Three Notable Dinners

I was invited to a dinner party by a new-ish friend, and it was described as a "fabulously festive fete" so I arrived in semi-costume only to find that they didn't mean you were supposed to dress festively. I promptly removed my shimmering top hat (wish I was kidding) and then made my way into the group of eight adult women who have real jobs and fine lines. It took me too much time to get to the alarming realization that they probably thought I was an adult woman who belonged in that group. I was the youngest one there and the oldest was forty-three. When did I move into this age category? I don't recall that happening. 

A neat thing happened though. We were all talking about lots of interesting things; jobs (horse-back riding instructor, party planner, software mogul), life outlooks (hopefulness, optimist, nihilism), travel (Thailand, Norway, Hawaii), relationships (I've dated every branch of military!"), etc, and it occurred to me that no one was talking about their children. At this age, everyone I talk to tells me about toddlers. Because toddlers are all they experience. "Excuse me," I said to the table, "Does anyone here have kids?" We all silently looked at each other, waiting for someone to fess-up, but no. "None of us?" Eyebrows silently questioned? Heads shook side to side. Mouths pressed into thin lines. 
"How odd," someone said.
"I never even put that together," our hostess admitted, "That must be why you're all so interesting."

We all cheers'ed to being childfree and then made points to acknowledge how much we love our friends that have kids because I think we all feared being the kind of people that society thinks childfree people are. I was caught off guard by being at a table of 8 middle-aged women who intentionally chose not to have kids. You don't find many of those in the wild and there I sat, inaccurately placed at a table of adults of course, but in likeminded company nonetheless. How niche.

Here's my favorite picture of Nick and Liv - to prove I love them.

A few nights later, Brett and I popped out to a nearby ramen spot for dinner and we sat, happily participating in the ritual of reading a menu, placing an order, and then settling in to look across the table at your dinner mate. "So!" he began. Several minutes into what was undoubtedly a new musing meant to further advance his intellectual abilities, my eyes wandered from our table to the glittering string lights cascading along the ceiling. There were houseplants high on shelves with ruffage and vines trailing down towards the tables. The specials board was written in rainbow colors. Shimmering golden trinkets dangled from the ceiling. What fun, I thought. 

"And so if you consider the willingness to uphold a moral principle as an expected part of..." I watched a girl with a shaved head and combat boots march past our table. She joined of group of artsy, grungy girls sitting on velvet couches cheersing their drinks. At another table were two girls deep in a discussion. Over there, another group of alternatively dressed women, some of them striking me as quite masculine. Then it dawned on me. I scanned the entire restaurant - women. It's all women. "Because cognitively, we understand what is correct..." Brett and the waitstaff were the only men present. A girl winked at me as she walked by. Gay. This is gay. I thought to myself. I had to search for proof. And that's when I took a look at the drink menu: Les-be-honest, The Sapphic Spritz, a Rhubarbie-Girl. 
"It's Lesbian night!" I whisper screamed to Brett. He put his gesticulating hands down.
"What?"
"Everyone in here is gay! It's all women!" 

Brett leaned back in his chair and casually scanned the crowd. Then he leaned forward. "Are you sure?"
"Look at the girls in here. Half of them could beat you up!" He looked around again. 
"You're right."
"Was there a sign? Is this an event? Are we supposed to be here?" I pushed the cocktail menu into his hands.
"Do they think I'm gay?" He huffed in frustration.
"I don't think they're looking at you, Bub. I think I'd be the real treat here." I wiggled my eyebrows at him and he grimaced. 
He looked around again at all the punk, hipster, grungy girls in there. The shaved heads, the purple hair. The baggy cargo pants. "This isn't what guys imagine when they think of walking into room full of lesbians."
"I get it."

And that's the story of how Brett and I wound up eating ramen at a lesbian speed dating event.

For Brett's birthday we threw a little dinner party. I did a full middle eastern meal: roasted sumac potatoes, chicken musakhan, eggplants and lentils with pomegranate molasses, and a beet galette with za'atar. There was also pita and salad. I was exceptionally proud of myself. It's the most food I've ever made at one time. Brett and I thought it was delicious. We gobbled it up and served ourselves seconds and thirds, noting to each other how great this turned out. We were eating with such enthusiasm that we barely noticed that our guests were not having the same experience. 

They had polite portions, unfinished piles, one was merely pushing things around on his plate, a pile of parsley picked off and pushed to one side. I wondered if Brett and my tastes have traveled beyond that of "ordinary" people. We make a lot of ethnic food and I'm certain Brett has singed off my tastebuds with many of his concoctions. Have we lost touch with subtle flavoring? I intentionally put this menu together because it seemed like a middle eastern spin on ordinary foods. Feeding people is a humbling, vulnerable experience. Normally I fret and fuss, worried people won't like it, but I looked over at Brett's plate piled high for a third time, his cheeks rosy with delight, and I pushed the pita over to the parsley picker, "Here Drew, fill up on bread," and then I went back to my plate.

I feel I'm one step closer to mental freedom. As Lollie says, "There'll be another meal in a few hours."

