Dreams of Swimming

I woke early this morning after a dream where I was swimming deep underwater though the water was actually in a pool that stretched out from someone's home for blocks and blocks. I think I was in the neighborhood of Lower Queen Anne trying to find the house of a dog I walk. I found the dog, but as soon as I put him on a leash and realized there was water all around the house, the dog turned into a 4-year-old boy. And just like the dog, the boy/dog had very red, curly hair.

"Can you swim?" I asked.

"Living here," he said, "I have to!" Then he laughed and dove in.

I followed though I held tightly to the leash that was attached to the boy/dog's belt. We held our breath, but we didn't need to. We could talk underwater and soon I realized I was breathing underwater as well.

"We have to go through that tunnel," the boy/dog told me and so we swam into a narrow passage only to be met by a large, long lizard. Instinctively I knew the lizard was harmless because he looked at us with the same fear and trepidation that we looked at him.

It was then that I heard the voice of a friend who said, "Whatever you do, don't turn around. Swim toward the lizard." My friend had driven me to this watery house and she was waiting for us in her car out on the street. We were trying to swim toward her and somehow she could observe what we were doing.

I started to swim forward, but the boy/dog turned around and swam the other way and I no longer had hold of his leash. Even the lizard looked worried especially when a bright light lit up the tunnel from behind us.

This is when I woke up, my sciatica burning a hold in my left leg and the strong urge to pee overwhelmed me. I got up, hobbled to the bathroom, did my business, and headed back to bed, but sleep was hopeless with my burning leg and butt nagging me awake every few minutes.

Sometimes dreams are just dreams, but sometimes they are not. I can't really figure this one out. I know there is some flux in my dog walking schedule with the said red-headed dog's family putting their house up for sale while trying to find a new home hopefully in the area. Another dog walking client is doing the same (moving that is), so perhaps my curious dream reflects the uncertainty of these two clients.

But the swimming part is intriguing. I love to swim. Swimming calms me. Swimming is a meditation for me. Being able to breathe underwater is often something I can do in my dreams. It feels natural and since I think I spent half my childhood in a pool, it makes sense that I find water to be a safe place.

But the lizard thing and the bright light behind me, the light that I knew represented fear, confuses me. What does that mean?

I'll have to think about this today. There maybe something there, there may not, but I know that I've been trying to work something out in my dreams lately, I just am not certain what it is. Regardless, dreaming of swimming makes me want to actually go swimming, which may be a result of my massage therapist encouraging me to get back in the pool to help with my sciatica.

Easier said than done these days, but I'll do anything at this point to end the burning in my butt and leg.

First up, though...a walk at the park with Rubin...my own curly-headed, semi-blond little boy...so he can go for a swim and romp around in the big field with all the other dogs.

Crossing the Rubicon

Not until I watched the ridiculously overdone ROME series did I put two and two together: The Rubicon is river in Italy. Crossing was forbidden. Thus when Caesar crossed it, well there was hell to pay...really overwrought hell according to the HBO series.

Silly me. Being a history major I should have known this, but somehow that little fact didn't stick. I wonder how much else goes unstuck?

My dreams last night were all over the map, but the one that sticks ended with a huge house fire, an emaciated father standing with his almost dead young son in his arms, and the father shouting to the fire, "Take me, not my only begotten son!" And then the father collapsed and died. I didn't stay asleep long enough to know what happened to the son.

I can't even begin to imagine what that dream was about. Religiously themed dreams rarely populate my sleep, but this one was definitely religious. Except when I woke up from the dream, I kept thinking -- Who was God? The father with the son in his hands or the fire? I imagine many who question the foundations of Christianity have asked that very same question.

The dream has stayed with me this morning. Not in a bad way. Not even in a good way. It's just stuck -- images, sounds, and all -- unlike the factoid about the Rubicon.

Of course, now that I know about the Rubicon I'll not forget it. When things stick with me, it's hard to un-stick them and while that might seem like a good thing, it's not. At least, not always. They become tidbits I gnaw on at the weirdest times -- usually in the middle of the night -- and I have a hard time letting them lie flat. I pick at them constantly.

