The Lasso of Truth

I received some e-mails about the tone of my post on Monday. It was described as “severe,” “combative and aggressive” and “WTF?” But I’m not apologizing. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times: once a writer starts apologizing for her writing, she has lost her integrity. I stand by my Monday post. Besides, no writer can please every reader. Someone will ALWAYS be pissed off. If I stuck only to bland subjects, I’d end up writing about the water composition of cucumbers, and even then some jack-off would call me an idiot for not knowing that cucumbers are less water-soluble than watermelon. Or some shit.

So the post will stand as is. Besides, I got a lot of positive email from introverts who said I nailed it. We are vastly misunderstood, and need to stick together.

I remember vividly the first time in my adult life that I knew I was an introvert. When it hit me between the eyes that I was not cut out for that overly active social life replete with lots of people and vapid chatting.

I was a young teacher in my first teaching job, and my department supervisor had invited me to her Greek Goddess party. Everything in my body told me not to go. That it was corny, that there would be no men there so What Was-the-Dang-Point, that it was a waste of time, that my cozy apartment and my boyfriend were a better choice, that her friends were bound to be as flighty as she was. But she was my supervisor, and my professional idol- she had her Ph.D., something I wanted more than anything in the world, something that I’m still working towards. Truth be told, I was flattered that she asked me to attend. I pictured a sophisticated gathering of accomplished women, and I hoped to have the chance to pick her brain about doctoral programs.

It was nothing like that at all.

It was a disaster. Just a bunch of women wearing flowing dresses, gladiator sandals, and flowers in their hair, and carrying books about Isis and Diana. It was like a dress rehearsal for the Swedish Midsommar. Even then I was aware of pretension, and I just couldn’t summon the energy or the forced vivacity needed for such ridiculousness. This was thirty years ago, before mindfulness and positive affirmations became things of normalcy, so their chanting and dancing unnerved me. I was just waiting for these women to get out a Ouija board, trace a pentagraph on the ground and conjure Hecate. I didn’t know what was going on, so I just sat there balancing my paper plate on my lap while they talked about self-care. We went around the circle while women talked about poetry, baking, and yoga, and suddenly, it was my turn.

“Huh?” I said, when Meg said my name.

“It’s your turn, Mary, to share your favorite tool for self-love.”

Everyone was smiling and staring at me warmly, so I felt comfortable saying the first thing that came to my mind.

“Well, I use my vibrator a lot.”

Silence. I looked around the circle, seeing only blank faces. What was wrong? Why wasn’t anyone saying anything? What says self-love more than sexual health? Was this a goddess party or a dried-up frigid nun party? Didn’t they know that sexual gratification is a basic fundamental need? I looked down at my half-eaten wedge of quiche Lorraine, wondering if I curled up into a really tiny ball, if I could fit right into the indentation of the crust.

(Side note: Why is the subject of female masturbation such a taboo subject? What’s the big deal?  I’ve never understood it. Male masturbation is parodied in books, movies and in cartoons. I was pleased to log onto my favorite blog recently to see the post “Top Ten Vibrators Our Readers Recommend.” Now, this blog is about as white bread as it can get. It’s a mom blog. But she was evolved enough to broach this subject with her readers. It was a wildly popular post, and the moms appreciated it. She has further established herself as a badass blogger in my book).

The rest of the night I talked politely with the other goddesses, listening to them drone on about passion fruit, goddess dressings, Vera Bradley prints and healing crystals. But I was impatient for escape, pacing like Wonder Woman on the banks of Themyscira. And after that social disgrace, I realized that perhaps it is unwise to wield the Lasso of Truth with too much abandon. And needless to say, my relationship with my supervisor, while always professional, was never quite the same.

(Shocker. I guess once you picture a woman using a vibrator, it’s hard to imagine anything else. Stop).

So Monday’s post wasn’t meant as a “fuck you” to extroverts. Quite the opposite. The point of the post was simply that extroverts, while often annoying AF, are lucky. Society is formed around social interaction, so when extroverts do what comes naturally to them, i.e. attending New Years’ Eve parties and Jimmy Buffett concerts, eating Buffalo Blasts at Cheesecake Factory and pretending cookie swaps are fun, they are celebrated.

But when introverts do what comes naturally to them, i.e. solitary mountain hikes, book mobiles, cave burrowing, and cauldron-stirring, they are vilified. And very often, our routines are highly suspect. What are they doing, people wonder? Binge-watching “Malcolm in the Middle”? Assembling bombs? Masturbating?

I’ll tell you what we are doing when we go off alone. We are re-charging. If you’ve never heard anything about the social batteries of introverts, then the following should prove to be revelatory.

Did you know that the more introverts are alone, the more charged we get? That silence, solitude, solitary pursuits, all charge up our batteries? Think of that feeling of satisfaction you get when your phone is fully charged or when you have a full tank of gas- that is how we feel when we get time alone (conversely, for extroverts, it is people and activity that fills their batteries. But I’m not here to talk about those psychopaths).