Apart from the social extravaganza that is The Holidays, I have been so distracted by my own undertakings that I know little of what's going on outside of my bubble. We had a beautiful Guy Family Double Decker Tea Party for Brett and Carolyn's birthdays that was most exciting. Giggs set the prettiest, daintiest table and fussed over finger foods and tasty spreads - and I took a picture of it, but admittedly, it's an awful photo. All the humans in the frame have their mouths open, anxiously awaiting incoming breadstuffs. Nonetheless, it was fun to have everyone at the table.

The biggest change, surprisingly, is the lack of Grace in our house. (The dog - not the virtue.) We have been surprised to find what a big presence she had from someone who never said anything, rarely made noise, and often left the room when we entered it. Brett and I have gotten back to our normal routine, but Pippa may as well be lost at sea. Grace entirely dictated Pippa's days for the last eight years so Pip doesn't understand that she can now choose to do whatever she wants. She barely ate for the first two weeks. She follows us around, tentatively sitting here, oh but wait, should I sit there? Is it nap time? Where should I be? She won't go outside by herself so Brett has been bundling up and walking to the end of the yard at 11:00pm to get her to go to the bathroom. A bright spot is that we can take her to the dog park now. We've always avoided the dog park, as well as other dogs, what with Grace's tendency to bite others. Pip loves other dogs and gets big wheezy whistles and zoomies at the park, sniffs butts, splashes into the pond, rolls in sand, and then comes home and sleeps for the rest of the day. 
So, we're getting there.

The bulk of this month, Brett and I have been in our offices. Occasionally shouting to the other about meeting in the kitchen to take a lunch break. He's been focused on a "marketing campaign" to get word out about his business and it's been very cool to watch it play out and result in exactly what he was hoping for. He's met some neat people doing neat projects and slowly the requests are trickling in. Meanwhile, I was kicking-butt building the website for my new business idea when I came to a multi-pronged fork in the road and instead of handling it like a seasoned entrepreneur, I crumpled, pouted, and spent three days rethinking my entire existence. Brett reminded me that hurdles are a normal part of starting something new, and even though I know he's right, it always feels different when it's you. Other peoples' problems are easy. Mine? Impossible. Can't be solved.

I'll get back to it on Monday.

A 'Womp Womp' Birthday Post

Today is Brett's 39th birthday. This seems incorrect to both of us, but in my case, I could have sworn I married someone much younger. Even our neighbor, Jim, was nearly angry when we told him. "What? That can't be true!" To me, Brett looks about 31. He acts about 16. If you split the difference, he's barely allowed to buy a beer. 

Brett and I went on our first date three days before is 27th birthday. We met at a coffee shop to get toasty hot beverages to take with us to the dog park. It was all part of my strategy. You see, I'd met the jolly giant a few months earlier via one of his roommates who was attempting to woo me. I had come over to pickup the roommate to go to a party (because roommate didn't have a car) and I was sitting in the living room waiting for him. It was a skinny, brown pup that waited with me, you know her now as Grace. She was one year old. Another of Brett's roommates (Hayden) was sitting at a desk in the living room. There was a fourth roommate too, but he lived up in the attic and seemed to only come out after 9pm. 

"Who's dog is this?"
"That's Grace, our roommate's dog."

That roommate sauntered out of his room at just that moment with a guitar looped around his shoulder and a mop of floppy hair dangling in front of his eyes. He slid the guitar off to one side, shook the hair out of his face and held out his hand. He said, "Hi, I'm Brett Eisenhauer. That's my dog Grace." I thought he was awfully cute. Then the car-less roommate was ready to go, so I had to leave that tall drink of water in the living room to hang out with other people. 

Anyways, I ran into Brett and Grace a few more times before New Years. We didn't get to talk much but I'd sit on the floor and let Grace lick my face in an effort to make this cute new tall guy think I was especially cool. Grace enjoyed the attention but her real interests were in Brett. I could see we were in competition with each other. 

On New Years, since I had to drive the car-less roommate home from a party anyway, I strategically took a notably small, sparkly yellow party hat with me, strapped it to Grace's fuzzy head, and took some photos of her wearing it. The next day I got Brett's number from someone since I needed to send him these most important photos. We went on our first date a few days later. (Followed by some months of roommate unrest and breaking up the household.) 

I remember watching Brett from inside the coffee shop. I was early (as usual) and he was a little late (as usual) so I watched him pull into a parking spot, open the back window of his jeep, and give Grace a few pats on the head before he turned and strolled inside with no ounce of urgency about him (as usual).

In the coming months of dating, I found his devotion to proper dog-parenting to be completely exasperating. He would end dates early because Grace needed to be let out. He would reroute day plans so we could run back to his place and take Grace for a walk. Often, he would bring Grace on the dates. I don't need to point out how much I love dogs, but seriously, dude? Again. Many of our dates consisted of me watching or waiting while he tended to Grace in some way. I remember bringing it up once. "Wouldn't you find this day less stressful if you didn't need to hold onto an anxious, pooping dog while you did it?" 

The Grace and Lu Competition for Brett's Attention started pretty early on. She was flummoxed by my consistent presence. I could see her looking at Brett as if to say, "Why is she here again?" I was annoyed by her attention grabbing behavior. One time she barfed at the bottom of a staircase leading up to the restaurant we (and many others) were waiting to eat at. Oh she needed walks and baths, and cuddles, and dog food. Grace Grace Grace. WHAT ABOUT ME!! She would gloat when she won him. She'd be real sweet to me when he was around but when he'd leave the room she'd ignore me or refuse to come when I called. 

