I Blame Denzel

Every Olympic cycle finds folks worldwide longing for an everyday pluggish person to compete next to the athletes so we can be properly impressed by their feats of strength. *Regular person for scale. Like the adrenaline-filled car chases and inexhaustible fight scenes in action movies, the Olympians leave me feeling very much like I could probably do that. Just about anyone can build muscle and stamina, it’s about committing to the bit. I’m somewhat bendy and have always been able to pick up anything I needed to pick up, so surely a boot camp obstacle course would only be slightly more difficult than carrying all my groceries in at once while my collection of cats circles my ankles. I’ve always been convinced I could breeze through Navy Seal training because of how much I like myself. An angry drill sergeant yelling put-downs in my face seems more like their own personal problem. I just don't think I'd fall for it. 

Now Denzel Washington, I believe all these things about him too. You won't rattle his self-worth. You won't even get him to wheeze a little after a lengthy run. After watching his stoic performance being waterboarded in a rip-roaring adventure film, I was certain I’d be equally as tested but still beautifully composed and attractive if it ever happened to me. So I tried it that night in the shower.

I hadn't planned on doing it. It was a regularly scheduled “everything” shower, so I settled in for the long haul. Razor, washcloth, face mask, conditioner…. washcloth. I thought of Denzel. He’d just been waterboarded on my TV screen mere hours ago. It was fresh on my mind. What I thought I knew about waterboarding is that it really only kills a person if something goes wrong, otherwise it’s just a convincing simulation of drowning. It’s like Survivor or Fear Factor. You know the TV executives can’t afford a death on their watch so it won't actually be dangerous. Waterboarding is like reality TV; merely a perceived threat. I put the wet washcloth over my face and stared straight ahead. It was muggy under there, but not all that different from being outside in July. I tipped my head back slowly, letting water flush through the fibers and drizzle out onto my neck. This is kind of nice, I thought but then I tried to inhale and a garble of washcloth and water filled my mouth, sending me back upright again, spitting and gasping for air.
Tip #1: Hold your breath. (That's the end of the tips.)

I took a deep breath, replaced the washcloth, and then went whole-hog, flat-faced under the shower head. I held my breath like a champ until I couldn't anymore. I parted my lips discreetly, thinking the water wouldn't notice and I could sneak a little air past it, but it caught me red lip-ed and filled my mouth with hot water. I whipped the cloth off my face and took a deep breath. This is harder than I thought. I went on to try a plethora of ways to figure out how to breathe under such conditions, including sticking my tongue straight out to create a tent-like structure to act as an air pocket, but I'll go ahead and tell you that this is a foolproof exercise in keeping a person from breathing. Those torture folks really know what they’re doing. 

The life lesson came later that night as I tried to sleep. My chest hurt; a strange kind of fluid pain up high, where my lungs might be. While I would normally spend ample time trying on different ailments, mulling over their causes, symptoms, and potential duration, my mind skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the most probable cause. Occam’s razor; it’s got to be water in my lungs. 
Whoopsies. I laid on my side, facing away from Brett. Eyes wide open. Ok hold on… I worked to keep myself calm. This is no big deal, people swallow water swimming all the time. Wouldn't I have felt it if I inhaled water? Why would water in your lungs be a problem anyway- they could probably use a little flushing out. Aren't they kind of made of water? I had almost brushed it off as nothing when my brain whispered, “Dry drowning.” 
The hell does that mean? I asked my brain. That’s when I remembered hearing the term one time, more than twenty years ago. I read an article about a little boy that drowned a few hours after swimming. I didn't remember anything I might have learned from the article - just the term "dry drowning," and that’s when I knew my fate was sealed.
I will die tonight.

I wondered if I ought to wake Brett up, tell him I had waterboarded myself out of curiosity and now I don't feel good. 

If he didn't laugh at me, he’d probably make me go to the hospital. I wasn’t interested in either option so I kept laying there, strategizing. I took a deep breath. It didn't hurt. Should it hurt? I felt on the verge of panic but I also felt stupid. But people aren't supposed to die from it, I argued, That's the whole point! How many times have I told Brett I was dying but then I didn't die and had to apologize in the morning? How many times will I give him evidence to have me committed?
But I don’t want to die. I thought to myself, and then I paused.

I'd never had that thought before. I've never had the opposite thought either, though I'm certainly prone to lamenting the stupidity of modern existence. My easy preference for solitude over company and my bi-annual flirtation with nihilism had me cast myself away from others; different from them. I had written myself off as a kind of accidental misanthrope. A self-proclaimed tragic case. 
I was struck by the thought because of the urgency in it. My own death has never scared me and suddenly, when it finally seemed a real possibility, I was just SO disappointed.

Interesting. Why do you want to be here? my brain asked, and answers poured out, tons of them, like they'd been lined-up, waiting to rush the field. All of them small things. Rainy-day indulgences. Family dinners, sun on my face, hot beverages, falling asleep on my husband's chest. Laughing with my mom. Crusty bread right out of the oven, watching dogs sleep and birds fly. Flowers. Bike rides. Beach days. Card games, sweet tea, dinner parties, music - sad music. My sister’s real laugh. Books and blankets and bonfires. The smell of a newly painted room. Colors! My dad’s stewed green beans, and his salad dressings, and his frozen peanut butter cereal log. Punch-lines, one-liners, cheap-shots. Margaritas, french fries, and dancing in creaky old beach bars. Watching my mom hate things. Surprises. Furry animal feet. Well-worn t-shirts. Natural born storytellers. Blueberries. Strange laughs. People who light up when they see their people.
I fell asleep smiling.

I didn’t drown that night. I confessed it all to Brett as soon as I woke up. “I waterboarded myself and thought I was dry-drowning last night but I didn't and I realized that I really like being here!” He stared at me a moment before silently turning to grind his coffee beans. (He’s always appreciated existing and has pushed back at my blasé attitude about life.) “There’s just so much to be excited about!” I informed him.

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.