Personally, nature does it for me. Solitary travel does it for me, independent study and exercise does it for me. Reading, writing, cooking, quiet art museums, all do it for me. Quiet time with my dog used to do it for me. But social interactions drain me, like being at a concert and watching that little battery icon on your phone slowly deplete. I began this past weekend with 100% power, and various social interactions drained my battery:

Paid my bill at a restaurant and thanked the friendly hostess for a wonderful meal: 1% drainage.

Checked into the inn and chatted warmly with the perky desk clerk: 2% drainage.

Discussed my travel purpose with the bartender while I sipped my martini: 5% drainage.

Waited for my turn to enter a trailhead and engaged in casual banter with a family of four: 10% drainage.

Asked for directions from a nice couple on a hiking trail and pet their dog while telling them I just lost mine: 15% drainage.

Got into an in-depth discussion with the souvenir shop owner about the heritage of the elephant figurines I liked: 20% drainage.

Talked on the phone with my dad about the election: 30% drainage.

That’s some serious drainage.

But luckily my battery goes back up as soon as I go back into solitude. Even getting back into my car between hikes and listening to music pumps it back up. But I can’t hide at remote mountain inns forever. I eventually have to return to my life and deal with phone calls, electricians, neighbors (I’ve been avoiding them because they want to offer me dog condolences, and I’m not confident I won’t burst into tears), that follow-up interview, my oil change, banking people, cleaning people, blah blah blah.

By 5:00 p.m. on most days you can find me cowering on my couch, with a charger sticking out of my butt.

When I was first married and a young mother, socializing was far more necessary than it is now. And even though I did it better back then, it still didn’t come naturally. I would attend parties with my pathologically-social extroverted husband, and since he liked to stay out late, we would drive separately, or I would arrange to leave with a friend. If the party was close enough I’d walk home, sometimes in the dead of winter. I would pay the babysitter, check on my babies, put on my comfy clothes, and sink into the couch with relief that it was over.

Although for introverts, it’s never really over. We will always have events to attend that we don’t want to attend, people to deal with that we don’t want to deal with. And we will do so, as pleasantly as possible and to the best of our ability. We might do it so well that you would never guess we were introverts. There are people in my life that think I am an extrovert, because they have only seen me in full 100% charged mode.

So have patience with us and just remember: if you really loved us, you wouldn’t invite us. Anywhere.

Assnesia

Elaine: “I thought you were a leg man.”

Jerry Seinfeld: “Leg man, why would I be a leg man? I don’t need legs, I have legs.”

Several things greeted me upon my arrival home from my recent hiking retreat.

  • My dad’s request to help him get into his online banking for the 256th time.
  • A call from my financial guy. Is the market going wack-a-doodle from the election?
  • Ridiculous 80-degree weather that had me immediately shedding layers. WTF? It’s the middle of gosh-dang November, and I see people sitting on the beach. Is Jersey turning into another Florida?
  • My ass.

Your ass, you say? How did your ass greet you upon your arrival home? Wasn’t it with you on your trip?

Well, of course it was. It’s just that when I am away in nature, I forget about my ass.

I develop assnesia.

I don’t mean I forget I have an ass, of course. I just forget to worry about it. I am using it to scramble up mountains, to shimmy down rock faces, to propel forward with a strong, purposeful strides, to rappel, to bend down and inspect scat and lichens. I am usually wearing sturdy hiking tights, and for the most part, no one you meet on a rough hiking trail gives a shit about how your ass looks in hiking tights.

Except in Scottsdale. Everyone cares about how your ass looks in hiking tights in Scottsdale.

Ya gotta love Scottsdale.

I’ve never had That Ass. I’ve always had the legs. The boobs. The hair. I think in the late 90’s I even had washboard abs for about eight minutes. But I’ve never had The Ass. A tragedy. But if you will excuse the tired platitude, it is what it is.

You ladies who are reading this and smiling, who have (or at least had at one point in your lives) That Ass, you know exactly what I’m talking about. And you know perfectly well how lucky you are. You are part of an elite group, a Members-Only club, because you have had access to Assmen. Assmen don’t even care if a woman looks like a sea-donkey or a two-o’clock beauty queen from the neck up, as long as the woman has That Ass. Think I’m kidding? I’ve asked the questions and done the research).

The heart-shaped derriere is a genetic thing, one a woman is either born with or not. It has been argued that it can be achieved through exercise. I say sure, maybe, if you’re starving yourself and exercising eight hours a day, seven days a week. But it’s doubtful. Ever see the glutes on those gorgeous personal trainers and fitness girls on Instagram? Don’t be fooled. They don’t have those asses because they’re in the fitness industry. They joined the fitness industry because they have those asses. If you’re seven-feet tall, you go out for basketball. If you have a sensitive palate, you become a sommelier. Everyone works with what they’ve got.

Even some celebrity actresses have admitted to undergoing painful lengthy surgeries to attain The Ass. But going to such desperate lengths is not pragmatic for normal women, so we just learn to love the Asses we have, don’t we?