She never forgave us for getting married and only upped the sarcasm and stubbornness over the years. Despite the unnecessarily large percentage of each day that was focused on Grace, having Brett around made my days brighter, and I could appreciate that he does things fully correctly, without cutting corners or taking a day off. 

Then we got Pippa. Grace's dismay reached record limits. There were many fights, many stitches, some bloody fingers, lots of keeping one in a different room, until finally Grace reached her elder years. She gave up on hoping to kill Pippa and began to try to enjoy life's small pleasures; sitting on the porch, rolling in the grass, accepting morning cuddles from her evil-stepmother, and anticipating just what oh what she might get to eat for lunch that day. 

Unbeknownst to us, Grace had a tumor growing in her liver. Who knows when it got there or how. We don't know when or if she ever started to feel sick. She was so still and stoic all the time - there were no behaviors that could have pointed to anything being wrong. But on Tuesday she didn't want to go on her walk, and on Wednesday she was breathing hard. Brett took her to the hospital where they gave us the news. "We can operate - remove the tumor and the fluid in her chest. Then think about palliative care. We don't recommend taking her home. She doesn't have much time." 

Brett brought her home. We set her up in her favorite spot, gave her lots of kisses, left to go to Carolyn's redneck Christmas party, and then came home to listen to her breathing heavily all night long. We laid on the floor with her and cried and made fun of her and tried to understand how she hid something so big from us. Grace died on Christmas morning, around 8:30 or so. We decided it was her perfect last jab - to make sure we always think of her on such an important day. 

In retrospect, we might have had the emergency room doctors put her to sleep when they told us not to take her home - but we didn't really believe them. She was up running around and eating two days ago. No, we'll take her to our vet when they open on Friday, and see what they say. She doesn't even seem sick, she just seems sleepy. We're both stunned by how fast it happened. We dug an appropriately sized grave for her that was appropriately filled with unexpected Grace-like obstacles. We let Pippa look and sniff and make sense of things before we buried her in a sunny spot at the end of the yard. I had to go straight to work at the kennel from grave-digging (I burst into tears as soon as I saw all my beloved homeless pups - had to apologize to my coworkers.) and Brett had to put his pricey Christmas meat in the oven and get the house ready for his family Christmas dinner. 

It wasn't our favorite day. We spent the limbo stage between Christmas and New Years sleeping and reading and cooking and taking Pippa for lonely walks. I've never seen Brett take time off of productivity for more than a few hours. This was strange to watch, and also very cozy and sweet to see. I laughed when I told him that I don't know him without Grace. He's never just been a lone, tall figure. There's always been a brown lump next to him. They've been an inseparable duo for twelve years. 

How is this a birthday post? Well... years ago, when Jeff was working through his divorce, he'd come over and sit on our couch and he and I would talk about relationships and love and expectation. (Brett would always go find something else to do once the conversation go too sticky.) Jeff had asked me some kind of question about "choosing someone for life" and I remember thinking about Grace - she was how I knew to choose Brett. 

Of course you can't really know who someone will become as they age but I knew that Brett, whether he gets it right or wrong, will always try and mean well while he does it - maybe not right away, but once the stubbornness wears off. Because he always does a thorough job, even when you're twenty minutes late and it could wait until tomorrow. Not only would he never cut corners with caring for Grace, he'd look for ways to make her days more exciting. 

One time when the Union's and Ray's were down in the sweltering Florida Keys, a repairman was working on something outside on the uncovered part of the dock. We were all inside, in the cool air-conditoning eating lunch and laughing at each other. I hadn't noticed that Brett slipped out until someone looked out the window and said, "What is Brett doing?" 

I got up to look. He was out at the end of the dock near the repairman, setting up a beach umbrella for him, so he could work in the shade. Brett held his sandwich in his mouth while he propped the pole just so. Once set, he strolled back down the dock in no hurry (as usual) and munched on his sandwich with casual contentment. He came back inside and didn't say a word about it. 

As for Jeff's marriage question; I think if a person has proven to be consistently well-intended, and not just for the fun parts of life, your team will be in good hands. Even if those hands have a couple mangled fingers. 

Knee-Deep in December

Life has continued on at the pace of my last post; what with the parties and work shifts and friend outings and family duties and dishes and Christmas shopping and walking dogs and all those small things that add up when you have people over for dinner. Since we're in that limbo stage between Chrsitmas and New Years, Brett and I have spent the last two days reading and sleeping. We're spent. 

Please enjoy this picture of Mom's tea party table for the Guy Girls.

So let's see... Oh! Usually I just slap up our Christmas tree with a string of lights and a handful of silver and gold ornaments. It's just the two of us you know, but since we were the hosts of a Large Gathering, I felt I should up the decorative ante. That's where my "crafternoons" came in. I rigged up this dangling ceiling display and made the stars and odd shaped ornaments out of paper. I did this while Gilmore Girls played the background and Brett sauntered through with blueprints and tax questions. I'm not inclined to spend money on plastic crap and beebobs so I thought I'd just make ornaments out of paper. It turned out be difficult to do this without being willing to spend money on the appropriate materials. So either way, a financial investment will be required to make it look like what I imagined. For now I'm calling it "Department Store Chic."