Perhaps my dream was informed by my late night reading -- Barbara Kingsolver's "Lacuna." I read a lot of the reviews before I purchased the book and most weren't glowing. Reviewers liked the book, but thought it lacked something and they kept comparing it to her other novels, particularly "Poisonwood Bible." That must be a bummer for Kingsolver. Kind of like a famous musician always asked to play their hits from 20 years ago. Does she always have to write that same novel over and over to get noticed?

I mean, I liked Poisonwood, but I also really liked "Prodigal Summer" -- so different from each other, but each with enough weight to draw me in and make me live the stories in my head even when I wasn't reading. Lacuna is very different and yet those images, the rhythm of the voices stick with me even when I'm doing the most mundane tasks.

Yesterday, I had to venture into Costco for some needed items. Costco is always overwhelming, but on a Saturday afternoon, it's stupefying. I survived simply by recalling the voice of Harrison Shepard, the storyteller in Kingsolver's book. His voice calms me only it's not his voice, it's really hers and that is why I find this novel as powerful and wonderful as her previous ones. The character is in my head and yesterday, while elbowing my cart through the crowded Costco isles, I thought about Mr. Shepard's voice (aka Ms. Kingsolver's) again and again. How does she do that, I kept thinking, how does she make me hear him, see him, feel him when all the while it's her?

I like it when things like this stick. It's a comfort. So it's hard for me to figure out how my religious dream of begotten sons connects to the soothing voice of Kingsolver's story. Maybe there is no connection and the psychic patchwork of dreams threaded these facts together until I was left with images of a dying father and a limp son falling perilously close to the flames.

I cannot make sense of what sticks and what doesn't. We each have our own Rubicons to cross, I suppose, I just wonder what hell I'm trying to pay.

No News

I'm doing my best NOT to read the Huffington Post. It was a New Year's Resolution. I made it because I found myself reading it every chance I got and the more I read, the more yucky I felt. It appears that everyone has an opinion about everyone else and even though those opinions are often conflicting, the headlines are bold and threatening, warning of dire consequences should one opinion prevail over another.

I started reading the Huffington Post during the last presidential elections. I wanted to follow the polls and the pundits in hopes that my candidate would get elected. Now that he has, the polls and pundits are chronicling his every move and subsequent opinions about his performance beat on the website like an erratic and ailing heart. After reading the posts, I find myself searching for my own feelings and opinions and often can't find them because they're buried under the words of "experts."

Years ago -- before I was a teacher, before I was a dog walker, before most of my life -- I worked in television news. I was a "behind the scenes" worker who coiled up cables, tested microphones, and sent signals back to the news station for LIVE reports. I enjoyed my work, but found it extremely stressful since everyone in the newsroom took their jobs so seriously it was hard to remember that most people weren't glued to a police scanner just waiting for the next disaster.

I decided to leave the news business because I realized - while driving way over the speed limit to a car accident I'd been ordered to so the station I worked for could have "first coverage," - that local television news was about nothing more than paranoia and tragedy. The stories on the morning, afternoon, and evening broadcasts warned about all the things that could go wrong -- faulty wiring in new homes, baby food with potentially hazardous chemicals, diseases that could befall anyone who touched this, ate that, slept here, or vacationed there.

If the stories weren't fueled by fear, they were focused on someone's sorrow. Numerous times it was my job to hold a microphone up to a surviving victim of some heinous crime or worse, the grieving family. I followed reporters who knocked on the doors of the parents of a murdered woman or stand out on chilly nights while the reporter told the tragic story of the "family in the house behind me."

I have a vivid memory of being summoned from my warm bed on an early winter morning to cover the story of a fire in the north end. A husband and wife were found dead in the burned down house and we stood outside waiting for the body bags to emerge because body bags made for good visuals. And so we waited, for hours, because it turned out the husband was a famous artist who had just been sued by his daughter for years of sexual abuse. We didn't know that at the time, nor did the neighbors who set up lawn furniture to watch the action while they ate their breakfasts before heading off to work.

Turns out the daughter had set fire to her parents' house in revenge for all the tragedy her father made of her life and so we spent the next week searching for people who knew the family, who could provide any information. "Did you see this coming?" was a common question followed by "How does it feel to know she did this?"