Don’t be angry, don’t be sad

And don’t sit crying over the ass you have

There’s your ass right next to you

And it’s just waiting for something to do

Love the ass you’re with. – Stephen Stills

Adding insult to injury, not only have I not been blessed with a genetically heart-shaped ass, I have also been an ass-sitting teacher and a professor and a writer since my early twenties. That’s over thirty years of sitting on my ass. Even making conscious attempts to stand at a podium, walk around the classroom and write while standing up at my counter (like I am doing now) has not managed to negate the nefarious effects of so many decades of ass-sitting. So unfortunately, no matter how much I exercise or diet, my ass will always look like a slightly-squashed croissant.

No matter. I have other redeeming qualities. But I digress.

I’m always worried about my ass. How it looks in a slinky pencil skirt, how it looks in red workout tights, how it looks in a bikini bottom. Should I cover it, should I flaunt it, should I disguise it? (My Little Voice: Mary, you’re 54. Yes to questions 1 and 3). I worry about the cellulite in it, the dimples in it, the sagging of it. But here’s the thing, the crazy thing:

I never said I hate my ass. I actually like it. It’s strong, and it has made me a great tennis player and golfer. It has gotten me through 54 years of adolescence to college to career to marriage to family to travel to now. And truth be told, if I was a guy looking at my ass, I would like it. It’s strong, shapely, and looks great in dresses.

But this isn’t a post about my ass, even though it seems to be leading there. Well, it led there. This post is simply another accolade for the wonders of nature. Because when I am on adventure travel, not only do I forget about the size of my ass, I forget about other pretentious things. Like doing my hair. Applying makeup. Teeth whitening, hair highlights, pedicures, and spray tans. I forget about scheduled meals, chocolate cravings, Diet Coke, brushing my teeth (ew, sorry), and washing my hair (yay hats!).

Nature simply doesn’t care.

Most people on the trail don’t care, either. I make do with a hat. Some breathspray. Water. A trail bar and an apple. My trusty Burt’s Bees lip balm. And when I look in the mirror at the end of a day well-spent scrambling around the planet, I look rough, but happy. Flushed and healthy. My eyes are clear, my smile is wide, and my ass is forgotten.

But of course when you get home, your ass is right there waiting for you, stubborn and still refusing to fit into your skinny jeans. Suddenly, your dirty hair and soiled nails don’t look as cute as they did on the trail, and electrolysis and dermabrasion seem to start making more sense. You get undressed to get in the shower, and you turn around for about the zillionth time in your life to look back in the mirror. You’re actually a little surprised that your ass is still there, and still not heart-shaped. Will it ever listen to reason, you wonder? How many rock faces do you need to crawl on before it perks up? You’re thinking it could show a little more gratitude for the fun you show it.  

But you smile in the shower, and as you think of your outside exploits, and feel the hot water soothe your tired limbs, you know you wouldn’t give up this feeling for anything.

Not for the all the heart-shaped asses in the world.

Orange is the New Ugly

I like adventure travel. I love adventure travel. But I don’t want to die while doing it. Here are some things I try to avoid while traveling:

Drowning in large bodies of water

Getting abducted

Being gored, mauled or eaten by fanged and clawed and taloned creatures

Getting lost on remote hiking trails

Getting crushed by trains and semis

Falling into crevasses

Eating poisoned berries

Getting shot in game reserves during hunting season

This last one is the prevalent point, because Sunday, as I searched for out-of-the-way hiking trails, I was brutally rebuffed at every turn.

Hiking trail: Closed.

Pedestrian Bridge to Trailhead: Closed.

Park Gate: Closed.

Foliage Tour: Closed

But eventually I found a great trail with this sign:

“Game Reserve Open to the Public. Visitors Be Aware: Hunters Wear Orange. So Should You.”

I turned around, obviously. Besides the fact that I didn’t want to get shot, stuffed and inevitably mounted over someone’s billiard table (I mean, unless we’re talking about getting mounted in the fun way), I also bridled at the suggestion of wearing orange. I look terrible in orange. My skin complexion just can’t pull it off. I won’t wear it. I’ve accepted that Looking Ugly on Occasion is part of adventure travel, but There is Only So Ugly I Will Allow Myself to Get. A hat and some tinted lip balm can cure much of Adventure-Travel Ugly, but nothing can cure Orange-Ugly. I won’t wear it. Just ask anyone who traveled with me in Iceland.

One day, as we were about to set off for our daily ride, the dashing young Icelandic trail guide handed me a pile of bulky foul-weather gear. Orange. I immediately handed it back to him.

“I’m not wearing this.”

The handsome young trail guide gave me that sexy smirk he had been giving me all week. My foibles and missteps seemed to be a constant source of amusement to him, and when he smiled like that, it usually came accompanied with an affectionate shake of his head and the endearment, “American ladies.”

But on this day, he simply smirked and regarded the gear.

“Why won’t you wear?”

“It’s ugly. It’s orange.”

“It’s raining. It will rain all day. We have an eight-hour ride today. You’ll be soaked to the bone.”

“I have a rain jacket,” I said.

“Where is it?” Still with the smile.