Additionally, I had all of our party patrons text over a couple pictures of big precious moments from the last year, and I hung them on our Christmas tree. With the exception of one wedding and one baby, I was surprised to receive pictures of rather ordinary days. In my mind I would get photos of folks standing on Mt. Kilimanjaro or delivering a Ted Talk to an enraptured crowd, but no. It was mostly pictures of happy little gatherings with people and animals we love. A houseplant that blooms once every five years. A lunch out with an older brother. A weekend trip taken with old friends. I really sat and thought about this, and concluded that life is what you make it. 
At the same moment in time I had been bemoaning the fact that people are forced to waste their talents in pursuit of financial security. I was thinking of all the talented singers who will never make a living singing or sculptors that won't sculpt and just generally, the people you know who are so much more interesting or funny than everyone else and you feel like they should have a bigger life. I lamented the waste of potential in so many people I know. I wondered if everyone (talented or not) thinks they are meant for something more or greater. I certainly have days where I think I should be on SNL. (Shortly after, I become aware of how much I would HATE being on tv.) Anyway, getting everyone's precious pictures made me reverse my tune. Life is mostly gentle, quiet things. Isn't it wonderful that everyday humans, amid all that we need to do to be comfy and fed, can also sing so sweetly? Or build something so beautiful? I'll probably always think the people I know are better than the famous or well-paid ones, but I guess this is a nice perspective to have in your back pocket.

We had thirty four people cram into our main room and while I loved seeing everyone, I didn't eat any dinner, enjoy a festive beverage, or even have a real conversation with anyone. I was too busy welcoming in, serving and cleaning. And it was still fun! But, that was too many people. The important bit though, was a final Christmas party for Ari, Nate and Birdie before they hit the dusty trail to Athens.

Post house party, Brett and I had to put on our Christmas-shopping thinking hats, wrap up projects for the year, attend a few dinner parties, and work out a menu for our double decker Christmas dinners.

Meanwhile at the shelter, dogs were flying off the shelves (kennels) which was great because something about the cold weather makes more people pull over to catch stray dogs so we had more dogs coming in each day than ever before. Last Tuesday, 31 dogs were brought in. Thrity-one! I've been over there most days of the week lately because we just don't have enough people for this many pups. I cannot comment on whats going on over on the cat side of things, but it looks equally chaotic - especially with this one cat, Lydia, who consistently climbs up the bars of her cage and then dangles from the ceiling tiles.

Let's see, what else? For Mom's side of the family, we did a Christmas Eve gathering with a "southern tacky" theme. Carolyn was inspired by the Trailer Park Murder Mystery party Brett and I went to back in October. I do not feel confident posting the photos here on account of not receiving permission to do so, and the more important idea that really, it's quite offensive. So much so, that many of the more classy members of the family did not participate. This includes Mom, Georgia, and everyone under 7 years old. So, here. Just this one...

Ok, this one too.

As for a more traditional Christmas gathering, we had the Eisenhauer family over for Christmas Day dinner. Brett bought an outrageously priced hunk of meat that he cooked to perfection while everyone else brought the normal things; green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, etc. I know this meal must have been good because Brett is never satisfied by the things he cooks, and for his Yorkshire pudding he said, "This turned out well." So it's probably the best things that's ever happened to a rib roast. Then we opened presents and ate cake while all the little boys tore up the shrubs in our backyard, pooped and farted in the house, and then used a large percentage of our toothpicks to make tiny medieval maces out of grapes. 

Ahh the joys of a small litter of boys. The house felt too quiet when everyone had left - Pippa and the cats came out of hiding to make sure we were still alive. Since then; lawn care, grocery shopping, the consideration of resolutions for the new year (Ha!), a few more holiday movies, and yesterday, I started my final week at the shelter. 

The shelter work, physically, has won. I have hip and leg pains that won't go away, cuts and scratches, and the new ability to determine the health of a poop based on smell. Emotionally, it has also won. I have cried over lost friends; both due to adoption and euthanasia, felt overjoyed watching dogs choose certain people, and taken on the burden of the outcomes of approximately 12 precious dog lives in particular. I genuinely love about forty-four dogs right now. I've tried to stop paying so close attention to the new ones coming in so that I don't fall for them too. Of the 44 I love, there are a handful whose futures feel paramount to my happiness. 

So I've got to get out of there.

The Work Is Hard But The Pay Is Low

The "hustle culture" pendulum has made its way to the other end of the arc and found itself over in the "quiet quitting" section. Since most of you who read my blog are well into your 60's, I'll tell you that "hustle culture" was society's attempt to glamorize the fact that people need multiple jobs to make ends meet these days, and also to make sure that you monetize your hobbies. People have been scampering around working their real jobs, having side gigs, and then making money selling pictures of their feet on the internet. Now everyone is tired of working so hard, so they are "quiet quitting." This is society's response to the burn out; choosing not to work overtime, saying no to extra work, having hobbies for the enjoyment of them, and prioritizing cozy, happy time - whatever that looks like to you. It's America's long-awaited understanding of the siesta. 

I was not a fan of hustle culture. I'm certain I don't need to explain why. And eeeeveryones been laughing at Lue all these years. Ol' self-employed, not money-motivated Lue. "Let me guess, you took a nap and had tea today didn't you, Lue?" People scoffed when I told them I baked bread today. They rolled their eyes when I turned down a high paying bride because I didn't like her attitude. They'd feign too much mental turmoil to ever read a book when I'd tell them that I had in fact, read a book that day.

