One View

Phoebe on the right with her fellow PhD friends.

Now that I'm 50 years old, I look at the world differently. It was inevitable, I suppose and I know I'm not the first 50 year old to feel this way, still it's curious to look around and assess the world from this misnamed halfway point.

Last night was our friends' daughter's (Phoebe's) PhD celebration at her parents' house. Doris and Stephen are like family and therefore by extension, Phoebe and her family are part of ours. For me, Phoebe represents energy -- the kind of energy I don't think I ever had even when I was her age (early 30s). In the past 5 years she has gotten married with a large wedding at her parents' house, she had her first child, and completed her PhD in Philosophy and Anthropology with a focus on shell fossils.

Just writing that paragraph made me tired. Was I that ambitious 20-25 years ago? I don't think so, but I know I could stay up later than I can now. I know my body didn't hurt as much as it does now. And I know I could eat a helluva lot more than I can now and not suffer the consequences.

But then I look at Phoebe's mom, the Grandmother to Phoebe's daughter Jocelyn. Doris is in her mid-late 60s and seems to have more energy than Phoebe. Two days a week she provides daycare for Jocelyn and two other days a week she provides daycare for her other grandchild, Maisy (only a few months older than her cousin Jocelyn). Occasionally she watches Elliot and like one of those relationship mazes, he is the son of her son-in-law's brother and his wife.
Elliot has a new baby sister, Penelope and while she has yet to stay with Doris and Stephen, her other Grandmother steps in.

This, I suppose, is what everyone thinks about when they define nuclear family and even though it's gotten a bad rap as of late, it's a pretty sweet deal. Everyone seems extremely happy with the arrangement. In addition to all the daycare, there's a weekly evening meal where the whole lot of them get together for a massive dinner that includes food fit for the vegetarians and the carnivores, the lactose intolerant and the gluten-free dieters.

Is this what I want in my life? No. I'm happy. I'm content. I like the relationship I have at home with Ann, with my friends, and with my biologicals. It all suits me and it does not wear me out...well, not on a weekly basis. But mine is just one view of family; Doris and Steven's is another view. Theirs suits them as much as mine suits me.

Yet, like a Venn Diagram we cross, sharing a family space of commonalities. Their family represents energy and laughter, and accomplishments. Mine represents the same laughter, but it's much more relaxed and settled. There aren't big things to get accomplished and though my niece may end up with a PhD at some point in her life, no one is working on such accomplishments while getting married and then getting pregnant.

Phoebe's homemade PhD cake (made by her mother, Doris) representing the three degrees of the three candidates - fish, charcoal and shells...yes, all edible.

Blueberries

I am eating fresh blueberries. I am in heaven.

There are two dogs fast asleep beside me. One is my own -- Rubin and he is tired after a big romp at the off-leash park including swimming in the river. The other is Marley who, if I didn't already have a dog, would try to adopt. That's the trouble with my work. Dog walking introduces you to many dogs as well as their families. Most families of the dogs I walk are responsible owners, but every once in awhile I am asked to walk a dog whose circumstances pain me.

Marley is such a dog and although I was never asked to walk Marley (I offered), it's very hard to put him back in his yard knowing he will spend the rest of the day (and night) there without much human interaction.

And so, as comfort, I am eating blueberries while he sleeps. I'm not sure if it comforts Marley that I eat berries, but he must feel how delighted I am in their sweet tartness and fleshy juice.

I have yet to see Marley settle down. This is a first. Usually, he is all over the place peeing to his heart's content as he is not yet neutered (yes, part of the neglect he faces in his life). I rarely bring him inside the house for fear he'll lift his leg on anything that smell like Rubin. Occasionally, like today, I'll let him in the house on a leash and then he walks wherever I walk. Now that I am at the desk, he has no other choice but to be here with me and so he's relaxed into a nice nap and I have let the leash relax as well.

There is nothing like a contented dog.
There is nothing like a neglected dog.

Both pull at me emotionally and thus, the blueberries.

Marley does not belong to the neighbors up the street. They are watching him for some friends. Since Marley is used to activity in his life, sitting on the back porch all day (and night) long is very boring so he jumps the fence and comes to our house. They've fortified the fence as best they can and while I've agreed to walk him for 30 minutes a day, he ends up getting much more than what the time I'm getting paid.

How can I turn him away?

He goes back to his real home tomorrow afternoon and I'm hoping the whole out-of-sight-out-of-mind effect kicks in. It will be nice to walk by the neighbor's house and not have to see the bored dog howling at me from the back porch.

But I shall miss him. He's a really wonderful dog -- so smart and loving and willing to please -- it's a shame he hasn't found a better home in this life. A home with loving owners who take him everywhere they go, train him to do tricks, and teach him to swim and fetch and roll over on command. A home that feeds him better food than kibble from the grocery store, who allow him to suck on frozen marrow bones, and toss blueberries in the air so he can catch them.

Maybe he'll find his blueberries in the next life.

Hot Tamales

It's warm out, though not as warm as yesterday and the day before. Still, standing on our neighbor's porch making tamales was sweaty business!

This Summer I Went Swimming

My parents tell me that when I was a kid, I took to the water like a fish. I'd leap off the side of the pool and into someone's waiting arms so repetitively, they grew tired before I did. It's no wonder then, that our son (read DOG) likes to do the same thing -- swim, leap, and splash.

And it's no wonder that one of my favorite songs is called the Swimming Song:

"This summer I went swimming, this summer I almost drown
But I held my breath and I kicked my feet
And I moved my arms around, moved my arms around"
(best version sung by Kate and Anna McGarrigle, but written by Loudon Wainwright)

Yesterday was hot and now that my life is spent primarily outside (as a dog walker) and I am approaching my menopause years, I get hot in the sweltering heat. For instance, yesterday was not only a full day of dog walking (8 dogs in total), but it was our first 80 degree day. While those who live in Phoenix may laugh at 80 degrees, for those of us in the PNW 80 degrees is record breaking heat. And since it was the first day of such heat, no one was prepared for it. Remember, we are the people who rejoice when it's 60 and bask in the "heat" of such a day by wearing shorts.

So, when I began the walk with my last set of dogs, my destination was the lake even though I knew that the lake was at the bottom of a very, very big hill. Going down to the water wasn't a problem for any of us, but going back up was quite a climb. Even the dogs had to stop in the shade and catch their breaths.