I pulled out my cute Athleta windbreaker, and he burst out laughing.

“That thing? That won’t keep you dry.”

I shrugged. “Then I guess I’m getting wet.”

And get wet I did. But I never complained, and I emerged triumphantly from that excursion with no documented photographic evidence of me in an orange jumpsuit.

(The guides kept trying to hand me the orange jumpsuit throughout the week, and I would refuse it each time- it became like our private joke, much like the unfortunate fact that I was incapable of getting up on my horse by myself. They would have to position my horse near a rock or near an incline, or offer me their shoulder, just to get me in the saddle. Short legs and all. It was humiliating. But I digress).  

On one of our last days, Cocky Guide smilingly handed me mosquito netting that was to be affixed over my riding helmet. It turned out that our ride that day was in an area notorious for the tiny attacking winged-hellions. I looked at it. Looked back at him. And again, handed it back.

“No way.”

“Mar-ee, you have to, this one isn’t optional.”

I took it, tired of being a diva.

“Fine. I’ll carry it. But I’m not wearing it. Look at this thing. It’s ridiculous.”

He came in close and fixed his blue eyes on mine.

“Why will you not listen? Remember I told you to always put your helmet face down when we stop for lunch? Yes? And yesterday you ignore me. Remember?”

Damn. He had to bring that up. Low blow.

I avoided his gaze. “Yes, I remember.”

He folded his arms across his barrel-chest.

“And what happened?”

I pretended to become very busy with the saddle that I had no idea how to put on my horse.

“Mar-ee? Do you remember what happened?

“Of course, I was there.”

“And what happened?”

I paused and looked at him. “My horse took a shit in my helmet.”

He smiled in satisfaction.

“Ah, yes. That’s right. Your horse took a shit in your helmet. And who had to clean it out?”

“You, but I offered to do it.” I was chagrined.

“No American lady needs to do that. But you see, who is always right?”

“Jon William. Jon William is always right.”

The smile.

“So you will wear the netting?”

“No.”

He sighed and walked away.

What the hell is wrong with you, you might be thinking. Just wear the required gear.

Here’s my rationale for that theory: Fuck you. When you are a mediocre equestrian (at best) riding an unfamiliar horse on unfamiliar terrain using an unfamiliar gait germane and native only to the country of Iceland (see: tolt), and doing it all in the pouring rain, the less distraction the better. Start adding layers and nylon and neoprene and netting to my act and watch disaster ensue.

And yes, I was attacked by mosquitoes, but only when we stopped riding. I was like a warm, prescient pile of meat, a veritable abattoir for mosquito cuisine. But it wasn’t too bad, and again, there are no pictures of me in that ridiculous thing.

Victory again.

I am returning to Iceland in 2021, and I am working at the gym on high step benches in order to develop the butt muscles necessary to redeem myself. I intend to be able to get up on my horse by myself. You’ll see, ladies, I’ll make you proud of me.

Just don’t hand me anything orange.

Cabin 23

I knew I was on the right track when signs disappeared.

I had been looking for somewhere remote to stay for the weekend. My dog gone less than a week, I was hearing his floofy-scratchy noises in every corner of the house. I wanted to escape to a place where it was just me, my books, some fall foliage, and maybe a coffee pot in a spare room. I didn’t want luxury. I had my fill of that in Scottsdale. All I needed now was nature, an electrical outlet, some hiking trails and quiet.

Simplicity.

I wanted a place that didn’t cater to children, so I eschewed any place that advertised heated pools, S’mores nights, game rooms, playgrounds, indoor water parks, gift shops and amusement parks. I wanted a place with an almost non-existent list of amenities. I finally found it here, where I write from cabin 23. Here was the list of amenities on the website:

Outdoor wood-burning stove

Outdoor games

Picnic table

Adirondack chairs

Charcoal grill

Woodpile and foliage views

Pinecones

Pinecones as an amenity? Hell yah.

As the GPS took me off the highway, my car began winding through foliage-strewn rural roads, almost as if the GPS lady had heard my silent plea: “Take me off the beaten path. I want to see stone walls, jaunty red barns, bubbling brooks, old stoic cemeteries, perky farms. Cows, horses and sheep. And please make sure the trees have the late autumn hues of bright yellow, orange and red.”

Done and done.

And now I am here. In cabin 23. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t have some modern trappings. My cabin has a television, although I haven’t used it, nor have I used the gas fireplace. Yet. And there are other people here, judging from the cars. But they’re not in cabin 23. And other than the friendly bartender who made me a martini last night at the inn’s little restaurant, I haven’t seen or heard or met up with anyone. And that’s just the way I like it.

(You: Yeah, Mary, martinis are really roughing it.

Me: Hey, I never said I was Thoreau.)

Precious solitude. I could talk about solitude forever. I could write a book about it right now. My collection of books on the subject of solitude number higher than on any other theme in my collection besides nature and adventure travel. I have read Party of One: The Loner’s Manifesto a hundred times. It sits beside me right now. It is my Bible.