Well who's laughing now, you quiet quitters? It's not me, I tell you. I'm real busy. Now that doing only what you need to do in order to be happy is acceptable in some circles, I've found myself (and my feller) at the infancy of dense undertakings. The kind that require "hustling," if you will. 

Chilly trip to Cypress Gardens. 

(Predominantly taken to let me practice driving on the highway.)

First, there is the physical hustle that goes on over at the pet shelter. My co-workers' Fitbits are logging us in at walking 15-20 miles per shift. That does not account for that what must be... well hang on, let me do the math... 40 kennels, 3x's per shift, carry the two...a minimum of 120 squats per shift. Then there's the bending and the belly rubs and the mopping and the wild animal wrestling, and when I come home and finally sit down, my body locks up and I get stuck in a kind of fetal position shortly after dinner. I've sustained a number of injuries but the one lingering one is a sharp pain in my left butt cheek through to where my leg hooks on in the front. Something is wrong in there and I'm not young enough for it to heal before my next shift anymore. 

From a mental, social, and leadership standpoint, the shelter is what the kids call a "dumpster fire" and I'm mentally on my way out of what was always going to be a temporary situation. 

And that's because I have a new undertaking - a new business to start. I don't know how to do it, and I'm not sure that I should, and I have no idea what to charge, but I've started building the website and a business plan. I'll describe it to you shortly - still trying to understand it myself. And you know EisenEars started his business earlier this year. It started out with a bang and now that he's caught up, he's had to actually come up with a marketing strategy and niche, and all those things you have the luxury of ignoring when all of your business comes from word of mouth. Look at us early-late thirty-somethings, staring at our respective screens all day to do work that makes us happy. The American dream.

I've also got my chicken group working on a big campaign to get veg-options onto menus in local restaurants. (I must admit this is partially self-serving.) I like telling people what I'm up to with my chicken group because the phrase "chicken group" seems to make people laugh. 

Most importantly, it's the season for holiday parties and Brett and I have been on a real bender. There's something every night! We're both mad about it because we're bored most of the year and there are few parties. Now there are too many and we are both introverts, so it wears us out. This Saturday we are hosting a sizable group for the annual Christmas party that goes on at Ari and Nate's house, but since they sold their home and are packing up, it got moved to our house. Once located at our house, Brett and I felt like we should invite our own friends, and now we have more butts than chairs. The fun news is that it has resulted in much holiday creativity, and what I cleverly referred to as "crafternoons" which resulted in a pitying look from Brett.

As for my family; we had a nearly-full Thanksgiving table, Nick and Liv got a severe case of the flu, Beans has become utterly obsessed with Dad, Mom and I did some pre-Christmas shopping, Ellen and I went out for lunch (we never do that!), and coming up tomorrow, the Guy Gals (and Ellen and me) are having a little Christmas tea party at Big Mama's house. (I know - it's a tough life.) Popples U has gotten into the non-profit spirit and gotten hooked up with a guy that helps low income folks with home-based woes. I'm sure there is a better way to describe it, but Dad's involvement is also in it's infancy, so all I can really tell you is that he'll be able to use his construction and tinkering knowledge to benefit others - something he's been doing for free all this time anyway. 

Tell It To Me In Song

The Union family loves The Sound of Music. Dad in particular was always willing to pop on the nearly three hour film and sing wildly to each of the songs. Ellen and I wondered how old we were when we first watched it and I have one very distinct memory watching it while sitting on the floor in my parent's bedroom, eating popcorn from a holiday tin. I was six then and had already seen it many times. So we've realized Olivia is ready to be handed the tradition.

Throughout our 35 years as a family, it has not been uncommon for any of us to spontaneously belt out the songs from the film. Dad again, in particular, was commonly found speaking as Mother Abbess or even having a conversation as Maria and the head nun. Once when Mom announced that she had something to say to the whole family, Dad eagerly responded in a British accent requesting, "Tell it to me in song, Reverend Mother!" 
We've never stopped laughing about it.

So when Ellen saw that the Broadway folks are doing a Sound of Music national tour, the family group text had affirmatives all the way round. "Book the tickets!"

It was just the four of us - the original Unions. We went to a Turkish restaurant before the show. That's not important information but I'm leaving it here as part of the memory. We got to the performance hall, found our seats, and settled in to be delighted. Ellen assured us (Dad) ahead of time that people would be signing along, so we could definitely belt out our favorites. In front of us were a few middle-aged women. Behind us, a mother and child. To the left, just some more humans. I'll go ahead and tell you that by the time the show ended, our little foursome was an island. All the people near us had left at intermission and never come back. Was it the show? The seats? The 65 year old man that couldn't stop laughing?

The play was great - for the record. The singers were notably talented, the sets were beautiful, the Von Trapp kids - adorable. The crowd though, was stoic. They were not singing along. They were not bobbing in their seats. They were not anticipating the next line and delivering it a little too loudly. And then there was Dad. He was bouncing his legs, dancing with his hands, and becoming more and more amused by his enthusiasm in such polite company. And as anyone with a precious father can tell you, once they see that they're making their kids laugh, the ante will be upped. There's no stopping a dad bringing joy to his family. When Fraulein Maria was asked if she loves Captain Von Trapp, Dad answered a hiccupy sob of "Oh, I don't know!" just before the lead actress did. He didn't mean to say it as loudly as he did, so Ellen and I snotted out sudden laughs at the same time, none of which was appreciated by the people in front of us. 