Lucky for them, though, they'd gotten into the lake (I did not) so they were quite a bit cooler than I when we made the climb back up. I was beat red and drenched in sweat by the time we arrived and even the air conditioning in the car couldn't cool me off fast enough.

I had to laugh yesterday when Rubin, Monty, and I got into that warm car. I blasted the air conditioning while Rubin and Monty jockeyed for the perfect position, which for them is right between the two front seats since that's where the cool air is felt the best. Like an old married couple both sweaty and hot, Monty would push his larger body into Rubin's trying to get him to move over and Rubin would growl as if to say, "Don't touch me, I'm hot!" Once they got their positions settled, they sat sphinx-like side-by-side with their tongues long and panting. It was quite a sight.

So when Ann got home shortly after our last walk, I asked if we could go to our friend's house for a swim. "Great idea!" Ann agreed and we piled the dogs (yes, Monty was still with us) into the car and drove straight to the pool. I wore my wetsuit because the pool is unheated and we haven't had enough warm days to really heat up the pool, but I was pleasantly surprised when I jumped in the pool and felt refreshed.

Monty and Rubin were, too. They both donned their own "wetsuits" and I helped Monty swim since he struggles as a swimmer and also has a sore front leg. (This was not only a refreshing break, but a therapeutic one as well.)

While Monty practiced his crawl stroke, Rubin swam around and around thrilled to be in a cool pool and with his best friend.

Thanks mom and dad for spending all that time with me years ago while I perfected my addiction to water. I'm sure I tested your patience.

"This summer I swam in the ocean,
And I swam in a swimming pool,
Salt my wounds, chlorine my eyes,
I'm a self-destructive fool, a self-destructive fool.

This summer I swam in a public place
And a reservoir, to boot,
At the latter I was informal,
At the former I wore my suit, I wore my swimming suit.

This summer I did the backstroke
And you know that's not all
I did the breast stroke and the butterfly
And the old Australian crawl, the old Australian crawl.

This summer I did swan dives
And jackknifes for you all
And once when you weren't looking
I did a cannonball, I did a cannonball.

This summer I went swimming,
This summer I almost drown
But I held my breath and I kicked my feet
And I moved my arms around,
Moved my arms around."

Scheduling

When I first began teaching, seasoned veterans of the profession told me that my success depended on being organized. I've always seen myself as a scattered person, so I've never felt that organization was my strong suit. Then I got to meet people (teachers among them) who were extremely unorganized and I realized I was pretty good at it.

Pretty good, not great.

Pretty good, meaning not my mother. Of course, when one has the high standard set by one's mother then one will never see themselves as organized.

But this is beside the point. Now that I own my own business, my "pretty good" organizational skills come in handy. Right now, for instance, I have sticky notes on my computer telling me when to walk which dog, right down to the last minute. If I don't do this, I wake up early in the morning worrying about timing.

Today is not as packed as tomorrow, but today I have an afternoon interview and then Rubin's agility class 45 minutes out of town. Those solid and scheduled appointments remove any flexibility in the day. Luckily, there are only 5 dogs to walk today. Tomorrow there are 8, but I have no afternoon commitments so my time is a bit more flexible.

This matters to no one but me (and Rubin, of course) though it obviously matters to me a lot. My free time -- time when I'm not expected to be somewhere walking one dog or another -- isn't really free at all. I must keep up with billing, since I blog about the dogs every day, I must keep up the blogging, and since I take photos of the dogs every day, I must catalog and sort the photos at least once a week. This takes time and right now I'm feeling pinched for time.

No, let me rephrase that: I'm feeling what I always feel when it comes to organizing my time -- I'm feeling as if my priorities are all wrong. My mornings are spent with this internal dialogue -- should I do this first or this? Should I read the newspaper or get right to work transcribing interviews? Is there time for a Sudoku puzzle or should I really organize photos?

At 4 this morning I woke thinking, "I need to pay bills" and after the shock of remembering, I tossed and turned for an hour thinking of all the things I need to do in addition to paying the bills. "This is ridiculous," I told my sleepy, worried self. "You'll get it all done, you always do. Sleep. You need sleep."

Eventually I fell back to sleep and first thing this morning, I paid the bills, organized my invoices, cataloged my photos, and re-considered my walking schedule so I might be more efficient with the car. Oh yeah, and wrote a check for the agility class tonight.

Of course now that I've listed all of that out, more things have popped into my head: Get the walking gear together -- I won't need rain gear, but I need two extra leashes. Replenish the poop bags in my backpack. Put the photo card back in the camera. Get a new video tape, too for the interview this afternoon. Get everything ready to go for agility class like special treats to really motivate Rubin.

When will I have lunch? Better make a sandwich to nibble on in the car in between dog walking.

See? I'm pretty good at organizing, but that Ferris wheel of spinning details keeps turning and sometimes, sometimes I want to get off. I woke this morning thinking it was Saturday and then realized that no, it was only Thursday. Can't really get off the Ferris wheel until then...but even then, I've already got a list going -- reorganize the pantry, wash the windows, buy a new fridge (Ann's idea) which means cleaning out the old fridge, make an appointment to service the car and the scooter, clean the house, pick up some more pet food and treats...blah, blah, blah.

I wonder what unorganized people think about?

Arnold's eyebrows

I read the newspaper online this morning and was presented with a photograph of Arnold the Terminator Governor's face. He dyes his hair apparently because his eyebrows were not even close to the color of his hair and each eyebrow was speckled with gray.

Hmmm. Curious. While his State is living in catastrophic debt, I doubt he is suffering financially. Has his house been foreclosed? Has his credit card raised his interest rates? Is he stuck at home on a "Stay-cation?"

I think not.

So, can't he afford an image specialist who can advise a different course of action - don't dye your hair at all so your eyebrows and your hair color actually look like they came from the same head or if you're going to dye your hair, let's dab a little on your eyebrows.

Apparently not.

This is trivial, I know. There are so many other things going on around the world that I waste precious time focusing on Arnold's grooming. Hell, there are so many other things going on in my life the amount of wasted time feels monumental.

But sometimes I don't want to focus on anything truly important or meaningful. Sometimes that feels like a waste of my time. Like this morning, when I tossed and turned at 5 unable to sleep. Too much to think about followed by a hot flash that not only raised my body temperature, but also fueled my worries. Or last night, after my sister called and Ann asked me what she had to say. "Where do I begin?" was my response. It was too much, simply too much to retell.