Being alone. Enjoying silence. Having the ability to think and breathe and live. Most people are afraid to be alone, I know. When my late Hub needed to make a quick trip to Home Depot, he would make ten phone calls just to find company for the twenty-minute ride. That was just him. And that was fine. I actually found it charming.

But it’s not me, and here’s a confession: other than every waking breath I have ever spent with my sons, I have spent the happiest moments of my life alone. A moment on a quiet desert trail. A triumphant pause at the top of a mountain. A walk on a deserted cold wind-swept beach. A cup of coffee enjoyed alone on a balcony overlooking a severe mountain vista. A cold beer or glass of Pinot savored at a deserted outside trattoria. A boat ride alone, bobbing and weaving through the waves on my boat. Breakfast right now, at this remote country restaurant, as I sip coffee and write, knowing I am where I’m meant to be, knowing all is right with the world.

What a weirdo, you’re thinking.

That’s o.k. Everyone thinks we’re weird, us solitary folk. Us loners. And that’s fine. Just know that we find you weird, too. The energy you put into making sure you always have someone around, to always have noise and chatter and music and cacophony, confounds us. You can’t vacation alone. You can’t grab lunch alone. You can’t spend a quiet Saturday night alone. You say you often find us odd and pathetic?

We often find you sad and desperate.

But no matter. Different strokes for different folks, and anyway, society rewards the extroverted, or haven’t you heard? The more friends, the more parties, the more events, the more noise and laughter and chatter and explosions of energy, the more popular you are, right? The more your life is validated? Because how can your life possibly be seen as a failure when you have all of these people around you? Is it not that state of being busy and loud that defines a life worth living? When you are vacationing with twelve other couples? When you are booked solid with social engagements every weekend through 2022? When you are so uneasy with the sound of your own thoughts that you can’t even take a pleasant walk without talking (loudly, so everyone can hear you) on your phone?

You exhaust us.

Hey, I’m sorry, who am I to judge? All I’m saying is that those of us who don’t need that, who don’t want that, have to work very very hard to keep away from it. And from you. You must understand this: our lifestyle is a personal choice. We don’t care about your social calendars, we don’t care about your dinner parties, or your couples’ vacations, or the exercise classes you take with forty of your closest “friends.” We’re happy for you. Enjoy it. You want to live your life like a beer commercial? Good for you.

We’d rather live our lives like a Taster’s Choice commercial.

You extroverted people-pleasers are lucky. Your lifestyle is easily sustainable. You can pick up the phone and find dinner companions in an instant. Boom, company and noise. It’s tougher for us. We have to either sit in our houses, or get in our cars and drive to a remote mountain inns guaranteed to provide us with the solitude we so desperately crave.

I will be writing more on solitude in the coming months, but right now, I need more coffee and then a strenuous hike. And there is a woman walking the hiking trail next to where I sit quietly who is talking loudly into her Bluetooth at 6:51 a.m. about her plans for that day. She is shopping with Celia. Then going to lunch. Then she and Celia are meeting Don and Joe for a hike. And it should be fun. She also was kind enough to divulge in those ten seconds which trail she is using.

You can be sure I’ll be avoiding that one.

Spirits in the Sky

As long as they have been in publication, I have been collecting Sierra Club Engagement Calendars. The proceeds from the sales of these calendars go directly to the Sierra Club and its undaunted push for environmental protection. These colorful spiral-bound calendars can be found in the journal and calendar section of Barnes and Noble and most popular book stores, and include a daily agenda ensconced among beautiful pictures of American wilderness. When I was young I would flip through these calendar books and dream of going to places like Colorado, Utah, Alaska, Montana and Wyoming. I have been and will always be a wilderness girl (though I gotta lotta city in me too. I miss my cities, I miss my museums, concerts, operas, ballets…).

Just as chefs have favorite knives and cutting boards, just as makeup artists have favorite brushes and applicators, just as contractors have favorite hammers and tape measures, so do writers have favorite pens and notebooks. I don’t use the Sierra Engagement notebook as a calendar, but as a quote notebook. When I come across a quote I like while reading, I will jot it down on whatever the date is, and the source of the quote. That way, I can look back, read the quote, and see how I was feeling that day.

Silly, but works for me.

So for my last list of 11 this week, I grabbed my 1990 Sierra Club calendar and will supply one quote from each month. You get an extra today, so it’s a list of 12.

11/9/1990: Autumn truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; and refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise. (New York Times).

12/1/1990: For a long time it seemed to me that real life was about to begin, but there was always some obstacle in the way. Something had to be got through first, some unfinished business; time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these obstacles were my life. (Bette Howland, Catholic Digest).

1/11/1990: Anticipation, with nothing to feed on except itself, cannot be sustained for long and, as it dies, depression takes its place. (I remember the book distinctly but cannot remember the name of it and for some reason, I did not write it down. I remember the book was narrated by a young girl waiting to get picked up for a date, and was in the process of getting stood up. I also remember liking the placement of these commas).

2/8/1990: Wit is a form of arousal. We challenge one another to be funnier and smarter. It’s high energy play. It’s the way friends make love to one another. (Annie Gottlieb)

3/28/90: Dante and Shakespeare divide the world between them; there is no third. (T.S. Eliot)

4/27/90: Courtship is exciting and romantic, because it thrives on the edge of disaster. It co-exists with the threat that at any moment it could fall apart and be lost forever. To expect the lifelong commitment of marriage to evoke the excitement and adventure created by the fragility of courtship- well, as they say in Texas, that dog just won’t hunt. (Karen Scalf Linamen)

5/9/90: Until October comes, May is the finest time…the days are concerts- flute-bright mornings, afternoons mellow as a viola, sunsets soft and sweet and pure as a French horn…until October, it will be our unceasing background music. (Tom Horton, An Island Out of Time).

6/11/90: Each day that we awaken is a new start, another chance. Why waste it on self-pity, sloth and selfishness? Roll that day around on your tongue, relish the taste of its freedom. Breathe deeply of the morning air, savor the fragrance of opportunity. Run your hands along the spine of those precious 24 hours and feel the strength in that sinew and bone. Life is raw material. We are artisans. We can sculpt our existence into something beautiful, or debase it into ugliness. It’s in our hands. (Cathy Better)

7/2/90: Charm is nebulous. It may be a mannerism; it may be a voice; it may be the movement of a hand. But whatever it is, it needs to remain a mystery, particularly to the charmer. Because once the charmer is aware of a mannerism or characteristic that others find charming, it ceases to be a mannerism and becomes an affectation. And there is nothing less charming than affectations. (Rex Harrison)

8/25/90 (I jotted this down on my 24th birthday): The instincts of action are the favorite haunts of happiness. To move, to creep, to stand, to walk, to run, to climb, to swim, at last to fly: what strange delight there is in these natural expressions of our powers! To be made whole one must stretch his legs and make friends with the sun. Are you broken-hearted? Go out for a four-mile tramp alone, and the spirits of the sky and the earth will heal you. Legs were made for walking. (The Mansions of Philosophy)

9/24/90: These days of September. They go like arrows through one’s heart. Floating, full of nameless good-byes, sustained hopes and promises, golden and quiet without regrets. To keep the intensity of youth clearer by experience comes the mystic ninth month of the year. (Erich Maria Remaarque)

10/21/90: Look at a day when you are supremely satisfied at the end. It is not a day when you lounge around doing nothing. It’s when you’ve had everything to do, and you’ve done it. (Margaret Thatcher)

Enjoy your weekend. I myself am going to get lost in the woods alone for a couple of days and get whole again- you know, creeping, running, walking, talking to those spirits in the sky. Gonna roll the weekend around on my tongue. I’ll be back Monday writing my own words, not other people’s.

Rainbow Bridge

So I lost my dog while I was in Arizona. He died in his sleep. That he decided to die while I was away is something I will have to grapple with in the future, I guess. I have always pictured holding him in my arms and whispering sweet nothings in his soft ear as he drifted away, like in the scene “Marley and Me.” You know, telling him I love him, that he was the best dog in the world, and that we would miss him. But I will not have that opportunity.

Of course I wonder about the end. Did he wonder where I was? Was he scared? Was it a stroke, a heart attack, just a peaceful drift off into sleep? He was at the bottom of the stairs, was he trying to go upstairs? My son was a great dog brother, and told me he had seemed fine that day. He ate a good dinner, and enjoyed a good scratch. Was he just tired, and wanted to be done?

Questions I’ll never have the answers to.

I’ve been crying off and on, mostly on, since he has been gone. Much like my sons are the best part of me, so was my dog. Mojo was like that cool popular friend who gets you introduced to cool good-looking people you wouldn’t normally meet because you’re an introverted dork. He’s that cool friend that you can’t believe wants to hang out with you, and who makes you a better, cool version of yourself. And when he’s not around, you lose that cool vibe and go back to what you really are.

An introverted dork.

I can’t speak for others who have dogs. But I was a dog mommy just like I am a boy mommy. I attended to his needs like he was one of my boys. His needs and happiness were sometimes more important than my own, and the routine of my day, especially since he had become old and infirmed, was dictated by ensuring his contentment.

That routine is no longer necessary, and it will take some time to get used to it. Never once in his twelve years of life did I ever think of him as an inconvenience. Never once did I wish I had more freedom. Never once did I think of him as a burden on my time or schedule. Never once did I begrudge the time it took to take care of him and make sure he was happy and comfortable.

He no longer needs me now, and I suppose he is on the famed “Rainbow Bridge” I’ve heard so much about. I wish he was here instead. I miss his brown eyes and his white-spotted paws. But since my blog is lists of 11 this week, and since I have been home without my best friend for 24 hours, here is a list of 11 things I already miss about him.

  • Wishing him “Good night” and “Good morning” last and first thing of the day, asking him how he feels, with an “I love you” thrown in for good measure.
  • Filling his bowls with the food he likes.
  • Opening the door first thing in the morning so he can check out the weather and sit outside.
  • Making sure to cook something that I can share with him.
  • Hugging and kissing him.
  • Hearing the sound of his scratchy paws cross the hard-wood floors.
  • Hearing his huffy-puffy noises.
  • Just feeling his presence, knowing he is close by.
  • Checking on him and seeing his black fluffy bulk under his favorite tree.
  • Hearing “Hey Mo,” knowing his favorite friends are passing by the house.
  • Bringing him his favorite cookies and treats.

Those things are over now. Now I will pack up his food and treats for donation to the local Humane Society. Now I will keep the door shut first thing in the morning. Now my eyes will no longer scan the house to see where he is resting. Now when I look out in the yard, he will not be there. Now I will no longer have to think about his comfort. Now if I want to go somewhere, I can just go. Now, his dad is taking care of him on the Rainbow Bridge.

Now, my heart is broken. But day by day, the hurt will be less, and only sweet memories will remain. I love you Mo.

Buy Her This, Not That…

We know you do your best, guys. But here’s a handy guide on 11 gifts that will put a twinkle in her eyes.

Don’t Buy That: Heavy pajamas

Buy This: Thin slinky teddy or cute sleep shorts with a tank top.

Suggestion: adoreme.com or lunya.com

One year I asked my husband for something from pajamagram.com. Now, I get hot in 70 degree temperatures, my comfort zone being 42 degrees, so I was surprised to unwrap heavy shearling footie pajamas. They were too hot for me to wear even in the winter. Guys, buying sleepwear is a gambit. But in my experience, let your girl’s mom or sister buy the fluffy warm pajamas. Buy her something cute, slinky or sexy.

Don’t Buy That: Gift certificate to her favorite store

Buy This: Gift certificate to an experience you can do with her

Suggestion: Sky-diving, ziplining, guided hiking, escape room at home.

Getting her a gift card to a store is another way of saying, “Have fun shopping, I’ll golf that day.” Surprise her. Get her a gift certificate to a Broadway show, a trip, a sports contest, a concert, dinner theater, something you can do together. I know a lot of stuff is closed now, but you can still find fun things if you try.

Don’t Buy That: Boring Domestic Tools

Buy This: Fun Domestic Tools

Suggestion: Vitamix or The Date Night Cookbook on Amazon, cookie dough from goldbelly.com

A vacuum cleaner? New pots? Really? This is 2020, not 1950. If you want to buy her something for the kitchen, get her a cool Vitamix so she can make healthy protein shakes, or get her something that implies togetherness, like fun cookie dough. Put some effort in!

Don’t Buy That: Another electronic device

Buy This: Jigsaw Puzzle

Suggestion: White Mountain puzzles

Girls love jigsaw puzzles. Trust me. Don’t get her another electronic device to stare at. Go on whitemountainpuzzles.com, and get her a fun puzzle that she can dump on her dining room table. You’ll be surprised at how sweet it will be to work on it together at odd times of the day and night.

Don’t Buy That: An odd-smelling assortment of scented fruity lotions from Marshalls

Buy This: A quality perfume

Suggestion: Jo Malone perfume in Nordstrom.

If your girl is over the age of 16, she’s too old to smell like coconut and vanilla. Get her some big girl scent. Go to Jo Malone in Nordstrom, and tell the spritz girl what kind of woman your love is. Fruity? Spicy? Musky? Spritz Girl will set you up right. Jo Malone’s go-to is Wood Sage and Sea Salt. You can’t go wrong with it.

Don’t Buy That: A Starbucks gift card

Buy This: A high-quality French press and freshly ground beans

Suggestion: French press on Amazon

You can figure out how to use it together and then share a cup of coffee

Don’t Buy That: A bottle of her favorite alcohol or wine

Buy This: A book about her favorite art, fashion, travel or wine

Suggestion: Wine Folly

A bottle of wine is actually a nice gift. My sons get me a bottle of Mark West pinot every holiday. So get her the wine, but get a wine book to go with it. You know? Be creative.

Don’t Buy That: A gift card for a spa appointment or a dinner out

(Buy This): A coupon book of stuff you’ll do with her (or not).

Suggestion: Fun Love Coupon Book for Her on Etsy

Put in coupons for a foot massage, a home-cooked dinner cooked by you, a game night, even a day where you will leave her alone (a great one for Mom!).

Don’t Buy That:  A hoodie from Macy’s or Marshall’s

Buy This: A hoodie from her favorite store

Find out what her favorite store is and get her a hoodie that emblazons the store name across the front. Size up if you’re not sure, or call her mom, sister, etc for the right size.

Don’t Buy That: Junk

Buy This: A small vacation or travel book

Suggestion: Lonely Planet travel books

I know travel is strange now. But there are plenty of domestic places you can go. Maybe a long ski weekend, with some lessons included? A romantic weekend at an inn that has a fireplace? If you can’t afford it or get off of work, get her a travel book to a place she’s dying to go.