Then came a favorite song, The Lonely Goatherd. We sing this while we play cards. We sing this to break the silence in long car rides. We sing this when we hear a sound that sounds even remotely like a yodel. Years ago, during a long car ride, I needed to go the bathroom but we were ages from an exit. I sang to distract myself and concocted a masterpiece to the tune of The Lonely Goatherd. A short sample:

Ho ho, get me to a bathroom.
Ho ho, I must do a job.
Yo ho, it will be a blowout!
She's walking like she's got a cob.

(Get her to the bathroom. 
Where's the nearest bathroom? 
Get her to that bathroom now!)

The stall on the right is the only one open.
Turn around, lock the door, drop your drawers!

Anyways, we all burst out laughing when that song started because we were all singing the bathroom version in our heads. We really tried not to be obnoxious but we couldn't help it. There was also some serious moment when Dad did something riotously funny - I can't remember now what is was - but Ellen, Dad and I were stifling our laughter to the point of tears and sweating, and holding our hands next to our faces so we couldn't see each other. When the scene ended and the audience cheered, I let out some blasting cackles just to relieve some pressure. Dad was shocked when they sang songs he'd never heard before, outraged when the changed the order of the songs ("They can't do that!"), and miffed as the audience held in their enthusiasm. After intermission we rearranged seats and put Dad down on Ellen's end so she'd have to babysit him for the back half. With Dad out of sight, it was much easier to focus on the play, though anytime I checked, his knees were bouncing and he was conducting the orchestra with his hands. 

I certainly can't speak for the people near us, but we all had a great time. 

Beloved simpletons.

A Chaotic Catch Up

Mom and Dad came home from an Adriatic excursion and immediately developed flu-like symptoms. Ellen got to see our folks when she picked them up from the airport but I went another week or so until Mom especially, felt like she was back to fighting weight. Dad still oozed around town despite his status as a super-spreader. Mostly they stayed home in their respective chairs and coughed and hacked and blew their noses. In the meantime, they adopted a dog I told them about - a cuddly and distinctly lazy bulldog with a bum leg - the perfect pet for them. Dad hustled over to the shelter to meet her, accosted one of our admin people, tried to adopt her on the spot despite her not yet being medically cleared, and then sent me to adopt her as soon as she was ready so that no one could snag her out from underneath him. And now that she's settled in to her new life of luxury, Dad claims he wasn't interested in getting a dog. 

They do really like her. Dad brings her around in the car with him, plays fetch with golf balls (she destroys anything soft), and lets her sleep in his chair with him despite not having enough room. She has stayed true to being cuddly and lazy but there was some unanticipated enthusiasm that she displayed upon arriving at her new home. Mom was especially concerned that a mistake had been made, though she was the first to accommodate the dog's desire to laze on the white couch that Ellen and I were not allowed to sit on until we were in our late twenties. Her name is Beans, and despite what my parents say about her, we can all tell they are wrapped around her little bum leg.

Today I received this picture with the caption "Beans in her new sweater!" because they read that breeds like hers can have a sensitivity to cold weather. But anyway, he didn't want a dog.

I don't know much about what goes on in Ellen's world because when you ask her "what's new?" she answers with an initial exasperated exhale followed by some mutterings of "just trying to survive." Other than hiding from her parental duties, I'm not sure what makes her happy these days. She and Lee are headed out for an Austrian excursion which does excite her to an intense extreme, while Lee is just happy for a vacation. Mom and Dad are watching the squirts while they are gone so everyone is both understandably stressed and excited.

I spent a Saturday with Ellen and the kids while Mom and Dad were out of town, because normally Ellen would entertain the kids by taking them to Mom and Dad to entertain them. On this day, we took them to swim lessons, the pumpkin patch, and the ice cream shop. The swim lessons were stressful to watch on account of having 15 floppy toddlers bobbing in a pool. Nick loves the water and charged into the pool with the careless abandon of a floppy toddler. Olivia is much discerning and knew to be afeared (as the Scots say) of the churning pool. Liv cried the whole time while Nick hung out underwater with his instructor. When it was over, Livvy chastised herself for being so fearful. 

These cares were promptly forgotten as we barreled on up the highway to the pumpkin patch. This was a real festival of affairs. There were food trucks, farm animals, obstacle courses, some dangling acrobats, face painting, tractor rides, a corn maze, candy and crap for sale, and finally, pumpkins. Right away Liv knew she wanted her face painted, but first they wanted to play. Ellen hustled the kids from activity to activity the same way she would "accomplish" the pumpkin patch. 

"Ok, you wanna go on a tractor ride? Let's go on a tractor ride!" So we would go on a tractor ride and once all of our feet were off the tractor, "You want to go pet the farm animals? Let's go!" So we ran to pet the farm animals. 

"Had enough yet? Let's go down the slide!" Bam, bam, bam. Checking off all the highlights as efficiently as possible. Her children don't mind - they probably know no differently, but I was terribly amused by the pace. I am now excited to find out if Nick and Liv will dart through the world like their mom does or if the frenzied rush will turn them into slow, intentional people that want to spend the time to mull over all the options. 

Once all the main attractions had been had, Ellen began the process of ending the fun and heading back to the car. "But I want to get my face painted!" Olivia said. 

"Me too," Nick added because he wants to do whatever Liv wants to do. Ellen thought for a minute and said "Ok, you two go get in line and we'll come find you." So Liv and I wandered off to find the face painter. She held my pinky in her tiny little hand while she chattered and mused. "I know exactly what I want painted on my face. Aunt Lu, have you ever had your face painted?" 

We found the booth and stood at the back of the line. It was not moving quickly. But Livvy didn't mind. She looked at the face paint options and selected her favorite. She was ready. Ellen and Nick finally joined us and I think Ellen stood in the line for about two minutes before she wanted to bail. 

"You know y'all, this line isn't moving. I think it's best if we do something else. Maybe head back home or get ice cream?" I gasped.

"But Liv's wanted her face painted the whole time! It's the only thing she's asked for!" Livyy held on to my finger and looked at her mama. Ellen glared back at me, shocked and amused that I would wait in this line, or rather, make her wait in it.

"Mama, I want to get the rainbow paint." Liv and I gave our best sad faces and Ellen shot daggers at me and said fine. "Which one do you want, Livvy?"

Liv went over to the board and pointed at the rainbow face paint that she loved the moment she set foot in the pumpkin patch. Of course, it was the most expensive option. $25. Ellen slowly turned her head and glared at me. "That's kind of expensive Livvy. Wouldn't you rather do the flowers or the sparkles?" These were $10.

"She wants the rainbow," I reminded her withholding my blasting cackle. Livvy nodded. 

"Ok," Ellen accepted defeat.

"I want the rainbow too!" Nick added. I laughed out loud while Ellen began stress laughing. 

"Oh Nicky, the rainbow is kind of girly. Let's do something else. Look at the black cat, oh, or the pumpkin!" These were $5 options. Then she glared at me and said, "I am not spending $50 on face paint!" 

In the end, Liv got her $25 rainbow paint, and Nick panicked after the purchase of a $5 black cat, so the girl painted it onto Ellen's face instead. 

Then we all went for ice cream (because Ellen foolishly mentioned it to get out of standing in line) and Liv said she loves me, so... I think it was a great day.

Two weeks later I babysat Ari and Nate's little one and she was so easy and quiet. I really only have Ellen's babies to compare her to, but it was shocking. This little one year old ate farro, hummus, cottage cheese and an egg for dinner. Then she held out her hands for me to wipe her fingers clean. After dinner, we walked around in the backyard with the dog, and then at bedtime, she laid there pleasantly while I changed her diaper, and then she held out her little arms and legs for her pajama onesie. I zipped her up, read her a story, and then plopped her into her crib where she sat quietly until deciding to lay down and fall asleep. 

It was all very Ari. She would have an adult baby. 

Speaking of which, Nate got a groovy job in Athens, so they are headed back to Georgia sometime next month. They have accepted an offer on their place and put one in on a house in Athens, so it's just a matter of time before they leave me. I'm sad to not get to watch Birdie grow up, and of course I feel lost in the world without Aribelle, but I'm excited about their excitement. 

Let's see, what else? The Big One and I celebrated our 7th wedding anniversary, Papa Clint fell down and broke his hip, and we went to two different halloween parties - one as pirates, the other as trailer park community members. The trailer park bit was assigned to us for a murder mystery party. I did not correctly guess who the murderer was but Brett's facial hair as 'Tyler Briggs' was much appreciated while my personification of 'Lila Monroe' was voted best performance. So. 

You didn't think I was going to blow past Clint's broken hip did you? He was minding his own business, closing his garage door when the string snapped and he threw himself to the ground with all the strength it takes to heave a broken garage door closed, and he managed to land just right to snap his hip. Clint says it's the most pain he's experienced - and he's broken lots of bones. We were all comforted that Maura happened to be on shift at the time and met the ambulance as Clint arrived.

While this was not life threatening, it's always icky to see your loved ones in a hospital bed. They had to try a number of pain medication concoctions before any of them kicked in. Poor Clint toughed it out - and still managed to carry on his political advocacy in the meantime. They finally put some hydrocodone in his IV and that knocked out all coherent conversation. Rest assured that he kept firing his Dad-jokes at the very patient nurses and made some wonderful comments about his open hospital gown. We left as they prepped him for surgery (all went well - they put in some pins) and made sure to shower him with books, snacks, and entertainment opportunities for his recovery. This was mostly unnecessary because Clint was too doped up to read and thought the hospital food was delicious. They moved him to a PT recovery ward where he stayed for about 10 days. Big Bubba Brett ('Bubble Bread' as the nephews call him) visited Clinch (as we call him) everyday until he got home again. Clint has a walker and a trio of grabbing sticks, but he's back up and moving at home.

(This inappropriately happy picture was Clint's request. He was a little high.)

In my next post, I'll give a self-focused report, unrelated photographs, and the grand retelling of our family date-night to see a live performance of Dad's favorite film, The Sound of Music.

Insufferable Animal Lovers

I saw this post on social media. 

I glanced at it, smiled at the good things that not eating animals does, and then I moved on. I don't get on Facebook very often because there's nothing to see there except ads for stuff I don't want. So when I do hop on The Facebook, I scroll for approximately 45 seconds and then get back to whatever I was doing. Sometimes I even count to 45 to make sure I don't give it a full minute of my time. In this case, I scrolled past the happy reminder and then thought, "Hmm, I don't usually see nice things posted about veganism. I wonder how it was received." 

So then I looked at the comments. 

Out in real life, I don't bother trying to explain veganism to people. I don't usually mention that I don't eat animals and I wouldn't try to explain that I don't eat animals as an economic protest of how we treat the industrially farmed animals, which are the only ones available to buy in grocery stores. It's kind of like choosing not to have kids - people don't actually want the answer. They want me to confirm that I'm weird and selfish so that they can approve of my decision. In the case of not eating animals, they want to hear me claim that I'm better than them, so they can confirm that vegans are brainwashed snobs. (This may not be entirely universal but it's certainly what I thought about vegans....until I actually listened to some.)

In the case of the comments on this post, I became exasperated by the non-vegans' exasperation. First, I don't know why they are offended enough to try to deny the post. It's not about them. What does it have to do with their existence? (Seems like it hit a nerve.) Second, I don't know why they think the post is inaccurate. It's unlikely they have studied the environmental effects of industrial agriculture, so I'm stunned by the willingness to deny unfamiliar information. All of their questions and comments can be answered, not that they want to hear them. Third, why are so many of the sentences incoherent? If I was going to argue on a topic that I haven't studied, I'd at least form complete sentences so that I seem like I had some sense.

So I scrolled through the comments and mulled over what I thought about veganism and environmentalism before I knew anything about it. Growing up, we heard that people concerned about climate change and the planet were "wacky" people. Hippies and freaks and nerds. People that didn't eat meat were trying to be better than other people. They were making a statement about how the laypeople live - or something like that. They definitely weren't any fun and couldn't relate to us normal people. 

I realized I never came up with those thoughts on my own. They were passed down or subliminally tucked into my brain without me ever looking into it. That's fine - that's how a person's entire culture and worldview is created. We don't often question the ideas we are surrounded by. Why would we? Everyone around us says it's true. 

It happens with all the unflattering "isms" we can be carrying around; racism, sexism, ageism. It's not usually blatant statements that make us all a little racist. It happens through a thousand little subtleties; casting choices in movies, folks that prove stereotypes true, having a singular unpleasant experience, etc. So I reckon it was some Peta vegans that marched around with their chins higher than everyone's else's that made us all think that plant-eaters are the worst. (The Peta people are just too much sometimes. Definitely can't relate to us laypeople.) 

As for these Facebook commenters that are mad about the positive outcomes of a plant-based diet and subsequently deny them with grammatically incorrect ravings, well, multiple studies show (not to be snobby) that the folks that get fussy about their right to eat meat, usually do so because they love animals. Isn't that cute? Apparently, the awareness of a vegetarian or vegan person subliminally reminds meat eaters that they are "hurting" animals. And most people don't want to hurt animals. And they aren't "directly" hurting animals, so it feels like a real allegation to lay on their shoulders. It's the people unbothered by plant-eaters that really don't care one way or the other. 

The opposite of this picture post would say, "Everyday as a meat eater: you kill one animal, dump out 5000L of water, ignite 2.7m of forest..." etc. And that isn't true is it? My sweet mama hasn't killed anything besides bugs and would never go to the park with an arm-full of fireworks. She couldn't possibly be one of these seemingly terrible meat-eater people. Right? 

Right. 

Just like the vegans don't save an animal a day or use any of the saved water to control the fires in the Amazon. What the post is saying is, "We've done the math and the average Australian person consumes 220lbs of meat each year. It takes x,y,z, to create 220lb pounds of meat. Therefore, one less person putting economic demand on industrial ag, results in a savings of this many animals lives, this much water, grain, and forest consumed by animals, and this much co2 emitted by animals and degraded land after one years time. Then we divided by 365 days and came up with these approximated numbers." (These are the figures for Australia's industrial agriculture. If you're curious, Americans eat slightly more meat per year.)

And if you do the research and the math, it is technically correct. The figures can give a little in either direction depending on the culture and country being illustrated. My one allowance is that an animal life will not be saved each day, however "approximately one less animal will be brought into the system." It's a supply and demand concept, and also, they don't mean a whole cow - it refers to smaller animals including our oceans friends. I understand why the missing context in this image could lead some to wonder, but if you got worked up about it, wouldn't you just google it to find out?

So, when you know a good bit about industrial agriculture, and you read comments like those from Gael and Kyle, you wind up frustrated as well as embarrassed for them. They're so mad they can't control how fast they're typing, so they wind up making a question that can't exist. For example, Kyle asked. "How many crops do we need for animal byproduct loss?" 
You don't need any crops for that, Kyle. Animal byproduct doesn't have anything to do with the amount of crops they ate. Also, "byproduct loss" is kind of an oxymoron. Come on, Kyle!

In conclusion, being that I care an awful lot about animals and the planet, I wish people could forgo the juvenile knee-jerk reaction of having their preferences questioned, and instead, lean in with curiosity. You don't need to walk away with a different mindset. Just do a little listening. 

And if you still don't like it, mutter about it to yourself on your way home to do some research about it. Maybe they ARE actually all wrong. 
Now you possess the knowledge to gently explain it to them next time.