal” again. Whatever that means. Then we will be starting a small dose of “natural” pig thyroid to see how I do on that.

At the same time as all this I’m changing my diet. I’m totally gluten-free at this point and working toward grain free, for the month of January I’m going to attempt to follow the autoimmune protocol. If nothing else I know that will help my blood sugar, gut issues, and overall health. Eating more veggies and less sugar is never a bad thing!

I don’t know what it is about telling my therapist that life is great that always proceeds a rough week. Maybe thats the cycle of life, life is always going to have ups and downs so inevitably a period of a few good weeks will be followed by lower or more difficult period.

I do feel like I need to go in less often regardless. I’ve learned so many tools and I’ve used them well this week. I know the things that help me and ground me. I’ve been doing yoga, skateboarding, reading, writing, breathing, and it helps! Talking to Ace has been really important as well, sometimes I just need to get my thoughts and feelings out into the world and he’s been a fantastic listening ear this past week (not to mention all the great sex).

I don’t feel like I’m done with therapy, its been huge in my personal growth and I never want to stop growing, but its nice to look at my life and see that some of these things are becoming habits. I can see better when I’m anxious and what I need to do to help myself though it. I feel more confident in my own skin and like I’m more often doing the best I can with what I have. Looking at my life and seeing growth is an important step sometimes and right now I’m taking a little breather from therapy and focusing on my physical health.

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“I’m Going to be a Writer!”

The past few months have been an exercise in patience as I wait for a potential space for Stronger Skatepark to be ready for occupancy. As of this writing there is no date in sight, as the owners of the space are slowly jumping though legal hoops before the city will grant them the permits to begin construction on the ADA bathrooms they need to be approved for occupancy. Long story short, this space will not be available for several months.

In the meantime I found another potential home for the park in Milwakie. It is much closer to my home and needs far less work before we can move in. This space has kept me up at night again, fully renewing my passion for this project. I can’t sleep becuase I’m designing ramps in my head, thinking of the best way to make a 7500 square foot space both friendly to beginners while being big enough and fast enough to keep veterans like myself entertained during the long winter months.

Its been a full two and half years since I started working on Stronger. Its been over a year since I started looking for buildings. I honestly thought that getting funding would be the hardest part, but it hasn’t been. Finding a building has been exponentially more difficult. Strict occupancy rules and high fees in Portland have pushed me to neighboring cities, where empty large spaces are in short supply.

I wax and wane in my involvement in my own social media for the project, feeling like a failure as I have nothing to post. I’m still here working away at this, but it just hasn’t materialized yet. Having the support of my ramp designer and builder has been absolutely key to my not giving up. As I apologize for dragging him to yet another space, and asking him so many of the same questions again, “Would this space work?”, “Can we fit a mini ramp in here?”, “Would we need to put in our own flooring?” he reassures me, “Its fine, I don’t mind at all!” and “I think you are doing this the right way, taking your time to find the right space.”

It doesn’t feel right to me, I want results, I want a tangible skatepark. The one that fills the gap Portland still has; something larger than commonwealth, friendly to beginners, clean, safe, and close to town, a place to hold contests and other community building events, a place where the skate community can gather under one roof, a place that can bring us together. “Together we are Stronger” thats the whole idea. This has been needed in Portland since before I lived here, since Department of Skateboarding closed its doors in 2010.

Along with the frustration of the slowness of my vision to materialize is my frustration that I don’t have a career to be working at while I’m waiting. In the past I’ve been a children’s pastor, a nanny, I’ve worked in my families restaurant, I worked in a skatepark as a teen, I’ve worked with animals in several capacities, and currently I’m hustling in that new gig economy, primarily delivering food with Caviar.

To be honest, I don’t hate it, I actually like it. I spend hours driving while listening to podcasts and music. I’m introverted and often feel refreshed after a shift, spending five or more hours almost totally alone, with only a few short words to restaurant employees and customers. I’ve learned that usually customers don’t want to talk to me, and that is just fine. But its not paying the bills, the hours are limited, and I’m working almost exclusively when my child is not in school, evenings and weekends.

While driving I often find my mind wandering away from whatever podcast is playing and I start thinking. I can spend a lot of time thinking, planning, finding problems with my plans and ideas and refining them and suddenly realize I need to start my podcast over completely. Gui Raz has been droning on in the background for thirty minutes about art art and I didn’t catch a damn thing, I’ve been exploring every career possibility in my head.

After a lot of thinking and probably not enough research I’ve decided to try and develop my writing skills and look for some freelance writing jobs. Its a skill I already have, and one I feel very comfortable in. One of my earliest jobs was writing for a website, with weekly live call-ins to an internet radio show. I was 13 and it was 1999. Each week I would write about something related to skateboarding, usually a review of a product sent to me, or an overview of an event happening at my local skatepark. I would report on demos coming to town, contest results, new skateparks opening, and I got paid in lots and lots of free stuff. I loved it.

In high school, I was consistently praised for “my natural wiring voice” and in college I continued to excel at writing, without trying all that hard. Honestly, I’m excited about taking some time to refine my writing skills further. I’m hoping that I can attempt to develop these skills and make some money along the way and maybe some day have a real career I can lean on when my crazy passions aren’t panning out as hoped.

Again, long story short, if anyone knows any writing gigs that would fit my interests and passions (skateboarding, alternative education, spirituality, personal growth, small business) please send them my way, or throw my name out there. I’d appreciate it. I’m officially throwing my name out there!

IMG_1718 (1)
I wear glasses now, so you know I fit that writer stereotype. 
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Safe in this World

There is a little girl, she’s scared, angry, alone.

She’s angry at the world, the world that took away her father. The world that says she needs to be different, needs to be more “like a girl”, needs to like pink, and dresses, and dolls.

She’s drawn to blue, and red, and sports and dinosaurs. She likes cars, and motorcycles, and construction equipment. Tonka trucks and tricycles make the best toys.

More than anything else, she is lost and alone, with feelings bigger than she thought were possible. Feelings that are too big for her and for anyone else. Feelings that make her family upset, feelings she must learn to control and hide, now.

There is no where safe in this world.

As she grows she becomes better at pretending everything is ok, while feelings of rage and despair bubble just out of view. Feelings that are still too big for her small body and worried soul. There is nowhere safe to take these feelings, so she continues to control them the best she can.

There are some places that help her feel right, but these things aren’t for girls. Sports. Big strong movements like pedaling a bicycle, throwing a ball with all her strength, kicking a bag or a board, pushing a skateboard. These things calm the storm that is always hiding just out of view, at least for a few sweet moments.

The girl is the only one at the school father’s day event attending with an uncle. The only one at the childhood support group with a dead parent. The only kid pulled from class to see a consoler.

She doesn’t care about dresses, or make up, or hair, or dolls. But she does start to care about boys. The boys she finds special don’t find her special back. They always prefer the girls with the cool clothes and the done up hair and make up and skirts. So she keeps doing the things that bring fleeting peace, until there is only one thing that matters. Skateboarding. It is all consuming. Nothing else matters. Not school, not family, not even kicking things, only skateboarding.

The girl starts to find people she can trust in this new world, but the boys she likes, still don’t like her back.

She finds a family that treats her as their own, a man she trusts like a father. Until one night, when he treats her like an object. She is frozen in fear as his hands move up her legs.

Again she is reminded, there is no one and no where safe in this world.

Years later, she has found another family that again treats her like she is a loved member of their own family, until she starts thinking too much, too differently. Once the difference is too much, it cannot be overcome. She is no longer worthy, becuase of the way that she is, the way she acts, the way she thinks. What was once acceptable is no longer.

Again she is reminded there is no one and no where safe in this world.

I want to hug that girl. I want to tell her, there are safe people, and you’ve already found one. He’s still learning how to be good at it, but he will learn, and he will be there. He can handle all of you, even the dark parts, even the sad parts, even the broken parts. He will be there by your side while you dig into the feelings left buried for all those, he’ll love you as the skeletons come out of the closet. He’ll help you make the family you’ve so often hoped for. The one that can handle and love you exactly as you are.

You, will get through this. There are safe people in this world. You will find them.

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The Treehouse

The treehouse was at first an idea preposed by a friend of my son’s. One of several boys who spent many days of summer with me. They started building it on our anniversary. By building I mean they put a bunch of random pieces of wood up on our mulberry tree. I told them upfront that we were having a vow renewal under the tree that evening, and I would be taking down the wood and they would need to rebuild their fort at a later date. They were agreeable to that. Yet, in the days after they didn’t get back to the idea idea and the tree sat empty.

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July 21, 2017

But Mark has not let go of this idea for a tree house. He’s been talking about it regularly and has created plans. He told me very clearly that this was a project only for kids to work on. “No one who is 15 or older is allowed to help!”

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Mark’s tree house plans. At the top is a picture of a hammer, a nail with 14 next to it to indicate he will need 14 nails, a tool box and a diagram showing where the major elements will go. 

Recently Mark (nearly 7) and Vincent (8) began work on the treehouse again with occasional help from Isaac (4).

Mark has his own set of real tools he is allowed to use whenever he wants, he can use my tools with explicit permission and supervision. He’s used his own tools enough I don’t feel the need to closely supervise him. I trust he will be mostly safe. We’ve had a lot of lessons, including a time he cut himself with his own saw and learned why we are careful with the saw.

I respected his request for no adult help as long as he followed a few rules.

  1. Be smart with your tools, especially the saw.
  2. Don’t leave tools or nails or screws laying on the ground.
  3. I’m allowed to veto any design that I believe is unsafe for people or the tree.

Mark agreed to these terms and set to work. Its been very slow going, but he and his cousin are very persistent. A six and an eight year old attempting to put screws and nails though solid wood into other prices of sold wood with only a screwdriver and a small hammer is a slow process. They have sawed a few of the steps for the ladder and halfway attached one.

 

This is self directed education in action. These kids had no adult say to them “Hey how about you go build a tree house!” This was entirely their idea, their plan and their effort. How sweet will finishing that tree house be when they know they did it with own hands? What might they learn if they don’t finish? What will they learn if they do eventually ask for adult help?

All of these possibilities are fantastic life lessons. Right now I’m glad they are becoming more confident using tools, learning what works and what doesn’t work. I see them experimenting with how to set up the wood to saw it, how to get a screw started though a peice of wood. I see them working together (one day even with a four year old helper.) one person holding the first run of the ladder while another attempts to drive a nail in. They have already spent at least 8 solid hours in the yard over the course of three days working on this, retiring to the swimming pool when the afternoons get unbearably hot. But the next opportunity they are out there again working hard.

Give kids the tools they need and the freedom to use them and they will do great things all on their own.

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Writing Practice Works

I want to share with you a piece I just wrote in my journal as an example of how powerful writing practice can be. I sat down thinking “I have no clue what I’m going to write about, so I’ll start with that.” Somehow it took me deep down to the depths of my soul and back up. I’ll let you read it for yourself.

Disclaimer: Dear “friends” that may read this, this is not about you specifically, it is about no one specifically. It is an exploration of my raw exhausted self. Feel free to PM me if you want to talk. 

I am still struggling deeply with knowing what to write and feeling like a failure for writing so little yesterday after setting such a lofty goal. Yet, I am determined to stretch and flex and build this writing muscle. It is an important exercise that I value. I believe it will help me be better and I value myself. I want to be better. I always feel behind on everything and why would it be any different here? I look around my yard, my house, my life, my business, my finances, nothing is where I want it to be. Everything is behind.

The laundry and dishes are chronically behind. I rarely meet my self-imposed goals and lately that crushing feeling of knowing I will always be behind has gotten me down. I’m tired before I begin. I have no idea what to do about it. I am merely observing it. I do know the part I value most though, life. When the apple tree was on the brink of falling I was there to prop it up. When the sequoias were brown and nearly dead I got the hose to them. When the “elm”, which we now know is a mulberry, was about to loose a massive branch, I got it fixed. I do whats needed in a crisis. But I don’t prevent those crises with daily care. I’m too busy caring for Mark, Ace, the dogs, and myself. Its a fucking lot. Then I have friends that constantly want to be social and thats draining. I feel like I’m not a good friend. I can’t fucking keep up. I have too many of them and my friendships feel shallow.

I feel shallow.

What depth do I have that makes me me? Why should someone want to be with me as opposed to any other clump of conscious cells? My good looks? My deep philosophies? My attitude? I just don’t understand who I am. I guess this is a classic dilemma. It is the thing that makes science so interesting to me. Just as it made theology once so irresistible. Maybe it can give me some insight into who I am and how to be better at being me.

I want to love harder, “friend” better, be more productive. I want my house and my yard to serve my life instead me feeling like a slave to all the stuff and responsibility. I feel like there is no way I can maintain my house without becoming a slave to that and having no time left to enjoy said house and yard. I guess thats why I’m so apathetic to its forever half finished state. I know. I know I want to enjoy it. If I make it what some part of my mind thinks of as perfect I won’t be able to do that [enjoy it] anymore. So I must live in the tension of done and not yet done so I can have those moments of enjoyment with my friends.

I really do love this place even with its constant rough around the edges unfinished look. I fucking love my yard. It is the perfect place for my son to grow up. Its so perfect it gives me hope that God is real and he game me this one thing. I’ve lost so much else and the struggle to pay bills is so fucking real, like I’ve never known. But I have this. I have [****] Ogden St. And even though I could rent out the yard or the garage for a decent amount of money I hope it never comes to that. I want this little escape in the city be for me, and for Mark, and for Ace. Not for money. Its too wonderful to be turned into a thing designed to extract a profit. I’ve buried two dogs here. I saw a solar eclipse here. I had my vow renewal here. This property chose us as much as we chose it. And its a perfect fit. I would be happy to stay here forever.

Again, I’m not sharing this for the content in and of itself, but as a personal example of how valuable writing practice can be. These thoughts were all just passing thoughts. I love my friends DEEPLY and appreciate my time with them. The point of sharing this is to say, just sit down and write. Even if you feel like you have nothing left to give. Even if you are so tired you should be in bed. You just might start your session feeling like failure and walk away crying in happiness because you love your yard so much, with maybe a little bit of nihilism in between.  You don’t know where you will go until you sit down and go. Just move the pen across the page. 

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Writing Practice

I’ve been slacking off on writing the last few weeks, both here and in my various notebooks. In an effort to revive my writing practice I’ve committed to filling an entire notebook in one month. I found this challenge on reddit and it immediately resonated with me. It was presented as an alternative to NaNoRiMo (National Novel Writing Month) for those of us with no aspirations to write long form fiction.

I’m using my current journal as my notebook to fill, I’ve only been using it for a month and only have a handful of pages filled. I counted 133 remaining blank pages yesterday, which means if I shoot for 5 pages per day I will have a little wiggle room for the days I don’t quite meet this goal.

In order to meet the goal I’m starting up timed writings again. I set a timer for 10, 20, 30 minutes, and I go. No set idea about what I’m going to write about, I just move my pen and try my best to not stop moving until the time period is up. This has already generated some writing that is of a higher quality than I expected. A peice on some special times I shared with my Grandmother and a peice about the significance of my son turning seven.

I plan to take a few of my timed writings, type them up and edit them so I can share them here.

Writing really keeps me centered and sane like almost nothing else. Its the one habit I’ve returned to throughout my life in times of stress and times of happiness. So for the next month I’m really going to lean into it. I have until my my son’s birthday, September 18th, to fill a whole lot of pages!

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My Complicated Relationship with My Grandmothers

Its hard being two generations apart. The world really changes generationally.

I grew up being told that its fine, even wonderful, to be gay. My grandparents, if they were told anything, were probably taught it was shameful, if not worse.

I was growing up in a time when we were pretty sure racism was mostly over, my grandparents were adults before the civil rights act was passed.

In our culture grandparents are these near mythical quality beings who swoop into our lives bringing unconditional love, treats, gifts, and the best cooking you’ve ever had. I certainly had some of that.

My Dad was the first of his six bothers to have a child. That child was me, and I was born female. My grandmother (who I called Grandma) was over the moon. She adored me. She had always hoped in having many children she would have both boys and girls. For whatever reason she didn’t get any girls, so I was her first.

Her and my parents seemed bent on doing every girly stereotype with me. In many of my earliest pictures I am wearing frilly pink dresses. The problem was as soon as I had any say in it I was adamant that I didn’t like them and didn’t want them. Luckily for my Grandma, I did love my long hair as a young child and loved having her give me braids and pigtails. But it wasn’t too long until I cut off my long hair too.

When I was young I had sensory issues. I didn’t know it then, I don’t think anyone knew it then. But I remember how clothes would hurt. I don’t mean irritate, I mean hurt. Dresses were scratchy to the point of pain, stiff pants were no better. I refused to wear much besides sweat pants and pajamas at a young age. I only wore one brand of socks until I was a teen! I refused (and still do) underwire bras. I refused almost everything that is stereo typically girly in favor of sports jerseys (later skate t-shirts), soft pants, and short hair.

This was so hard for my grandmother who loved me so much. And I loved her. After my Father (her son) passed away we were even closer. I spent a lot of time with her and Papa. They were some of the only consistent childcare my single mother could rely on. I seriously loved and still love them. I was incredibly close to my grandmother despite our constant battles over my appearance and habits.

She made amazing food and let us eat ice cream every night after dinner. Neapolitan. Mixing all the flavors together and watching the late night news while Papa fell asleep on the couch was a regular occurrence in my childhood. I would go lay down on the couch after finishing my ice cream and fall asleep. She would wake me up and make me go brush my teeth and go to bed. I miss her a lot.

My other grandmother (my mother’s mother). Was burnt out by the time I was born. Her husband has passed away long before I was born and I never knew him. She had eight children, three who still lived at home with varying special needs, and several grandchildren. She ran a businesses. I didn’t spend much time with her. I did love playing in her massive home on her massive property though. I have far more memories about the house and pool than anything else. Every Christmas Eve and 4th of July was another chance to play in that crazy old, huge, dark house.

This grandmother, who I wasn’t allowed to call grandma, or her name, only her nickname, was always busy when I was around. I remember her being stressed out and well dressed, always with a cigarette in her hand and often telling someone to do something. I don’t remember any conversations or tender moments. I do remember that she would give us twenty dollars plus our age in cash every christmas. That was a nice score.

Her house was always packed with people for every party. Our family alone was massive, then add friends, in-laws, and other people and things got crazy. The adults seemed happiest when the kids left them alone so thats what we did. We went off and did kid stuff like exploring every nook and cranny of the house, watching TV, making prank phone calls, using the vents as a “secret” way to communicate while we “spied” on the adults (spying was extremely frowned upon on my dad’s side, my mom’s family didn’t seem to mind much).

I remember my last memory of her before she died she was yelling at me not to play with the muddy farm dog. I loved dogs, probably more than people at that age. It hurt and I was sad. Why wouldn’t I pet that dog? All dogs needed kids to pet them right?

The one real point of connection I had with her was video games. She had an NES and played the crap out of it. She knew Super Mario Bros. 3 inside and out. She could complete the game fully, or speed run it (any%) in about 10 minutes. I was blown away by that. I loved video games (almost as much as dogs) and she was amazing at them. I think her obsession with Mario helped legitimize video games for my own mother and her siblings allowing my cousins and I a massive amount of freedom to play the games we liked.

When my mother’s mother died there was a lot of turmoil in the family. What would become of her farm, her three sons, her stuff (so much stuff), her animals? It was a rough time in my life (I think 12 is a bit rough for everyone). We spent a lot of time at her house, with a lot of sad people. I felt guilty that I wasn’t sad enough. I was still grieving the loss of my father, and didn’t particularly miss my grandmother.

I remember the huge garage sale where we sold her stuff particularly well. A lot of that stuff came home with us, including her desk, which eventually became my desk. I later found a list under a drawer in that desk that she had written. It was my own little secret connection to her. I didn’t find it until I was in my late teens, and by that point I was grieving what could have been. I wished I had been given the opportunity to know her better.

My father’s mother lived much longer. She was at my wedding, though she didn’t live long enough to meet any of her great-grandchildren. She had leukemia and a heart attack while I was in college. My school was right down the street from her house and the two hospitals she would spend her last months in. I would visit her and Papa three times a week or more. Watching her suffer was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone though. We grew even closer in that time, even though she couldn’t speak. Her and I were quite close for over two decades, even though she could never fully understand why I was the way I was and was often upset with me for taking risks, getting dirty, and not dressing up.

I felt like I was blessed growing up to be so close to my father’s parents when I lost him so young. It didn’t bother me too much that I wasn’t close to my mother’s mother and never met her father, becuase I had one set of grandparents who were at every single event. Every school play, every band concert, any time my mother was sick; Grandma and Papa were there. Presence can overcome a plethora of cultural and generational differences, and presence helped me to become very close to them.

Being two generations separated from each other is hard. Our world changes fast and our grandchildren’s world may not feel like our own. I don’t hold my grandparents differing cultural understanding against them. I love them in spite of it.

I can see the same struggle in my parents and in-laws with their grandchildren. But love and presence is overcoming that gap. I hope my own love and understanding can grow to overcome the generational gap I will have with my own grandchildren.

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Ten Years.

Ten years. What can I say? To you my best friend of many more than 10 years. It was 2001 when I first met you. By 2003 we were best friends, and best friends trying hard to convince everyone that “A guy and a girl can JUST be friends.” We didn’t convince anyone. By 2004 finally decided to make things “official”. We were more than just best friends.

 

I still get butterflies in my stomach when I’m close to you, just like that first time I held your hand in my parents basement. We could have held hands all night.

 

Now I know that this isn’t ending. I don’t need to worry that you will leave, or that I’ll find a reason to leave. The trust we share is something that can only come with years of being vulnerable, and being vulnerable started a long time ago. Like when I had my wisdom teeth removed and you helped me change my shirt after I spilled my milkshake all over myself, and I kept crying.

I’m not good at handling drugs.

I still trust you to get me through every injury and illness. And there have been plenty. The hardest of which is what brought our most wonderful blessing into our lives. The unexpected c-section that left me with a scar 8 inches long and barely able to function for the first week of our precious son’s life. You were a rock star. My rock star. OUR rock star.

The amount we’ve grown since dating, becoming married, becoming parents, and moving 2000 miles away from our support system is immeasurable. We couldn’t have done that without each other to lean on daily, though every beautiful moment and every wretched one. We’ve seen a lot of low points together. The death of my grandma. The death of your grandpa. The betrayal of our community, and the ache of missing our families, so far away.

My struggles with anxiety took me to my lowest low, and you expressed nothing but real unconditional love. Like nothing I thought possible. When I was unable to function, you functioned twice as hard. There is no way to measure the amount of love you’ve give to me, and to Mark.

We’ve also seen so many amazing beautiful moments. We’ve adopted 6 dogs together! Who does that!? We started a community that was amazing and brought so much joy and hope to people who struggled to find it. We’ve traveled all around the midwest, down to the south, all over the northwest, and even once out of the country! We have made friends from all over the world though your tenacity and passion for music! We’ve built a new circle of amazing friends here in Portland. Our life is one steeped in beauty and love.

We are both people who are constantly questioning and researching, and what once were impassioned arguments, leaving us steaming at each other, are now respectful debates able to bring us both closer to understanding another view point. We’ve learned to communicate with each other and that has allowed our love to grow significantly more deep. This might be the greatest accomplishment of all.

If the next ten years are going to look anything like the last ten, I say bring it on! We will only become stronger together as we continue to grow and learn and love. I don’t know where the road ahead leads, but I know exactly who I want to travel down it with. Ace, I love you, you really are my best friend, and even my soul mate.