Don’t Buy That: A puppy or kitten

Buy This: A puppy or kitten

Suggestion: Think hard about it

The message here is that a kitten or a puppy can be the greatest gift of all time, or the worst. Speaking as someone who just lost her beloved dog of twelve years, having a dog is a long, long commitment, and a rewarding one. However, the cute puppy or kitten will dictate every move you make for years to come. Don’t get her a puppy or a kitten unless you are 100% sure she, you, BOTH OF YOU are ready to be parents. If you can’t be home for a dog or a cat, it’s irresponsible to bring one in your life. And when you lose that baby? Heart-breaking.

GOOD LUCK!

11 Ways to Make Your Man Smile (I mean, other than that…)

Got a man you want to see smile? Then these 11 gifts will do it. Thanks again, thecut.com:

For the Man Who Takes His Coffee Seriously:

Bodum Pour Over Coffee Maker. Amazon $20.00. If he’s always griping about getting a good cup of coffee, this is for him. And it has a built-in filter.  

For the Man Who Hates Pants:

Adidas Tiro Training Pants. Nordstrom $45.00. He can still look polished and be comfortable at the same time. Even better are Mack Weldons if you want more style, but be ready to pay a little more.

For the Man With the Cold Head:

Everlane Cashmere Rib Beanie. Everlane $65.00. Better than having cold feet, I guess. Comes in seven colors.

For the Man Who Wants to Look Like Steve McQueen

Warby Parker Talullah Sunglasses. Warby Parker from $95.00. I didn’t think anyone remembered the coolness of Steve McQueen. This does my heart good. And this company does the world good.

For the Man in Your Bed. Ooh.

CDLP Short Three-Pack Stretch-Lyocell Boxer Briefs. Mr Porter $80.00. Soft, soft, soft. Gives whole new meaning to Butterball.

For the Guy Who Still Wears a Watch to Check the Time

Daem Sterling x Black Watch. Daem $300.00. If he wears a watch, marry the guy. BTW, these watches are designed from scratch in Brooklyn.

For the Guy Who Wants to be More Stylish, But Doesn’t Know Where to Begin.

Allbirds Wool Pipers. Allbirds $95.00. These sneakers will notch up his cool outfit factor instantaneously.

For the Man With a Lot of Stuff When He Travels:

Hook and Albert Overnight Duffle. Banana Republic $175. I’m getting each of my sons one of these. Gorgeous masculine natty gray with black piping.

For the Not-So Preppy Man

J.Crew Stretch Pique Marled Polo Shirt. J.Crew $45.00. Yeah, I thought J.Crew went bankrupt too. Regardless, these polo shirts are super masculine and casual, and come in great colors.

For the Outdoorsy Guy Who Already Has a Backpack

Sorel Madson II Hiker Boots. Sorel $195.00. Gorgeous and rugged. Just like your man.

For the Music Man

Marshall Emberton Portable Bluetooth Speaker. Amazon $150.00. Retro, high-quality and water resistant.

11 Hot Deals

November is the 11th month, so all week I will be posting lists of 11. This is a list of 11 great deals if you plan to start your holiday shopping super early. Thank you to thecut.com for helping me out.

  1. Goodthreads Men’s Three-Pack Boot Socks (Amazon) for $12.00. This is Amazon’s in-house brand, and these foot warmers are cute and cozy and come in super fun colors
  2. Vitamix Professional Series 350 Blender, Professional Grade (Amazon) for $486.00. A Vitamix is always costly, but this price is amazing. Thanks Jeff.
  3. Oral-B Pro 7000 Smart Series Black Electronic Power Rechargeable Toothbrush with Bluetooth Connectivity (Amazon) for $124.00. I need someone to tell me why a toothbrush needs Bluetooth connectivity, but then again, maybe it’s best if I not know. Weird. Anyway, great price.
  4. Madewell Chevron Packable Puffer Jacket (Madewell) for 81.00. Use the code GOODBUY for this super attractive jacket. This is for someone who wants a cute puffer that can stuff into a duffel bag.
  5. Apple Air-pods with Charging Case (Best Buy) for $130.00. Air-pods never go on sale, and this is the best price you will see all year. Get ‘em.
  6. Proraso 4-Piece Beard Refresh Gift Set (Macys) for $38.00. If your guy grew a beard during quarantine, he’ll thank you for this awesome smelling set.
  7. UGG Cory Genuine Shearling Short Boot (Nordstrom Rack) for $110.00. It’s hard to imagine that there is a human being who doesn’t have UGGS yet, but here they are.
  8. Calpak luggage Maie 20-inch Carry-On (Nordstrom Rack) for $45.00. Soooooo many pretty colors for that holiday traveler.
  9. Anthropologie Callan Sherpa Hoodie (Anthropologie) for $70.00. This floofy garment looks like the old-school Baja hoodie.
  10. Anthropologie Thomasa Turtleneck Sweatshirt (Anthropologie) for $70.00. You can’t go wrong with a black turtleneck and this one has flared sleeves, giving it that little extra sumptin.
  11. Dash Tasti Crisp Electric Air Fryer (Bloomingdales) for $35.00. We’re entering hibernation months, so not only does this fryer come in a pretty aqua color, it will also come in handy if you want to, you know, air-fry stuff.