It was tragic and therefore was the lead story in the 5 o' clock news followed by a story about a dentist who sexually molested his patients.

Depressing. The job was depressing and stressful and so out of touch with reality. Yes, those horrible things happened, but when all you could focus on were the horrible things it was difficult to find any not-horrible things in the world.

That's kind of how I feel about HuffPost. Well-written, articulate analysis that focuses on the problems of the world is, in my humble opinion, no different than poorly written, inarticulate crap focused on the problems of the world -- it's all just focused on the negative and pretty soon, that's all you can see.

So, I've taken to reading food blogs and photography blogs, and postings about rescued dogs. I still listen to NPR because I can tune out what I don't want to hear and at least once every few hours, there's a great story about creativity or music or a funny new play in New York that I'll probably never see.

This week in my classroom, we're taking a brief look at the Civil Rights Movement as a prelude to a new novel we'll be reading. In my introduction to the students I said that to me, history isn't about events or wars -- it's about people and their stories. So we'll be taking a look, I told them, at the individual stories of the 1950s and 60s. Some will be sad, I explained (because their 5th graders and they are moved by sadness), and some will be inspiring. But remember, I added, that people change the course of history and it's their stories that can inspire us to action.

Those are the stories I wish I could read more of on the Huffington Post. Imagine how that might change our outlook on the world around us?

Living with Elvis

I woke this morning and greeted Elvis in the mirror. We do this every now and then, arranging a visit about once every 7 or 8 weeks. Generally, our get-togethers are brief -- he smiles, I scream and then it's over. But today, looking at Elvis in the mirror, I realized he was going to be around for awhile seeing as how the woman who cuts my hair - Mary - is finishing up her honeymoon in Paris for the next few weeks.

If it weren't her honeymoon, I'd be made at her. How dare she take a vacation (to Paris of all places) and leave Elvis to wreak havoc on my life!

Elvis, you see, lives in my hair. After a night of tossing and turning, smooshing a pillow on top of my head or burying myself in the covers, my hair rises like a mountain on my head. "The bigger the hair," Mary tells me, "the closer to God."

She doesn't mean it. Neither of us are religious and therefore not focused on being closer to God, but still, one look at my stack of hair and even she is singing Elvis tunes.

Many people admire my hair. Not now, of course, not when it's got a life of its own, but in general, when Elvis is away and my hair behaves itself. At 51, I am lucky to have a thick, healthy head of hair, gray though it may be. People often comment on it-- the salt and pepper coloring, the waves or curls if it's recently gotten wet from rain or from swimming, the thickness of it -- but when it gets long, like now, it is so strong and so thick that it doesn't fall around my face. Nope, it stacks up on top of my head.

Once, when I was bored with my haircut, I decide to grow my hair out. It took forever and though I knew I'd have to live through the ugly stage, I didn't realize that the ugly stage would put me in the company of entertainers like Elvis or Conway Twitty or those tele-evangelists who must have to spray their hair with lacquer to get it to stand so tall.

I use gel to subdue any elevation and still, it rises every morning like prehistoric mountains pushed up by shifting tectonics.

My hair got wide, too when I was trying to grow it out. The longer it got, the more it grew out sideways never gaining enough weight to hang down long. So now I keep it short, but if I don't schedule a haircut every 6 weeks or so, the top part grows sky high and Elvis comes by for a visit.

"You need a haircut," my teaching partner said to me the other day. Even though I laughed, I was a bit wounded.

"Elvis is in the house," I sang out. She laughed uncontrollably.

Mary doesn't come back for another two weeks. I'll need to pick up some more hair gel when I see her. I've been over-indulging in the stuff in an attempt to tame the wily beast, but still, every morning, Elvis and I meet in the mirror.

The only thing I'm missing are sideburns and a sequined-studded white leather coat and pants.

Too bad Halloween is so far away.

To Be Resolved

This is the time of year when I am always more resolved than others. I make resolutions and then get frustrated (sometimes even before I start) that I don't stick to them. Still, I feel compelled to come up with a list of things I'd like to change about myself and my life's routine. I'm not sure if it's some ingrained message that I must make resolutions or if the dark evenings and long nights make me more reflective of my laziness and disorganization.

Okay, I'm not that bad, but this time of year everything, including me, slows down. Yesterday, for instance, I had planned on reorganizing the kitchen cupboards (perhaps after seeing my mother's highly organized kitchen over the holidays), but found myself on the couch watching reruns of Law and Order SVU, many of which I had seen before. Eventually I fell asleep under the warm down and flannel blanket and woke up in time to feel the guilt of not finishing a task I'd set out for myself.

So I got up and cleaned the house. While it needed to be done, the kitchen cupboards remain in disarray this morning and I feel slightly guilty that I did not complete my goal.

Why then, would I choose to make a list of resolutions for 2010? It just feels like an invitation for failure.

Yet, resolutions this time of year feel compelling and so I find myself making lists in my head about losing the last 10 pounds I can't seem to shake, setting up a routine for morning stretches and meditation, joining a yoga class, and putting myself on a news fast to fight off that hopeless feeling every time I hear the stock market has dropped, terrorism is on the rise, and that the man that I voted for President is acting more like a Republican than the Progressive I so hoped he'd reveal himself to be.

But let's face it -- I am a tad bit OCD and making a list is as satisfying as making certain the picture frames in the house are straight or the ottoman is centered in front of the couch. It doesn't help that recently I went to the doctor for a much needed (and rather avoided) physical exam. Blood tests revealed that while my bad cholesterol is a bit high, by good cholesterol is stellar offsetting the bad effects of the cruddy stuff. And even though my blood pressure is moderately high, the fact that I don't smoke or drink and exercise far more than most my age, I am at a low cardiovascular risk.

Sweet.

But give a woman like me a high number - as in my bad cholesterol -- and you'll find it on her list of New Year's resolutions as "Eat Oatmeal!" When the doctor gives the same woman an order to monitor her blood pressure once a week, know that said woman will monitor it twice a week and religiously write it down in the handy-dandy little card given to her by the doctor. In addition, she will resolve to meditate in the mornings, take yoga classes at least once a week, and practice breathing in times of stress.

Though I might not write down my resolution list this year, it runs like credits in my head scrolling by me in a bright white on a dark background. I will be resolved even when I try to fight it. The trick is, as it always is, not let the resolutions fade by the end of January. That's a resolution I struggle keeping.

And yes, I know I am not alone.

To Write About Death

Death, they say, is a part of life. I get it. I know it, but still, until you have to deal with it -- the death-it -- it's easier to just talk about it as an elusive someday. But as I get older, the someday gets closer and I am forced to let death be a part of my life.

It started with Jim M., a man I thought of as a beloved Uncle, but who was more than that in many ways. He was substance and satire, sturdy and symbolic. If I were to pick one person out of all the family friends who would die first, I never would have picked him. Even though he smoked for a long, long time -- longer than he should have -- and even though he had one of those hard, round bellies cardiologists warn you about, I never would have picked him to be the first.

Probably in the whole scheme of things he wasn't the first, but for me, he felt more like the first than anyone else.

There were other deaths in between Jim M's and Ann's mom, but their impact was not of the same weight or significance. That sounds cold when I write it, but deaths have different weights, like a Richter Scale. While some are a magnitude of 5 and there is significant damage to lives and hearts, a magnitude 6 is ten times more significant and you feel that damage as if it were a thousand times more powerful.

Ann's mom, Genevieve, was in many ways a thousand times more significant, but for very different reasons. It was unexpected. It is unresolved. No one really knows for certain how she died, under what circumstances, and the clouds around her death will most likely remain there for years and years to come -- unresolved. Jim M's death was tragic, too. Asbestos the weapon, corporate greed the murderer.

That's what they share in common, I suppose -- what their deaths both share in common -- that they were both murdered though no one will ever truly be prosecuted for the crimes. No amount of reparations can replace either of them be it money from lawyers willing to settle or from estates spread from Mexico to France.

And then, Jim F. dies as unexpected as any of them, and I am consumed by memories of my childhood, of the days and weeks I spent with his daughter, my best friend, on their 20 acres in what was once a rural part of the county. