Over mountains

Travel

Kauai: Part One

October 14, 2015

Our plane landed in the hazy heat of the evening. A live band was playing Hawaiian music in the airport on a make-shift stage, and we encountered no less than six signs pointing the wrong direction for baggage claim/shuttle transport/car rentals. Alex and I had been on the Island of Kauai for maybe 30 minutes, only five of which had actually been spent outside of the confines of a plane, and this trip was already amounting to be nothing like what I expected. For six months, and up until that very moment, I was imagining myself bursting through the doors of the airport and into the sunshine, bee-lining to the beach on a perfect 80 degree afternoon, getting lots of rest when I wasn’t on said beach, and drinking Lava Flows amongst the backdrop of verdant green mountains. And that was only the itinerary for the first 12 hours. Reality, instead, was live bands, crazy signs, bursting through the doors of the airport after sunset, and bee-lining to a bench where we’d wait for shuttle to take us to a car rental agency. From the agency, we’d drive 50 mph in the dark, on mostly unlit two-way streets, and get lost three times on the way to a hotel where I would promptly fall asleep at 9 PM without consuming a single drop of anything fruity and alcoholic, or so much as seeing a beach.

By morning, however, I was on the way to redemption. We got up nice and early to start our exploration of Kauai by saying a temporary goodbye to East Side to head South. Several miles, many switchbacks, and a tunnel of trees eventually revealed to us the town of Poipu. It was there that we found our Airbnb on a quiet suburban street, a short, beautiful walk from a resort and several noteworthy locales of the South Shore, of which we promptly took advantage.

This path set the course for our quest to avenge the prior day’s lava flow that never was, and we sidestepped chickens, and talked about things like Hawaiian school districts and HOA fees along the way. We finally found a relatively quiet bar, ordered two Lava Flows to the astonishment of an employee who momentarily boosted my ego by being convinced that we were both under 21, and officially commenced our vacation.

Drunk on relaxation (way) more than the glorified ice cream that is the lava flow, we found our way back to the path, and followed it down to the edge of the Pacific Ocean. It was a process we repeated often: walk the path, go somewhere pretty, go somewhere with food and drinks, go back to the Airbnb to relax — and it was everything we needed.

Full on enough relaxation to last us the week, we loaded up our rented black Camaro, and left Poipu in search of the even greener pastures of the North. The only thing that stood between us was the winding road across the East Shore, and the siren song of it’s mountains, rivers, and waterfalls which successfully lulled us from our final destination and deep into a lush, emerald paradise.

By the time we made it to Wailua, I thought we were somewhere in FernGully. It turns out that we were only at an overlook at the side of a quiet highway, but soon found if we traveled down the mountain and up the Wailua River, we’d end up somewhere just like it. So, we snaked our way down into the valley, and over to a marina where we boarded a boat just as the sky grew heavy and grey.

Seveal miles later we were greeted at a dock with the promise of eden, and a short uphill trail walk delivered just that:

Fern Grotto, known as the most romantic spot in Kauai. It was magical. The dreaminess was enhanced by performers singing the Hawaiian wedding song, and I was completely swept away by the beauty of it all. I practically floated my way back down the trail to the boat, and was lost in a haze of my own thoughts and beautiful views on the way back down the river.

Further up the highway, the North Shore still beckoned.

Each curve of the road revealed to us landscapes and greenery straight out of Jurassic Park, and it was hard to imagine anything more enchanting.

But we were just getting started.

Everyday Life

Em turns one

September 11, 2015

Today we are celebrating the life of our favorite little bully who turns one year old!

Em is a lover of cheese, tennis balls, and people, but could easily go the rest of her life without encountering another vacuum cleaner. She is 25 lbs of pure muscle, feisty as heck, tenacious, energetic, funny, sweet, wiggly, and known in our high rise as the “best dog in the building.” She’s earned that title, for sure, but more than any of that, she earned her place on our hearts as “best thing that has ever happened to us” and “light of our lives.” We’re so lucky to have her. Here’s to many more years together in the sun.

A letter to my dog, exploring the human condition
By Andrea Gibson

Dear squash

Aka squashy

Aka squishy

Aka squasharooni Gibson

Aka squish squash and you don’t stop

Aka miracle button

Aka little perfect peanut

Aka my beating heart with fur and legs

I know you think it’s insane that I still poop in the house

That I choose to wear underwear and pants giving no one the opportunity to smell my true disposition

That on the days I need to feel better about myself I don’t just pee on someone’s pee

Don’t worry. I am not fooled by my thumbs

I know I am not the tadpole’s final project

I know I am not the last species evolution hopes to become

I can’t even swallow my own pride long enough to let myself drool when something smells delicious

What must you think of my mirror face

Or how much of my day I spend practicing my butch voice

My baby-I’ll-fix-your-carburetor-with-my-tool-kit voice when you know full well there is nothing in my tool kit besides a massive collection of self help books that have helped me do nothing but feng shui the skeletons in my closet

Don’t you just love how that femur accents the sofa set, squash

I’m sorry I cry every time I take you to the vet

I’m sorry they take your temperature like that

I’m sorry I take you there when you’ve only got a bug bite

Humans hold so tight to the leash of life but you will roll in anything dead and wear it like perfume

I wish I had your nose for eternity

I wish I could see what you see

Where the squirrels satan your eyes

Where the postman deserves to die even when he’s not bringing bills

What’s with hating the shadow the peace lily makes on the floor in the living room?

I know I let you down everyday I choose not to murder the vacuum

Is it bad that I refuse to teach you to not be afraid of men

Is it bad that I want you to keep your bite and your snarl and your gleaming teeth

Is it bad that when they call you a risk, I call you a feminist

You never make fun of your friend Chloe’s underbite

Or your friend willow’s limp

Or your friend Harvey’s past trouble with the law

You never criticize me for being too uptight to let my hair down even though you can let yours all the way out

All over my black hoody, my black pants, the couch, the car, the chair, the online merch store that sells my books and tee-shirts wrote me a letter saying “we can’t continue to sell your products if they continue to be covered in so much of your dog’s hair”

I just assumed anything covered in you would increase in value

Remember when I told that woman I loved her and whispered in your ear “you’re my number one girl” it’s true

If I could I would put your beating heart in my mouth and suck on it like a piece of candy so I could finally understand how you got so sweet

I know my therapist likes you more than she likes me

And I still let you sleep on her couch

You taught me a good nap is the best therapy

You taught me to sit when I damn well want to sit

I don’t care that you never talk about capitalism or patriarchy or the heteronormative hegemonic paradigm

I know you’re saving the world every time you get poo stuck in your butt hair and you don’t go looking for someone to blame

Speaking of looking for someone

I can’t imagine what you think of sex

I can’t tell if you think it’s a slobbering badly boundaried belly rub or a poorly aimed fist fight

You just perch on the end of the bed and tilt your head back and forth

Wondering why I still haven’t taken my pants off

I have issues, Squash

Humans have issues

We dig holes to bury our own hearts

We chew on our own bones

We escape the predators but still can’t shake them off

Some of us wear our own bodies the way your friend Berlin wore that cone around her head, remember?

So embarrassed, but I never had a better teacher that came to my own spirit than you

Never had a reason to stop playing dead until the day I saw your little face at the shelter

Your little nose pressed against the cold glass, staring up at me like I was a gay Noah’s ark

My heart

Every time I give you a treat, you run around the house looking for a place to hide it until you finally come to where I am sitting and hide it directly under me

The most important thing I have ever built in my whole life is your trust

May you always feel entitled to more than your fair share of the bed

May you always tear the stuffing out of every toy I give you

So I can constantly be reminded to keep spilling my guts

To keep saying I don’t know how I will ever make peace with the shortness of your life span

But I promise to make sure you know you are so loved every second you are here

You know my hands will build the sturdiest ark they possibly can

To hold your holy howl and your holy bark and your holy beg

Squasharooni Gibson

My little perfect peanut

My beating heart with fur and legs

Lessons From a Legend

August 27, 2015

Last Tuesday, on August 18th, the world lost a true legend: my hero, my grandfather, Irwin Lazar. He left this earth to join his wife of 63 years, Shirley Lazar, who departed just 13 days earlier. His passing marks the end of an era, the beginning of a new family structure, and undoubtedly means that I have lost a source of strength and encouragement in my life. My grandpa was the best man I ever knew, a man who helped me to realize my own potential, and understand that I was more than my perceived weaknesses. He taught me that I didn’t have to do anything in particular to earn basic kindness, to be beautiful, or to be a person worth talking to, and nor did anyone else. My grandpa treated everyone as important. He was kind, always stood up for what he believed in (especially his family), had a great sense of dignity, commanded respect, and respected the lives and opinions of others. My grandpa knew that everyone had something to offer this world, that everyone had something to teach, that everyone had great potential. He taught me to know as much, to recognize my own worth, to work hard, to be kind, to be courageous, to listen to my own head and my own heart, and a host of other important lessons I will never forget.

I’d like to share with you six of those lessons he taught me, lessons that have seen me through some of my hardest days, lessons which I know will carry me through the long and dark journey that lies ahead. Maybe all you’ll learn is a little bit about a man who had a great impact on my life, or maybe you’ll learn something that you, too, can take with you on your own journey.

Lesson 1: Never turn your back on the ocean
I was playing near the breaking surf on the shores of NJ with my cousins, digging my feet into the wet sand until I was sunken in past my ankles. I liked the way the water rushed in quickly, surrounding me in a cold, white foam,and the way it tugged against my legs as it quickly receded from the shore. It was disorienting — looking down at my feet, stationary, as the water violently ebbed outward, giving me the distinct impression that I was moving with it. When the waves began to crash more violently and more frequently, that impression became reality. Unable to dislodge myself from the sand, and scared now, I was knocked off balance with each surge of the water. I let out a scream as my feet came free from the packed, wet sand, and I began to fall into a crashing wave. My grandpa, the only person who noticed my struggling, scooped me up in one arm, and set me down on the hot yellow sand near the dunes. “Never turn your back on a wave!” he exclaimed. Then, more gently, said, “Never turn your back on the ocean.”

In that moment, he taught me something incredibly valuable, maybe the most valuable lesson I have ever learned: to give every force in this world — a loved one, a mountain peak, a teacher, a vehicle, a child, the ocean — its due respect or be prepared to face the consequences for failing to do so. (And there is always a consequence.)

Lesson 2: You’re as good as the best
As a child I internalized many narratives about myself that conveyed one particular message: no matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried, that I was not good enough, or smart enough, or anything enough. I was, to myself, a bonafide failure, and a person able to be described by any negative word ever uttered. It was quite a sad feeling, and as such, I behaved like quite a sad little girl. My grandpa seemed to recognize this more than anyone, and went to great lengths to reverse these negative ideas I had about myself and cheer me up. Aside from complimenting my strengths and drawing attention to the many ways in which I was important to the world, to my family, and to him, he took to reminding me over and over that my abilities, and every quality I possessed within me was “as good as the best, and better than the rest.” He said this so often that he replaced all the negative thoughts I had about myself with a completely new concept: that I was good enough, thank you very much, and in fact, I ranked right up there with the best of all who were. Whenever I became paralyzed by fears of failure or by fears that I was inadequate — whether it was during a college final, or doing something as simple as a pull-up — my grandpa’s voice rang through my head telling me what he always knew was true, that I was “as good as the best,” and it gave me the strength I needed to make it so. It still does.

Lesson 3: Eff beauty standards
When, as a fourteen year old girl, I dared to mention to my cousin that I was fat while sitting mere inches away from my grandpa in the back seat of his car, he immediately whirled around and declared, “I’m tired of this fat bullshit!” He spoke at length about how this opinion I held of myself was ridiculous, and how I said such self-defeating things about myself with such frequency that he worried about me. Eff anyone who dared to comment on my weight, eff the media that I consumed, and the society that I participated in which made me question my looks and my worth. I was Deena Lazar, untouchable, “better than all that horseshit,” he said. I ate a hamburger and fries for dinner that day, and finished the whole damn plate sans shame, my grandpa beaming at me, his granddaughter — still beautiful, still not fat, just a lot happier. When my teen society’s need for thinness was replaced with a greater need to conceal the fact that you were either OMGPALE or imperfect in some way, my grandpa caught me fussing over my appearance in the full-length door mirror in the guest bedroom of his Florida residence, and promptly put a stop to it. I was putting orange-looking crap all over my fair, sun damage-less face, and thankfully he caught me in time to remind me again that I was being truly ridiculous. He told me my fair skin was just fine, that orange wasn’t a good look on anyone, and that no one needed products to make them more beautiful. “I never wore any face coloring,” he said as he touched his cheek. “I never needed to wear any face coloring to look different, and you don’t need it either.” He left the room after he said this, and I immediately went to the bathroom to fix my face by taking off the orange and going without.

In both of these instances he helped me to realize that I didn’t have to play society’s game, that I didn’t need to change myself or feel bad for being who I was even if something else was trendier. He taught me to be unashamed, to be unintimidated, and to rise above it all. He taught me to be proud of myself, and to walk to the beat of my own drum: the only drum that matters. Eff everyone else.

Lesson 4: Make an effort, give many craps
He taught me that formal language is just as easy to use as informal language. “Hay is for horses, not for men,” he said. It’s just as easy to say “hello” as it is to say “hey,” and it’s just as easy to say “thank you” as it is to say “thanks.” He taught me to speak in such a way that will be received well when it matters the most, like at a job interview, or giving a presentation. He taught me to look people in the eye when they speak to you to give them the respect they deserve (this action also conveys confidence, an added bonus). He taught me that it was important to stay up-to-date on politics and current events, and insisted on at least some knowledge about the stock market and its current state, and to have something to say about it or add to a conversation. He taught me to exceed minimum standards in all things: if being on time was good, then being early was my goal; if a paper requires that you use 3 sources, then my goal was to us 10. He taught me that I needed to really make an effort and give 110% in everything I do, because nothing good happens to people who don’t try, to people who don’t give a crap.

Lesson 5: Be kind, be generous, be thoughtful.
My grandpa was about equity over equality. He knew that to have the best impact on people, that we should meet them where they need to be met to get the biggest boost, and to him, this was basic kindness. He went to great lengths to make everyone around him feel important and included, and this wasn’t lost on me: from the way he would tailor his speech so that he didn’t bend or break his fragile granddaughter’s spirit, the way he had a pet name just for me (sweet girl), the way he gave every single one of his grandkids a crisp $100 bill when one of us found the year’s afikomen, and even the way he offered Alex a beer within a minute of meeting him while everyone else was busy sizing him up. He was quick to do a good deed, quick to give a person the shirt off his back or the hat off his head or the shoes off his feet (literally!), and quick to do anything to elicit a smile from his loved ones, which, when observed consistently, taught me was the correct way to conduct oneself. He was never stingy with thoughtful comments — whether it was to say I was beautiful, or that I had interesting things to talk about, or that he respected my opinions, or about how proud he was of me. I know he knew that I, specifically, needed those things to help me along my way, but he also knew that everyone else did, too: everyone flourishes when treated well.

Lesson 6: You are loved (despite the voice in your head the constantly tells you otherwise)
The greatest lesson my grandpa ever taught me was that I am loved, even when my mind only seeks to find evidence to the contrary. When my brain told me I no longer had a family when my parents divorced, my grandpa cried with me as he told me that he, too, felt that way when his parents divorced but that no one can divorce their kids, or grandkids, or cousins, and I would not be alone. When my brain told me that I had to meet special criteria to earn his love, like having a bat mitzvah, for example, my grandpa told me that the only thing I ever had to do to be loved by him was to just exist. When my brain told me that the person who treated me badly must have had a good reason to do so and that I deserved it, my grandpa told me that person was just an asshole, and I deserved respect. When my brain told me that I was dumb, or unimportant, or unlovable, or hated, or forgotten, or a bad person, my grandpa was always there to hug me, to remind me of all the evidence that said differently. His love for me was the only evidence that really mattered.

I am who I am today in large part because of my grandpa. He taught me more than I could possibly write in a blog post, and meant more to me than all of my words or tears can convey. I don’t, at this point, really know how I am going to live the rest of my life when it has been so irrevocably changed and rendered unrecognizable. Absolutely nothing is the same, and nothing will ever be the same. I lost one of the only people who ever loved me and showed it, and a person I loved and respected so very much.

He was my last remaining grandparent, a true hero in my life, a person whose name I will utter whenever I am asked about who I aspire to be like. I am going to work as hard as I can to be half the person that my grandpa was.

I love you, grandpa. To be your granddaughter was an honor, and I will try to live in such a way that would make you proud.

You may click here to view his obituary.

Everyday Life

We’re over 2Forts, and now Over Mountains

August 17, 2015

We created this blog in 2013 with one purpose: to share, in some small way, our wedding with those we love. We called it 2Forts as reference to our marriage, a reference to Alex’s favorite map, “2Fort,” on his then-favorite computer game, and also because the URL is only five characters long (how it wasn’t taken, we’ll never know), and apparently, according to Alex, this gets you some kind of website cred. The name was meant to represent a single moment in time, and that it did.

But here we are, still going, and things are different now.

“2Forts” doesn’t reflect our life, or say much about who we are, or allow for growth in our family unit. It doesn’t fit this space which has begun to accommodate topics outside of marriage, like stress, and dreams, and the struggle to train a tiny animal to stop peeing on the floor, and it doesn’t fit what we hope to include on this blog in the future. We want to tell stories about scrambling the thrilling and sometimes scary faces and ridges of city living, adulthood, marriage, and parenthood; about navigating the switch-backing (and slippery, and rocky, and steep) trails of depression, fear, and grief; and about reaching the summits of happiness, contentment, and love.

We’re doing more than just being married: we’re traveling over mountains. Sometimes those mountains will even look the way you’d expect:

Sometimes.

We’ve changed our blog’s name and URL to something a bit more suited to us now.
Welcome to Over Mountains (overmountains.com). Glad to see you on our trail.

Hard Stuff

My grandma, in 6 parts

August 6, 2015

Last night, this world lost a true gem, and a beautiful soul: my grandmother, Shirley Lazar. My family and I are heartbroken over her loss, and I cannot believe that this is actually reality. My grandma was well-liked by everyone, kind, strong, and always thinking about others. She loved her family, especially her three children, loved to read so much that she pursued (and earned) a Master’s in library science, and her best friend was her husband of over 60 years. She was a listener, a traveler, and always appreciated a tootsie roll. She made the best matzo ball soup, latkes, brisket, and milkshakes I have ever tasted, and always hosted the best sleepovers. I wish you all could have known my grandma, and I was so fortunate to say that she was mine. I want to tell you stories, and memories, and all about this wonderful person who impacted so many lives, and so profoundly. I’ll be talking about her my whole life, I’m sure. My grandma was much more to me, to my family, and to this world than I could ever explain, but I thought I would attempt to tell you just a few things that made her such a special, important person in my life. Here they are, in six parts:

1. The Birth
I had jaundice as a baby, which essentially meant that my skin was yellow, and I know there’s something about bilirubin, but that’s past my scope of knowledge. Because of it, I wasn’t allowed home until at least a week after my birth, and when my parents were cleared to take me: they didn’t. Instead of going home, we went somewhere better: to my grandma’s house. Six lbs and swimming in a purple dress, my grandma held me in her arms in front of a big window — sun shining through — to simultaneously heal and fawn over her newest granddaughter. A picture of us together in that moment — her smiling down, nuzzling close to me — is actually my favorite of us together, mostly because it was entirely indicative of what she meant to me and what was to come in my life.

2. The Bracelet
I was maybe four years old, and I had a red tricycle that I loved. I also had a two-year-old brother who loved everything I did, and of course, my red trike was a pretty hot commodity. In a moment of kindness, I not only let him touch the trike, but also sit on it, and ride it. It wasn’t a super successful endeavor. The scene ended with a trip to the hospital and a few stitches to the forehead for him, and a very quick, on-the-way drop off at the curb of a place that wasn’t completely terrifying for me: my grandparents’ house. Borderline-hysterical about my brother, my grandma sat with me on her lap, stroking my hair, telling me that not only would my brother be okay, but that he’d come out with a prize: a bracelet for his bravery. She told me that I, too, was brave, and she took me by the hand up to her bedroom, opened her jewelry box, and showed me her bracelets. “You can pick one,” she said, “for you to keep.” I chose one that, for some reason, reminded me most of her: one with large turquoise stones. (She actually gave me a second one with dark stones because my grandma was always generous like that.) I kept it, and as I kid I always felt brave, and important, and a part of something bigger than myself whenever I wore or saw that bracelet in my own jewelry box. I think that “something bigger” was family, and I felt most like I was truly a part of a family whenever she was near. After all, she was the center of ours. I didn’t need a bracelet to know I was loved or important or included, but sometimes, when I was alone, there was something in its tangibility that reminded me and comforted me.

3. The Ice Cream
I was rarely allowed to have ice cream at home, and when I was, it was, like, one scoop. I see the purpose, but for a person whose favorite food was ice cream, this was obviously a severe injustice. Luckily, my grandma, who is actually the person who convinced me to do so much as taste ice cream for the first time, clearly agreed with my point of view. She kept at least one container of ice cream in her freezer (usually more), and was always prepared to offer me some whenever I came to her house. She would ask if I wanted a scoop of ice cream, I’d say yes, and she would give me two. She’d ask me if I wanted another scoop, and she’d give me another two. Sometimes she would even give me three! To my knowledge, she didn’t even tell my parents! Talk about grandma helping a girl out. My grandma was awesome. She was always looking out for my best interests, always looking out for my happiness, and always on my side — with ice cream, and with everything. I never eat ice cream without thinking of my grandma, and for some reason, it just never tastes as delicious when anyone else but her scoops it.

4. The Support
My parents were separated when I was a young teenager, and I was afraid that my parents separating from each other might mean that I was somehow separating from my family. I felt unstable at that point in my life, and did not know where I was going to belong. A few days after I heard the news, I went down the shore with my dad and grandparents, and my grandma cried with me, she told me that she loved me, and that no matter what happened in this life that I was always loved, and always a part of our family. I will never forget the level of understanding, compassion, acceptance, and love I felt in that moment. But really, I never questioned whether or not I was loved whenever I was with her. Her support meant everything to me, and to have her during such a hard time in my life meant more than I could ever express or even still can. I’m just so grateful for that kind of love.

5. The Jazz Concert
On one of my trips to Florida, where my grandparents spent time in the winter, I talked to them about their lives and their interests, and about things like how our respective generations differed in their musical preferences. My grandma said that she and my grandpa both liked purely instrumental music the best, but were also quite fond of jazz. Coincidentally, there was a jazz concert scheduled for later in the week, and they invited me along to go with them. Of course, I said that I would love to go, and was so excited to spend time with them in an environment we’d never been in together before. My grandma lit up when the music began playing, she sang along with her beautiful voice, danced in her chair, and was so cheerful. I’d never seen my grandma having so much fun, and it was contagious. Soon, we were dancing together in our seats, and having a blast. We talked and laughed all the way home, and I feel so grateful that one of the best memories of my life was made with my grandma.

6: The Night in NY
We hadn’t seen each other in person for a while, but it didn’t really change a thing. When I walked through the door to see my grandma, it felt just like old times. The scene changed a little, but was mostly the same. She stood up, walked over, and gave me a hug. I was crying, as I tend to do, overwhelmed with a mixture of happiness, and sadness, and relief, and a plethora of other feelings that are difficult to articulate. She kissed me multiple times, and asked me if I was happy, essentially with my life. I looked in her eyes and assured her that, yes, I am happy — she doesn’t need to worry — and she took me by the hand, and led me over to the couch, where we sat together, holding hands, hugging, just like we’d done since I was a newborn. I knew then, without a doubt, that even though I may not have felt so important to the world, that I was important to someone: her, my family, an inspiration in my life, a rock, a truly beautiful woman I was so proud to call my grandmother.

My grandma was so much more to me than any of these memories convey, more loved than I can express, and her loss is truly immeasurable. I just needed to write something, I needed to tell you about her, I needed to keep remembering because I’m going to — and already do — miss all of it, and I just can’t let it go. I’m not sure if I’ve even written anything sensical — but I don’t really care. I might as well just write her name over and over again: she’s all that matters here.

I love you, grandma, and I’ll always miss you. Thank you for loving me in return, even in my worst moments, even when I didn’t deserve it. Living on the same street as you as a child, walking on the same earth as you, having you in my life for nearly three decades was a true privilege.

You may click here to view her obituary.

Everyday Life

What I Need To Get By

August 3, 2015

The city can seem oppressive at times, especially in the summer when the the streets condense and become claustrophobic with travelers. The illusion of secrecy and the feeling of being alone disappear, and as we know, those are things I quite like. Other times, when busyness means far less self care, and the only thing on my mind is work and deadlines, and when the feeling of aloneness associated with said work and deadlines (not to mention graduate research) slips into loneliness at best and homesickness at worst, it’s this very place — crowds and all — that feeds my soul.

These days, I’m nourished by downtown walks with a side of street art, and murals, and inspiration galore; by grabbing a quick bite from a food truck or a newly discovered bakery; by hiking, and urban outdoor excursions followed by happy hour with good friends, and French wine chosen by a sommelier who somehow manifests my unintelligible and uninformed ramblings about the “strong” and “deep grape” flavors I seek into a perfect glass (or two) of Fleurie. But as always, it’s Alex and our long conversations on the couch with a backdrop of mountains, lunch at dive bars, and afternoons spent at the dog park with our sidekick that is my consistent source of groundedness, and happiness, and feelings of belonging.

Life lately looks like this:

…and it’s just what I need to get by.

Everyday Life, Featured Post

Emmy Fort and the Prisoners of Adolescence

July 5, 2015

It was some time in February when things started to really settle down after bringing Em home. She was fully housebroken, crate-trained, walking slack-leashed on the city streets (and down the freaking hallway, thank god), understood basic commands like “sit”, “down”, “stay”, and “give,” and did cute things like let us know when she needed to relieve herself, not completely lose her mind when I left the room, and actually sit or lay down at any point during the day.

All was finally calm in our household — it was how I imagined life with a full grown dog to be. When a fellow five-month-old puppy owner asked if our Alex and I were having just as hard of a time with our puppy as she was with hers, I was all “Well, it was hard, but now…”

To say the least, I was confident, because it wasn’t lost on me — AT ALL — that the behavior I was seeing from our puppy didn’t just magic itself into existence, but was actively created each day with persistence, consistency, and a ton of patience. A schedule that we wrote prior to bringing her home, which we followed religiously from the second she walked in the door, was the real champion, however. It set the course for our lives, which saved the sanity of my pitiful, systematic brain. Our sheer dedication to all of these things are what allowed us to build and cross some kind of bridge of puppyhood, over to an ethereal land where ALL OF THE STUFF was not hitting the fan ALL OF THE TIME.

For the first time since Em came along, I had real hope that one day life could once again resemble the way it was (e.g., not cleaning up pee every 20 minutes), and that one day, our story of raising a well-adjusted, well-behaved dog would be one of success.

But that was before I met a couple five-year-old Bostons, and BT owners in Seattle started coming out of the woodwork saying totally non-frightening things like “the energy doesn’t stop,” and Em got spayed and came home like, “IDGAF,” which is when I realized:

By the third week after her surgery, some time in April, all hope was lost. Seven months old, and now she was ignoring her name and all commands, had regressed a little in the housebreaking arena (which we expected, but it still sucked), entirely stopped napping (naps = the only periods of relaxation you have with a Boston), began to freak out when we worked from home — at our desk — two feet away from her, was pulling on her leash again, and unremittingly jumping on the coffee table. It was unpleasant — especially the not listening and peeing everywhere (again) part — and my patience with such high levels of BS extended about a fortnight, which I think is pretty freaking reasonable for a silence-craving introvert and perfectionist, before I was like:

But I’m stubborn as hell, and I would endure virtually anything if it means that I am successful in the end, so after a day or two of exasperation, I set out to be the very calmest, determined leader that I could be. My inner Beyonce…

was successfully masking my inner Mona-Lisa Saperstein…

and I was going to be the champion of adolescence, come hell or high water.

But Em is the hell and the high water, and in May, things escalated. But only after I was led down another path of false hope when she began to relieve herself outside and nap once more, which, of course, lifted my spirits, and made the following exponential growth of adolescent BALONEY disheartening to say the least.

She started to jump on the baby gate (which quarantined her and her pee to only one area of the house) when she was frustrated, or wanted more attention, or wanted a toy/anything that was blocked by the evil contraption. Then she started doing the same thing to me — jumping on me every time she wanted something — which made for some super-fun times. Everything got extra fun when she began to chase the cat and jump on her, too.

It was endless — absolutely endless. Almost every waking hour while in the house became a fight. A fight for getting the dog to actually listen, a fight for keeping the dog (and especially her eyes) injury free, a fight for keeping the dog happy and calm, a fight for silence, a fight for ANYTHING. NORMAL.

Nothing helped. No amount of walks or play sessions, which is basically the most suggested remedy on the internet for such craziness, ever did the trick. A cure-all it is not when you have a high energy breed who laughs in the face of a 4 mile walk, and then proceeds to run around — on an empty stomach — until she throws up.

Now every time I read about a high energy dog or someone says they have one, my brain interprets it as “large dog unsuited to my lifestyle” and think:

If a 20 minute walk tires out your dog: high energy my ass. Heck, if a mile or two does them in, I’m still calling BS. Random internet resources that only tell me to do just that to somehow make my puppy behave better:

It stayed that exact same way until we moved back downtown in early June, when things got just a little worse.

When we removed the baby gate from our lives to start integrating the dog into her permanent, adult living situation, the cat chasing escalated, but this was anxiety-inducing, not irritating. What was irritating to me was when she started to add barking to the mix whenever she jumped on me, and would jump up next to me and bark if she wanted attention or for me to throw a ball, and was all around, in my face, barking and jumping constantly. That was awesome.

All I could do was ignore the behavior, ignore her, and leave the room if she did it, and praise any calmness when I came back. If I was home, I was getting up from wherever I was or stopping whatever I was doing, and leaving the room quite literally every two or so minutes. We went on like this for another few weeks before any of it paid off. But it did, finally, pay off.

Now here we are in July, the jumping has stopped, and so has most of the barking. We’re still working on the cat thing, but she has progressed by leaps and bounds in her ability to leave it alone.

Persistence, consistency, and a ton of patience wins again.

For as hellish adolescence is, I know that all of her behavior is developmentally appropriate, and is not indicative of her overall character. It also could never sway the unconditional positive regard and love we have for her. She is absolutely the sweetest dog I have ever laid eyes on, tries so hard in all she does, is incredibly obedient when she is not rambunctious, and is the most loyal, loving friend I have ever had. But the things is: everyone talks about this kind of stuff. The good stuff is always in the spotlight. It’s not hard to imagine that raising a puppy is fun, and fulfilling, and filled with sweet moments, but it isn’t always sunshine and rainbows. To ignore that would be to perpetuate an image of a life or a situation that is unrealistic. It is hard, it is frustrating, it is, like happiness and fun, an integral part of raising a puppy. In a society where stigma about feelings other than total happiness is rampant, I want to be a person who focuses on the feelings that garner that stigma, and talk about those. The more we talk about about the hard stuff, the more we normalize it, and the more we break down defense mechanisms and barriers that keep us in this same, antiquated place that tells us that those feelings are negative, maladaptive, or wrong.

Frustration, confusing, desperation, anger, hurt, depression, anxiety, anything….they are not wrong. Even if you feel it when you have a bouncing little puppy, even if you feel it on your wedding day, even if you feel it when you bring home your new baby, even if you feel it and you’re the richest person in the world, even if you feel it when you are randomly driving in the car one day: you are allowed to feel it. It is not wrong to not to be happy with everything all of the time, and it is not wrong to say so.

I’ll never stop trying in what little way I can to change the narrative of this society.

I hope that if you, too, are raising a puppy, and you, too, don’t enjoy every single aspect, that you know that you aren’t alone. I’m right here on this crazy ride with you. I probably will be for a while.

Everyday Life

the most wonderful time of the year

June 22, 2015

Hey! Hi! Remember me? I’ve missed you; It’s been a while. The last time I was here, it was early May, camping trips were taken, anniversary celebrations were had, day-to-day drudgery was endured, and after a month-and-a-half-long hiatus induced by stress and an astonishing lack of caring, I am happy to breathe a little life into this place once more and pick up where we left off.

I am happier still to lift you up and over the last several mountains of torment, fly you through the last valleys of desperation, and drop you into the now, into summertime in Seattle. It’s quite nice here. The temperatures are comfortably warm, and darkness doesn’t creep in until 10 PM. There is more weekend adventuring, more pool-lounging, and the only thing that stands between you and a belly full of Salty’s delicious seafood is all that ice cream you ate at LICK Pure Cream earlier in the day.

It’s easy for me to love this place at this time of year — when it’s perfect — and I’m beginning to forget three seasons worth of miserable weather and miserably low amounts of light, that, combined with graduate school and all things related, transformed this place into my personal, wet, 10th circle of hell. The last few weeks of spring were particularly hard for me. They threw me for a loop, took previously-made plans and scattered them hastily to the wind, reminded me to look into light boxes, and is currently making me appreciate this post-plan scattering, post-new plan making, post-desperation happiness I am feeling all the more.

Summer, without a doubt, is the best thing for this Seattleite’s soul:

‘Cause, damn. Nine months of that kind of gray really gets to me.

We know we only have a few short weeks before good weather and sunshine die a swift death, so we’ve decided to do what we can to extend this summer, and to take some time to capitalize on whatever sunshine we can get once we’re in the throes of PNW darkness once more. We’re headed on another beach(-y-ish) vacation in September with the intention to spend as much time in the sun as possible (this time with less drinking and more exploring), and planning to get out of Seattle to go to either New York, California, or Arizona — or maybe two of them — when the end of winter rolls around. Spending time in any place with reliably less-crappy weather than here can’t do us anything but good.

Until then, we’ll be soaking up what we’ve got right now in this beautiful state of ours while we’ve got the equally beautiful weather on our side. From the beaches here in the city to those on the Olympic coast, from Mt. Si to Mt. Rainier, from the views on the San Juan Islands to the ones right here at our own high rise.

At long last, we finally have that again. If you weren’t aware, we spent the past year over in South Lake Union under the spell of (an increase in) quietness, and found that aside from said quietness, there wasn’t a whole lot going on. We regretted it so much that even the suburbs (shudder) started to become appealing: even though the suburbs (clearly) aren’t our best fit, at least they do quiet and “nothing-going-on” with excellence. We hated the half-assed atmosphere and transitional quality of SLU, and couldn’t get out fast enough. We ended up signing a lease at the building downtown where we lived last year, which occurred to us might be weird, but we really missed it over here. We are so lucky at the end of the day to come home to views of sparkling water, the mountains, and city lights. Its sounds silly, but it makes me feel so much more connected to this place. I think we’ll stay a while, because here, we feel truly at home.

It’s safe to say that with the arrival of summer, the the move, the comorbid happiness associated with both, the end of my school quarter, and Alex’s semi-vacation (time off induced by an office transition) this week, we have finally disembarked the first-world struggle bus. The goal now is to self-care like no one’s business. Putting Em in doggy daycare and going for day hike alone with Alex, a swim in the pool, a marathon of Harry Potter, and a homemade pizza are all in order. More blogging, too, because: there are a lot of feelings to talk about.

Like feelings surrounding puppy adolescence, and feelings about this age 30 transition thing, and feelings about Tricare (on a scale of one to even, I can’t) and did I say feelings about PUPPY ADOLESCENCE? I think that even Kanye West had a little something to say about that particular topic:

‘Til next time, you can find me self-caring at the pool, staring at the sun (!!!) outside, and beginning my quest to fill up on enough summer to last me until next year. And that shit — relaxation, actually participating in personal happiness-inducing activities — might be just as cray as anything else that has happened this year.

Everyday Life

In the Battle of Man vs Land vs Tent vs Puppy

May 5, 2015

It was a narrow victory over the elements, terrifying zippers on a tent, and a seven-month-old puppy, but man won.

Fearing for our sanity, we decided to start small for our first camping trip with Em, and went to Deception Pass State Park (our favorite shakedown camping spot for its proximity to Seattle), the most popular state park in Washington, and whose campgrounds are frequented by large groups of people and their army of generators. We figured that those two variables — why we usually avoid camping there — would be a fantastic way to detract from any potentially scary (read: bark inducing) sounds of nature, and might detract from some of said barking should Em decide to go with that mode of communication. I was terrified by the thought of silence, and remained thoroughly convinced until we got back to Seattle that all of the stuff would hit the fan.

Fortunately for us, only some of the stuff hit the fan, and because beggars can’t be choosers, I’m in no position to complain.

The things we thought might scare Em or make her uncomfortable like the beach, the heavy wind, the big waves, the tent, and the campfire didn’t phase her at all.

She was less enthusiastic about the sound of the zippers on the tent, and wasn’t a huge fan of “solitary confinement,” which is what I imagine she would call the act of being inches away from us while in the death chamber otherwise known as her crate, and made it known. She also questioned the safety of being in a moving vehicle amongst shadows cast by trees, but in a stunning act of courage, only tried to hide in Alex’s arms a few times.

Needless to say: everything went better than expected. Paranoia is kind of my strong suit, so this doesn’t really surprise me. Em is officially a camping puppy now, and we have officially gotten back one of our hobbies now that she is old (and trained) enough to handle it.

We are all alive and well at the Fort camp, just enjoying the sunshine and warmth that has decided to come our way, and we hope that you’re able to do the same wherever you are. See you soon!

Everyday Life

nothing matters in this whole wide world

April 8, 2015

It is a chilly Sunday afternoon in late October 2007. We’re in my hometown, a small suburb of New York City that smells like freshly baked cookies, at the train station in Radburn. You are going home to Maryland after a quick trip up to see me, and two trains and a four hours from now you will be two hundred miles and four weeks away from me. Your first train — to Manhattan — doesn’t come for another 45 minutes, but we’re bundled up in my Nissan, sitting in the parking lot, and waiting anyway.

We’ve been here many times before, saying our goodbyes in various iterations: to the tune of Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters,” to Queen’s “Killer Queen,” to the sound of of dull windshield wipers on rain-streaked glass. Your leaving has become so familiar to me, though not familiar enough to stop the tears that inevitably stream down my cheeks each time you leave, or the tears that now sting my eyes as we sit here again, waiting in the cold, dark sunshine.

“I’ll be back so soon,” you say as you turn to me and grab my right shoulder, your eyes wide, and voice undecided on the tones of feigned optimism and real sadness. My hands are wrapped around my mysteriously ice-cold steering wheel, its leather cracking from winter dryness, and crumbling off as I slowly, nervously, run my thumb across the surface. I haven’t changed position since we arrived, and I haven’t yet looked you in the eye. As soon as I look at you sitting next to me, as soon as I speak, as soon as we make the tiniest motion towards the future, we’ll be saying our goodbyes when all I want to do is just exist — with you — always.

It takes me several seconds to react to your words: a couple to dislodge my heart from my throat, a couple to stifle the sobs that threaten to escape with each exhale. I manage a silent nod, and a hug over the center console with a rotated waist, seatbelt still buckled across my shoulder. I’m feeling too sad for small talk, but I’m anxious not to waste a single second that I have left with you, savoring the sweetness that is speaking to you in the flesh. I mumble something about your return — about eating more Turvino’s pizza, more walking through the woods, more 2 AM burger dates at the diner, more museum-hopping in the city — with an urgency in my delivery, as if the quicker I spoke the quicker time would pass and materialize it.

The minutes float right up and disappear in thin curls as we talk and scan the radio one station at a time, hoping to find a song with a good beat to get lost in. We settle for the 50 Cent CD stashed in the compartment of the passenger side door when even Hot 97 lets us down, and I hear the coin drop intro as I check the time and see that we have about 10 minutes before the train comes. I decide not to point this out to you, and we listen to several minutes of “What Up Gangsta,” my heart rate increasing with every beat of the music until I finally start to shake uncontrollably. You turn off the stereo with a swift left-turn click of the dial, and speak to me in the soft, careful tone that one uses to address a grizzly bear or a individual with a gun in their hand. You are saying that we should go up to the platform, but I can barely hear you over the thundering cry of loneliness in my heart.

Reluctantly we step out of the car, and I zip myself up to the chin in my army green bomber jacket. I walk around the back of the car to meet you, grab your thick wool coat by the lapel, and reel you into me. I nuzzle into your neck and say weakly, “I don’t want you to go.” You say that you don’t want that either, but remind me: four short weeks. You’ll be back soon.

We walk hand and hand to the tracks, and turn in for a several-minute-long embrace. “I really don’t want to go,” you say as you pull away to look at me. I take my turn injecting positivity into an overwhelmingly negative scenario, comforting you with the same reminder you gave me, and a whole flurry of reasons why this wasn’t so bad: after this, we’ll have two visits in a month. After the second visit, I’ll be moving to Maryland. After I move to Maryland, we’ll never have to say goodbye again. Those thoughts are an immense source of comfort in these last excruciating moments as your train pulls up.

As passengers file into the cars, you pull me in one last time and squeeze me tight. We steal a few last kisses before you release me, saying in the happiest tone you can manage, “Bye! I’ll talk to you soon!” You start towards the open metal doors, your hands shoved in your pockets, and give me a quick look before you board. I stand at the platform, wiping tears from my right cheek with my right hand, and watch the train leave. I feel the Earth shutter violently to a halt.

I walk in cold silence back to my car, find track five on that 50 Cent CD in CD player, and challenge myself not to cry during the one mile drive back to my house. I find myself glancing at the passenger side as frequently as I glance at my mirrors –noticing the way the air vents are positioned, the way the seat is tilted — missing you so terribly. The earth is no longer turning, the sun is now black, and even still: time is passing, life is going on. You’ve already been gone for five minutes, and I’m already pulling into my driveway and opening the door to the house which is empty now, and quiet.

I’m sitting, numb, on the edge of my bed. I screen a call from a friend, and answer a call from another, and after a five minute pep-talk, I’m feeling decidedly better. The sun looks yellow and warm from the window, the earth sputters, and shutters, and starts to spin, and my heart and stomach are in their necessary positions. I’m getting up to make myself a cup of tea, and hear my phone ring: it’s you. I answer. “Hey baby,” you say impishly. “I just got to Penn Station, and I don’t know what happened, but I guess I timed everything wrong, and I just missed my train. I’m going to get on one in five minutes back to Radburn. Can you come and get me?”

I’m rushing back to Radburn Station, green lights all the way. I arrive several minutes before you are due to, and I am standing in the cold at the same platform you just left from, anxiously waiting for you to return. Not two minutes later, I’m sprinting down the pavement and into your arms. This is the way it should always be.

I couldn’t be more thankful that you are here, and honestly, Alex: I don’t think I could love and adore you any more than I do right now.

* * *

Weeks later, after those two visits, and after I made that move to Maryland, you told me that you got to Manhattan that day and couldn’t make yourself leave. You called your boss, told him you wouldn’t be at work the next day, and immediately called me to get you. I don’t think I can explain what that day meant to be, but it changed my life. Thank you for coming back to New Jersey for me. Thank you, most of all, for loving me so much, and being my best friend. It has been a truly wonderful eight years with you. To infinity, and beyond!

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A letter to my dog, exploring the human condition By Andrea Gibson

A letter to my dog, exploring the human condition
By Andrea Gibson