There is a lot of walking I must do today. Six dogs are on the schedule including two new dogs who do everything but walk. A Basset Hound and Beagle, they are all about their noses and so it's walk a few steps and then throw nose to the ground for a good five minutes. I'm going to take Rubin with me in hopes that they will want to smell him enough that as he moves, they'll move. We'll see.

I have an interview this afternoon for an article I'm writing followed by a much needed haircut. I have turned into Elvis with my hair poofed up on my head like an evangelist. "The taller the hair, the closer to God," my stylist always jokes.

These are the things I want to think about -- which dog to walk first, who to walk with whom, the interview, my haircut, dinner, and yes, Arnold's weird eyebrows. I want them to push out the things I don't want to think about -- mainly my sister's needs and her inability to tell me something only once, not seven times in a given hour.

Clear my mind, clear my mind. Breathe and breathe and breathe. Focus on the eyebrows. Focus.

The Art of Exercise

I walk a dog named Gerta. I was hesitant to walk her because she is part pit bull and with all the bad press, I didn't want to take my chances. Meeting her helped calmed my reservations a bit especially when she licked my hand and rolled over on her belly within the first minute, but for the first few weeks of walking her I didn't do much out of her normal routine. We walked through her neighborhood just the two of us -- no other dogs allowed.

The more I got to know Gerta, the more I realized my fears were unfounded. She's very sweet, though she has a habit of being very destructive. When I arrive at her apartment, there is usually a mess scattered about and not of the owners making. Gerta gets into things. Boxes, garbage, and her current favorite -- leather boots. The other day I arrived to three pairs of boots tossed about on the couch with huge chunks ripped out.

I am not Gerta's full-time dog walker. I am simply helping out the regular guy who is out of town for the next few weeks. How much should I get involved? Well, this is my problem: I could care less about the owners. My sole concern is the dog.

So here is a dog -- a sweet and wonderful dog -- who is obviously bored silly. Or should I say, bored into destruction. I walk her for only a half hour, but she needs more. Lots more. I kept counting the weeks until my temporary job of walking Gerta would be over and I could pass her back to her permanent dog walker, but when I saw the boots and the obvious boredom, I stepped in.

This is what makes me a bad business owner. I'm walking Gerta for about 45 minutes each time though I'm paid for 30, I've strapped on a weighted pack to her strong back, and yesterday I introduced her to my own dog, Rubin.

Rubin is funny when he first meets dogs. He hates it when they come at him to smell his face and ears or his butt. He backs away and gives a little growl as if to say, "I hardly know you! Back off!"

Once we get to walking, he's perfectly fine and his aloof nature comes in handy. He ignores the other dog, which in the case of some dogs, is perfect. Teabiscuit for instance. (Yes, that's the name of another dog I walk.) She's scared of her own shadow and another dog is trauma to the nth degree. When she met Rubin she raced to the end of her leash back towards home, but after a few walks together, Teabiscuit keeps a wary distance from Rubin though will occasionally walk beside him. Now in fact, when other large dogs approach (and all dogs are large compared to teeny weeny Biscuit), she hides behind Rubin for protection. Rubin's aloofness makes Teabiscuit feel more comfortable.

It doesn't have the same effect on Gerta. Gerta wants to play and Rubin, since he has yet to really know her, does not. But once they are walking together, once we're all moving forward, well Rubin's disinterest calms Gerta down. Combined with the weighted backpack, we successfully tired her out yesterday. 15 minutes into the walk she was panting and by the time we got back to her apartment, she was ready for a long nap on the couch.

This is the art of exercise. I don't care about all the disagreements people/trainers have with Cesar Milan, the Dog Whisperer, he has done a great job focusing America's attention on exercise. His phrase -- Exercise, Discipline, then Affection -- are words for dog owners to live by. Even the other TV personality -- Victoria Stillwell of It's Me or the Dog -- stresses the importance of exercise.

Still, so many people don't get it. They keep their dogs in their backyards and feel as if that's enough. It's not. For Gerta, who doesn't have a backyard, the apartment is a house of boredom. Her owners run her in the morning and take her to the dog park in the evening, but she spends long hours alone during the day. She's smart and strong and you can bet a leather boot looks interesting.

If I were a good business owner, I'd pressure the owners to hire me for an hour instead of half an hour, but Gerta is a temporary client and I'm not the kind of person to push an issue. Instead, I walk Gerta for a longer time and don't charge for it, I bring a pack to weight her down, and I try to offer her stimulation she normally wouldn't have -- like walking with other dogs or hiding homemade dog cookies in her puzzle toy.

Gerta's owners are good people and they are doing what they can to help her out. They didn't seem the least bit upset about the torn leather boots and are appreciative of the extra attention I'm paying to Gerta. They clearly love their dog. I also know that people can't give their dogs 4 hours of exercise a day (often what Rubin gets since he is a dog dog walker...though Rubin still has issues), but if I had one wish granted in this world it would be that every dog in the US (the world?) could be exercised regularly. Imagine what an impact that would have on humans as well?

Today is another busy day. I'm tired and glad it's Friday. Rubin's tired too, but the day is scheduled with 5 dogs and a few errands. Rubin will accompany me on most of it, but not all. He needs his rest, too. Certainly, he'll walk with Gerta again today though I think I'll give Teabiscuit a break and just walk her alone. She'll like that.

Thankfully it's sunny today and I'm looking forward to walking in the warmth instead of the cold and rain of late. I, too, need the exercise.

Painting Myself Into A Corner

I have submitted my 2 week notice to my retail job. I do this with a bit of trepidation. First, the summer months will be financially lean as I will be solely dependent on my dog walking business. Next, I worry about my choice to quit which was precipitated by an offer to return to my teaching job (part time, not full time). Finally, I will have a lot more time on my hands -- something that makes me a tad bit nervous.

Dog walking is going well. It is a job that ebbs and flows. I have some steady clients (about 6 dogs a week) and then I have additions -- covering for another dog walker, for instance, or walking dogs for people who are in a temporary need. The additions are not permanent though there is always a chance they may well be. I'd love to have more permanent clients, but with the economy being what it is, hiring a dog walker has moved down the list of priorities for most people.

My freelance writing job will end after the next newsletter due June 1 and that will fold into my return to teaching beginning in September. I am excited about the chance to continue writing for the school, but I'm a bit nervous about my return as a part-time teacher. On the one hand it will be a great way to practice maintaining my boundaries, but on the other hand, it will no doubt tap into my quirky perfectionism -- the need to make every lesson plan and assignment meaningful.

After four hours of retail work last night, I couldn't sleep. My body aches after a shift and so I tossed and turned and my brain shifted into worried thinking. I spent a good part of the morning trying to put my finger on the core of my worry and the best I could come up with is that feeling of not knowing what will come next.

After 22 years of teaching, I decided to leave because I knew EXACTLY what was going to come next and none of it felt new or different or motivating. Now I'm on the other side of the feeling. I should be excited and in many ways I am, but I am also nervous. At the center of my nervousness is the need NOT to get stuck in the predictability of my career or, as the title of this blog suggest, not to paint myself into a corner.

And there, perhaps, is the prickly conundrum I'm feeling: I want the possibility of the future to outweigh the uncertainty of the future. I want that edgy feeling of having to make my own way in the world, but not the nervous anxiety of not knowing which way to head. The greatest difference between my life as a full-time teacher and my life now as a small business owner is that most of my work today revolves around making more work. As a teacher, most of my work was wading through mountains of work, most of which was not generated by me. It came from all the expectations outside my classroom -- the meetings, the committees, the institutional desires to document and explain and justify.

Each side of this dilemma has benefits. There is as much comfort in predictability as there is frustration and disappointment. Equally, there is as much thrill in making my own was as there is worry and anxiety. The cliche of one day at a time has some weight in this dilemma. I find myself saying, "Today is good. I have what I need. I'm doing good work. I am happy and content."

To live inside that moment with a bit more permanence is the dance I find myself doing of late. I suppose I should trust my history -- the more I am open to possibility, the more possibilities open up for me.

Meanwhile, there is rain again today. If it weren't for the leaves on the trees and the slightly warmer temperatures, it would feel like November. They say it will dry up soon and I'm looking forward to that. I'm looking forward to a lot of things of late, but walking dogs in the sun feels like a small comfort on which to begin.

The Champ of Shame

Prison Dog

I can really beat myself up if given half a chance. It doesn't take much, but when I do something really worthy of a good beating, I am the champ of shame.

Here it is: I made a big mistake 10-days ago and the reverberations of that mistake have made it difficult to sleep, difficult to feel fully happy. It seems silly now, but the decision to let Rubin off leash when I knew (I knew!) he wouldn't behave burns in the pit of my stomach. The result? He antagonized two nasty dogs so much that one of them bit his owner. But that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is that she (the owner) wasn't sure who bit her and then she called the police.

Yes, the police ... who in turn called Animal Control. A nice officer showed up at my door and put Rubin under house arrest. It was called quarantine, though I had an option to keep him locked up here at home versus letting the nice officer haul him away. So for ten days, he's been unable to step outside the confines of our fenced yard.

This is a dog who walks with me everywhere. We log about 5-7 miles a day. He swims in the lake, runs through the wooded trails, and visits his dog friends all over the city. Under house arrest no dogs (or humans) were allowed in and Rubin wasn't allowed in the car to go anywhere.

It was torture for him and it was torture for me --torture doubled, in fact, because I understood why the situation was the way it was, but he had no idea. When I left the house and he stayed behind, he was confused and uncertain. As the confinement progressed, his mood changed. He became more stubborn. He refused to do things like come inside from the backyard or lie down when asked. He ripped things up. This is a dog who rarely ripped anything up yet there were toys he'd ignored for months torn to pieces. He whined at me. He stood at desk while I tried to work and begged with his eyes, with the cock of his head, and yes, with his moaning questions asking me to explain what the hell was going on.

Rubin is, if anything, a dog of routine. The woman who sold him to us warned us -- he'll grow to like habits. The habit has always been the same -- slow mornings, long walk, visits with other dogs and friends, more long walks and excursions on hikes, trips to the lake, and scheduled play dates at off-leash parks. A dog's life -- food, fun, friends, frolicking.

All of the sudden the routine changed -- still slow mornings, but then I left...without him. I came home, we played in the backyard until we were both panting and then I'd have to work at the computer or leave for an errand. He stayed behind. He never stays behind.

And every night I'd lie in bed stewing about my stupidity. I made the mistake yet he paid the price. He didn't bite anyone nor would he (unless threatened, but even then I'm not so certain). But here he was, stuck in the house and our small backyard wondering what was up with the major change in routine.

Forgiving myself has always been difficult. The forgiveness needed for this mistake is mountainous and I have yet to make my way up its slope.

Perhaps today will help. Rubin is free today and as soon as I take a shower, we're going out for a long, long walk -- down to the lake, up through the park, all along the ridge and to every doggie friend's house we can think of.

Perhaps that will set me on the path up the mountain of shame.

The Other Half of the Story

We watched the Sound of Music the other night. Not all the way through. During commercials of one show, we'd flip over to the movie taking bets on which song we'd hear, which scene we'd watch. "Somewhere in my youth or childhood," I sang to Ann, "I must have done something good." Flip the switch and there was Julie Andrews in the arms of Christopher Plummer singing that very song. Followed by the short but regal wedding with the nuns "trapped" (Ann's word) behind the iron gate watching the problem like Maria dragging her ridiculously long veil down the aisle toward the handsome Captain.

"I always thought the movie ended here when I was a kid," I told Ann. "And then in college, I watched the movie again and was astounded that there was this whole other escape-from-the-Nazis part of the movie."

Ann laughed at me a little and then said, "I guess it makes sense. The happy ending is a lot easier to remember than the stress of real life."

The next day, I had to go to my part-time retail job for a short shift. I've been thinking a lot about quitting, which is probably stupid given the recent economy, but it's hard to put in a whole day of work walking dogs, researching writing projects, and finding time to write them and then stand on my tired feet for four or five more hours in the evening. But I won't quit, not yet. Not until my business is a bit more firmly established or something else opens up.

Meanwhile, I am a part of a retail community distinctly different than the educational communities I've been involved with most of my adult life. The best way I can describe the difference is that both jobs take themselves too seriously, but I understand teachers carrying a greater burden of responsibility than that of retail employees whose sole responsibility is selling expensive camping equipment.

But there are a lot of similarities and the one I find most interesting are that they both are filled with gossip. It was easy to get sucked into the rumors of teachers, but I laugh at the gossip of retailers. "Did you hear what happened to L?" a fellow employee told me the other day and without any response from me, she said, "She was fired for having an undisclosed relationship with N."

When I was hired, we had lots and lots of trainings. One hour alone was devoted to ethical training, which consisted of a list of things we could not do followed by explicit examples of how the store would "release you immediately" if you violated the code. These included things like using your employee discount for someone else, stealing (obviously), talking about sales records with competitors, and yes, not disclosing a relationship with another employee.

In other words, if you're going to date someone in footwear you need to tell your supervisor. If you don't and they find out about it, you are immediately released. So it was the case, it appears, with L and N -- both supervisors in different departments. The kicker, according to my co-worker was that they didn't spill the beans rather L told her friend and co-supervisor C and C told her superiors.

"That's just wrong," said my co-worker, "And it's so stupid because N and L only went out for like 6 months and then broke up. No harm, no foul as far as I'm concerned. Can you imagine your friend telling on you?"

Working retail is a lot like being IN high school as opposed to teaching in a high school.

This is when the story gets tangled or, at least, when I get tangled up with it. C is my supervisor and she recently asked me if I would be willing to walk her dog two days a week for the month of April. This was a favor on my part since I didn't charge her my full rate and she lives about 20 minutes from my dog-walking area. Still, it was only for a month and the extra money would be good for business.

So now, every Wednesday and Friday I make my way to my supervisor's house and walk her very sweet older dog. In the process, I've learned more about C, a woman I didn't really know, but treated with respect since she was, after all, my supervisor though she is 25 years younger. In the basement of a beautiful old house, she shares her small apartment with her dog and apparently, with someone else or previously with someone else. She lives, it appears, a life solely focused on work. It feels lonely to me and in that sense, I find myself having sympathy for her where no sympathy existed before.

"I'm kind of in flux," she told me one day. "There's a lot going on in my life right now," she added in an email. And then later, "I might be moving so I'm not really sure if I'll need you after April."

As more and more unfolds, I've softened a bit. She's a cold person, that's for sure, and focused on getting ahead at work climbing the retail ladder quickly and efficiently. But in her personal life, something's gone terribly awry and even the dog projects a kind of serious sadness about it all.

I don't really want to know what's going on and I'm certain NOT to share any of it with my co-workers. If she wants them to know, she can tell them, but at this point our "relationship" is undisclosed.

"Are you worried that it's unethical not to tell someone?" Ann asked me the other night.

"It's business," was my response, "not personal." But the more I walk the dog, the more I let myself into her house and see her side of life, the more I see there is another half of the story. Her story doesn't end with her role as my supervisor. There is nothing as dramatic as an escape route over the Alps, but more complexity exists between work and the rest of her life.

I have no idea if her friendship with the fired supervisor has any relationship with her possible move from her home or her need for a dog walker. Perhaps all the chips just fell the wrong way all at once, which happens to all of us throughout our lives, or maybe the falling of one chip created a cascade of all the rest. I don't really know nor do I really want to know, but the other night, flipping through the Sound of Music (of all movies), it struck me that we are all made up of more than one story. Our chapters overlap the chapters of others and in the process, our stories grow more and more complex. We are novels as thick as War and Peace, as sad and entertaining as The World According to Garp. We are a Farewell to Arms and The Wizard of Oz all rolled into one. We are the Sound of Music from beginning to the unexpected and unremembered end.

PS -- The next day, I saw this movie on You Tube -- the next chapter!

What Brothers Want

Not my brother, but it could be!

My brother is a good guy. I love him a lot. He's older (and soon will be getting older) than me, but I think the age difference served me well. I looked up to him in many ways and now that I'm 50, I still do.

But I won't get too mushy here since the reason for this post has more to do with his demanding side than his loving side =-).

Ann and I went to Mexico. My brother wrote emails and skyped us to find out about our trip. He wants pictures, he said. He wants to see our adventures. He wants to know what our little corner of Mexico was like so he can compare it to his little corner of Mexico.

Geez! Okay big brother...here are more photos...love ya, man!

The town plaza...much more lively at night when it's cooler.

Ann and Lisa at the Beach of the Dead -- Dead because it's near the cemetery.

A bit tired, but the flowers make up for it!

Ann catching a wave.

It's almost Easter so I thought I'd share a religious photo taken at the cemetery by the Beach of the Dead.

Ann sleeping in the sun, though NOT in the sun as it were.

How brave am I? Sharing a photo of ME in a swimsuit, doing the thing I love the most! You big lady!

Our first night at our favorite restaurant!

On the way down the steps (147 of them) to the beach.

My favorite photo looking back at the beach where we spent most days.

Yes, a mosque in Mexico. Colorful, eh?

Not our beach, but a neighboring one. Very empty because the riptide's a killer.

The deck outside our bedroom. I forgot to take a photo of the bedroom. Oops.

The blue room in between the bedrooms.

A look back from the living room to the kitchen. Yes, they now have recycling! Yahoo!

From the kitchen back to the living room.

The view from the upper deck to the flowers stretched over the lattice overhang.

A view roughly to the north from the upper deck.

Our house with Lisa and me sharing a moment in the distance.

I have a million more, but I'll wait until my brother demands MORE.

Love ya, man!

Waves of Change

How we handle stressful situations says a lot about who we are as people. I get agitated and my brain slips into overdrive trying to figure out solutions. President Obama, it appears, breathes deeply and sallies forth undeterred by Republican rancor, royal protocol, or this audacious recession/depression we find ourselves slogging through.

We traveled to Mexico this past week and yes, the photograph above was taken at one of our favorite restaurants in Sayulita, (the town where we stayed) -- Burritos Revolucion!.
Our vacation was relaxing and rejuvenating. We swam, ate, slept, walked, ate some more, played games, and yes, dealt with some stress, but only on the last night of our stay. It went down like this:

The Casa where we stayed, high atop a hill where the cool evening breeze kept us happy, is completely open. Aside from the locked gate upon entry, there are no other doors except for those going to the bathrooms and bedrooms. Ironically, even the bathrooms have "open windows" to the rest of the house with only large plants to block full view of one's nakedness.

A view of the porch with the house to the left and the gardens to the right...

Consequently, the rental agency offers a hotel safe bolted to the adobe shelf in the one kitchen closet. There we kept our passports, wallets, extra cash, and other valuables whenever we left the house. Sayulita is known for its food, its surf, and its hospitality -- everyone knows everyone or at least everyone knows someone who knows someone else, but with the increase of Americanos, there has also been an increase in theft.

So every morning, before we headed to the beach or to breakfast or for a journey through the town we locked up our "valuables" under the special combination we'd agreed upon in the steel safe bolted in the closet. On the last night, I went to open the safe to retrieve our flight itinerary double checking exactly when we needed to be at the airport...

...only the combination didn't work. ERROR ERROR ERROR the safe squawked and the more we tried the combination, the more it beeped at us and the more I panicked. Our passports, our money, all of our ID, the cell phone -- EVERYTHING was in the safe. Without entry, we couldn't get home and despite the glorious time we'd had in Sayulita, I was ready to come home.

We traveled to Sayulita with our good friends Jeanne and Lisa. We travel well together and sharing a house is always stress-free and wonderful, but it was at this moment of stress that our true colors emerged and like a psychological exam, our quirks came to light.

I went into overdrive trying to figure out our options. I couldn't sit down. I paced. I implored. I wrung my hands and pulled my hair.

Ann tried to calm me down, but at the same time, worked the problem solving angle with me going back to step one and reading the instruction booklet that came with the house (to no avail I might add -- you'd think "How to break into the safe" would be an important chapter in the manual, but no.)

Lisa, on the other hand, developed what she at first called "heartburn" that then turned into "indigestion" that later turned out to be Montezuma's Revenge. While Ann and I flitted around the house in worry and problem-solving mode, Lisa tried her darnedest NOT to throw up on the beautiful Mexican rug in the living room.

Meanwhile Jeanne, the hospital administrator who handles crises almost daily, sat in her chair and watched us. Her advice? Wait until the morning, ask the house manager (Ramon) and stop freaking out.

Wait until morning? You don't tell a person like me (uptight, nervous, and worried) to wait until the morning. Besides, no one knew exactly when Ramon would be around, we had to leave by 9:30 to catch our plane (though there would be no traveling anywhere without passports or ID or money), and we weren't certain if Ramon knew how to break into the safe.

I must say, I was astonished at Jeanne's calm. I suppose that's a necessary role in any crisis situation, but I was a bit miffed that she wasn't in the same frenzy I found myself in. You know, when in crisis you always want everyone else to behave the way you do...it only makes sense. Ha!

We are all different, aren't we? In some ways I suppose the world needs those who problem solve out of panic as much as we need those who thoughtfully practice patience. Let's just say, she was the Obama in the situation and I was -- well, I was more like Paul Krugman, the doubting Thomas, the person who's certain everything we are doing (or not doing) is wrong and will therefore fail.

In the middle of this odd scene -- me in a panic, Ann not quite panicked, but soothing mine, Jeanne contemplative and calm, and Lisa about ready to hurl her fish taco onto the floor -- I remembered that one of the owners of these hillside casas was in the house (his house) right above us.

Let me step back a moment and tell you one other quirk of mine (besides panic and overdrive problem solving): I am not a good initiator. For instance, I'm not good at making phone calls to people I don't know, I rarely complain about food at a restaurant and never send it back, and I'm not someone who would willingly walk up to a stranger's house late in the evening, and ask for the combination that gets us into a locked safe.

But there I was, walking up the garden path to this amazingly beautiful house to find someone I did not know, had never seen before and ask him if he could help. Ann went with me (she's always so supportive of my neuroses). I won't go into all the details, but it turned out that Cap (the man in the house) was warm, welcoming, and willing to help. He gave us the "secret" code to try and if that didn't work, "come and get me!"

As luck would have it, the secret code didn't work so for the next hour, Cap problem solved with us! He called his sister (who owned the house), searched for a "jumper cable" to override the possible dead or failing batteries, and punched in the secret code again and again aghast that it didn't work. He called his sister once again (back in the US) and she gave us the same advice we'd heard from the locals all week long -- relax, take a deep breath, have another beer, and try again.

None of us drink, but we did the rest and lo and behold, it worked. Why it worked, we have no idea, but I could feel the stress leave my body the moment the door opened and I saw my precious passport. At which point Lisa headed to the bathroom where she spent the rest of the night (off and on) battling Montezuma.

We are home now and safe, after a long journey back though we still have visions of Sayulita to keep us warm...
In hindsight, I think I'm glad that Obama is more like Jeanne than like me, but I'm also glad there are Paul Krugman's in the world, too.

Coming Back to Breathing

Each night, when I curl up on my side to go to sleep, I can feel my heart thub-thubbing. I worry about it at times, but my doctor assures me that it beats well and strong though occasionally, the thub pushes harder than the thubbing making the second thub feel hesitant. It's hard to explain, but when I feel the lopsided push my breath alters a bit and then, as if there is nothing else to think about in the world, I focus solely on my breathing.

I wish this was a meditation, but it's not. When I focus on my breathing it all feels wrong as if there's not enough air coming in or too much air going out and I find myself inhaling and exhaling without rhythm or ease. It's exhausting. At first, I try to turn it into an exercise, fully concentrating on each breath in and each breath out, but I can only maintain this for a short while never having mastered the art of meditation. To fall asleep I must concentrate on something else -- focus my attention on a detail of the day or a story I wish to tell and then, after awhile, I'm lost in my brain and not in my lungs.

It's not only at night that such obsession happens. During the day as I work around the house or sit at the computer, I realize how little I'm breathing, how my intake of breath is short and shallow and my release tight and staggered. My mind focuses again on breathing with more intention, regulating that which should be natural but feels superficial and stagnant.

The only time breathing feels right, the only time my body feels enriched by oxygen is when I'm walking or exercising.

Yesterday we went for a late afternoon walk with the dog. We call the walk "Up and Over" because we walk up the big hill to the east and back down it to home. A friend's parents are visiting from Illinois and they came for dessert the other night. When asked how they liked Seattle, they continuously commented on the steepness of the hills. "Walking is a challenge," said the father and yesterday, as we were climbing up the long hill I considered his perspective.

I have known nothing but hills in my lifetime and each hill requires strong breath. Even when my mind focuses on my breathing, I don't get trapped inside of it like I do at night when I'm trying to fall asleep. My breath has a life of its own with each push of my legs up the steep grade. Instead of obsessing about each exhale and inhale, I can watch them from a distance knowing my life depends on the depth and release of breath. It's a partnership of sorts and then, only then do I feel as if I'm meditating.

The same thing happens when I'm swimming though I understand why much better. Swimming, by nature, is rhythmic and each inhale and exhale is confined to an exact movement, a precise moment in a stroke. When I first practiced breathing both to the left and right while swimming, I tired much more quickly unfamiliar with the rhythm. Now, the breathing every third stroke feels natural and balanced, but it took time and patience to adjust. Somehow, I can't find that cadence while trying to fall asleep or during my day when working on a project.

I come back to breathing often -- in my thoughts, in my writing, in those moments when I need it most. We are about to travel to Mexico, for instance, and I dread the plane trip down and the plane trip back. The nervous passenger. I can breathe, but it takes meditative focus to keep my breathing steady, strong, and substantial. Such focus exhausts me. I can feel the tension rise in my neck and back and tie up my body in a gordian knot.

When we arrive in the village where we'll be staying, once we get settled and unpacked, the first thing I will do is take a walk -- no matter the time -- and find myself a hill. Then I'll hike up and down it as many times as it takes to find that rhythm of breath I so crave.

Perhaps then, after I've sweated a bit in the Mexican heat, I'll be able to sleep in between my breathing, resting on that bubble between full and empty.

The Dangers of Walking Dogs

Lately, I've been feeling my age. Well actually, maybe I've been feeling my past. My right foot hurts both in my heel where I have a serious case of tendinitis called, of all glorious names, Haglund's Deformity, and in my big toe where I've developed a bunion that flares from time to time.

My left leg hurts from a nagging case of sciatica fueled by a bulging disc in my back and a hip bone that is twisted and smooshed from a shorter left leg. In my right elbow, I've pulled something that makes it difficult to pick up anything heavy. I need to take some time today to do some serious stretching to relieve the tightness in my back, butt, and legs.

When I wake in the morning, I limp and shuffle to the bathroom and achingly squat onto the toilet. The walk down the stairs is assisted by the hand railing and I'm sure to take one step at a time.

I am only 50 years old though on days like this the "only" feels like a cruel joke. Yesterday, I was a couch potato unable to really feel motivated to do anything other than shop for groceries and make some bread.

I know all of this makes me sound cranky and whiny, but mostly my aches and pains make me feel reflective. As I moaned and groaned yesterday from the couch, worrying out loud about my condition, Ann consoled me by saying, "It's okay to relax. You work hard walking dogs all week long. You need to rest. Let yourself rest." (See why I love her?)

I know that many of my injuries are irritated by walking dogs. I walk about 3 hours a day and second only to my shoes, my body is taking a beating. But my injuries are leftovers from a lifetime of competitive sports and I can trace each kink and cringe to that volleyball season where I played with a sprained ankle, the track season when I raced with a pulled hamstring, the endless practice sessions where I jumped up and down stairs (with 25 lbs of weight on my back) to build strength in my legs, and the hours of diving after volleyballs, basketballs, baseballs, and god knows what else.

So now, when I walk -- just simply walk -- all those nagging injuries flare up in weird ways. My feet have taken the worst of it, the roots of my ability to run fast, jump high and far, and lift heavy objects. I wear orthodics in my shoes and my shoes must be incredibly supportive in order for me to buy them. And then they only last about 5 months if I'm lucky, wearing out like butter in the sun. When I wake in the morning, I must stretch my feet for a good 5 minutes before I can attempt walking and all the rest of it -- the sore butt, the sore back, even the elbow -- I know come from my crappy feet.

And now I'm attempting to make a living by walking dogs (and throwing the ball for them) during the day and standing at a retail job at night. In between it all, I sit at a computer and work on my writing and even that has detrimental effects on my aging body.

This was something I hadn't predicted when I left teaching and entered a world that focused on my feet, on my body. True, I've lost about 12 pounds and I know I'm in good cardiovascular shape, but oh how I hurt, which is something I never would have guessed would have be the outcome of such a career move.

All of this is to say, I'm not ready for a 9-hour shift today. I'm dreading it, in fact because I'm scheduled to work in the pack department, on a Sunday, during a sale. That means I will be lifting 30 pound loaded packs on to small women and tall men all day. I will squat down to fill the pack on the floor, hoist it up onto a back, and lift it back off again and again and again until it fits the customer in such a perfect way they're ready to fork over teh $250+ to purchase it. In between the bazillion customers who've come to the store to take advantage of the sale I'll rearrange packs hanging on the wall, clean up the pack display (people just rummage through and throw those packs hithter and thither), and restock the department with packs stored on high shelves in the warehouse.

All for about $90 for the day.

And tomorrow, it begins again though I am thankful that I only have two dogs to walk followed by a much shorter shift in the pack department (5 1/2 hours instead of 9).

Who knew such a career change could beat me up so?

Okay, I must go and stretch before donning my green working vest and hoisting packs onto the backs of eager hikers.

Between Pakistan and Medication

I've had to work the past two nights at my retail job. When people ask what I do, I tell them I hoist packs onto the backs of rich white people, but I learned last night that's not always the case.

The store is struggling, as are most, from the lack of business, but in the backpack department (where I've been working) we've been swamped. I'm not sure why. From my conversations with customers it appears that they way some people are dealing with the dramatic economic downturn is by leaving the country for places far and wide. I've helped people by a backpack who are traveling to the Sierra Nevadas, Thailand, Spain, Morocco, India, New Zealand, and for one couple, a backpacking trip to the mountains of Pakistan.

Pakistan? Like the mountains where Osama is said to be camping? Yikes.

On Sunday, a couple purchased $400 backpacks after both losing their jobs, receiving their severance bonuses, and deciding to travel in Mongolia and China until the end of summer. According to my supervisor, the pack department is carrying the store at this point, so I wasn't surprised at all when we were busy last night -- usually a quiet night in packs.

In four hours of work, I sold 4 backpacks, 2 travel packs (luggage-like packs) and a few suitcases. One man, a good 6 1/2 feet tall and equally wide looked like Santa Claus in denim. Every pocket in his pants, shirt, coat and current tattered backpack was stuffed and overflowing. It looked as if he were afflicted with unnatural bumps all over his body, but in fact they were wads of paper, rags, and plastic bags. We struck up a conversation about assumptions -- I'm not sure how we got there or why -- and he said, "You'll see a man picking up a quarter from the ground and you may assume he's unemployed, but he could just as easily be a brain surgeon. It's so hard to tell these days."

Amiable and gracious, he had questions about backpacks. He wanted a bigger backpack and settled on one twice the size of the one he was currently carrying. Though I tried not to assume, he gave the first impression of a homeless man carrying his every possession on his person. His hands were dirty, his fingernails long, and his gray tangled beard looked stained around his lips from too much coffee. He was grateful for my help and said as he left, "Thank you for all your assistance. You have been most kind." He bowed then bending his full head of long gray hair down to his waist. Doctor or vagrant? Hard to tell.

One young couple I helped pushed around a store shopping cart filled to the brim with all sorts of camping accessories, clothes, and shoes. Their last stop was in the pack department where they wanted to purchase two waterproof packs of substantial size.

I won't get into the options of such a request. Suffice it to say, waterproof and large equals expensive. Even the options in the clearance bin were $450 (yes, on clearance) so when they decided on two $500 packs, I roughly estimated their shopping cart to be rolling around $2000 worth of merchandise.

An hour after helping them, I went on break and as I was leaving the department I saw the man still wandering around the store pushing his pricey cart. His girlfriend was looking at a few last minute accessories and he was, rather frantically, walking up and down aisles perusing all the camping knick knacks.

While I didn't know this young man, I knew him. He was the student I always had in class who fidgeted -- tapping his pencil, bouncing his leg up and down, squirming in his seat, popping up constantly to sharpen a pencil or throw something into the garbage. Though he was now in his mid-20s, as a middle school student he would be the student who needed to visit the school secretary for his lunchtime medications and if he forgot, he'd be the annoying, out of control student teachers dreaded in their afternoon classes.

This was ADHD in adult form and as I watched him squirm up and down the aisles, pushing his cart with exuberance, never settling to look at any one product, I had to laugh when he slapped his forehead and shouted out (and yes, I mean shouted), "Oh no! I forgot to call the unemployment office!"

There is so much in that one exclamation. I can't even begin to dissect it. It carried the weight of today's economic concerns, the American need to consume, the lack of recent medications, the impulsive nature of a 20-something, and the apparent disconnect between the statement and the reality of his current situation. $2000 of merchandise and the need to call the unemployment office.

I work again tonight. I'm hoping it's slow though the way things have been going, I will most likely be hoisting packs onto more backs -- some rich, some unemployed, and some stradled between Pakistan and medication.

The Long Wednesday

I expected rain yesterday so I packed by dog walking backpack with enough rain gear and towels preparing for a sloppy, sloggy day, but the rain was a no-show. Thankfully. By the second walk of the day, I'd peeled off my layers, stuffed them into the already packed backpack, and walked around in the sun in a t-shirt. I even lamented the fact that I wasn't wearing shorts.

Today is starting off much like yesterday. I woke to rain and when I let Rubin out this morning to do his business, I watched the rain pattern the puddles on the deck. Yet, unlike yesterday, the forecast calls for afternoon clearing and sun. By then, of course, I'll be done with the dog walking portion of my day and busily working with a small group of 8th graders as they continue laying out their yearbook -- indoors.

And then I'll race home, take Rubin for one last spin, shower quickly and take off for a 5 hour shift at REI.

This is going to be one long day. I'm trying not to think about all the bits and pieces of this day. I'm trying not to think about how exhausted I'll be once I start work this evening. I'm trying not to imagine the hours this evening -- will it be busy at REI or dead like last week? I'm only trying to picture myself coming home, brushing and flossing my teeth, and crawling into bed when it's all over.

But that goes against my commitment to live in the now. It's so hard, this now thingy. I can do it while walking the dogs. They're certainly living in the moment and their silly antics make me very attentive to each minute I am with them. Quillette (pictured above) especially. I've decided she is very much a happy Eeyore. Perhaps an oxymoron, the happy Eeyore, but she has this way of looking at me that makes me laugh.

Rubin, too. Yesterday, I took them both for a walk through the wooded park and along a trail that often has muddy puddles. When we reached those puddles, he sniffed at one and then looked at me saying, "Oh god, I LOVE puddles and mud!" and off he went, sprinting and galluping and bouncing up and down the trail inviting Quillette to join him. Older and less likely to frolic, Quillette looked at me and then at him and threw back her head in a hilarious howl. Meanwhile, Rubin continued his romp possessed by the mud on the side of the trail. By the time he was done, his legs were black to the knees, his nose covered in mud, and his tongue slung in an exhausted pant.

The blur of Rubin being frisky!

I thought of nothing else during those moments. I just watched him play and listened to Quillette howl at him. This is what I love the most about being a dog walker. There are no big worries. No thinking ahead or reflecting back about the job I've done. I wouldn't mind a long Wednesday if it was solely focused on walking dogs, but unfortunately it isn't. There's this funny thing about making a living and since making a living involves cobbling together a weird array of jobs, I am stuck with today as it is -- a long Wednesday

Pouting Rain

We'd planned on skiing today, but woke to heavy rain. The mountain pass report is no better and now we must regroup and figure out something else. I am disappointed. Not much skiing this year and I was hoping for one last ski before the spring weather.

Our weather has been a mix of rain, snow, sun, and wind this week. As a dog walker, I live in it all. Last week I went through three sets of rain gear, rotating through it by hanging the wet stuff in the downstairs bathroom, donning the dry stuff, and then hanging the second set of wet stuff alongside the first and wearing a third set I dug out of a plastic tub in the basement. The next day, sun and I walked most of the day without a coat and at one point in a t-shirt. That day was followed by snow and I pulled out long underwear and a warm hat. There was no dressing against the wind, but I walked through that as well.

I shouldn't have been surprised by rain this morning. I read all the forecasts, but I convinced myself that rain down here meant snow up in the mountains. I was wrong. The snow level is at 6000 feet and we ski at 3000. That would mean skiing in the rain. Not fun. Even the traffic cams mounted at the pass make the day look uninviting.

So now I must figure out what to do instead.

What an interesting proposition. As a teacher, I never was without something to do -- grade papers, plan lessons, contact parents -- though I did everything I could to put it off until the last minute (usually Sunday night when I tantrumed my way through it all). Just because I'm not teaching doesn't mean there aren't things I can do. There are bills to pay, there's a piece I'm working on that needs yet another rewrite, there are papers on the desk that need to be filed and there are dishes to do and laundry to fold. And I must get all my tax papers together. How's that for exciting?

None of it feels pressing and perhaps that is my disappointment niggling me into a kind of pout today. I really wanted to ski, but now I must turn to other choices none of which seem as appealing.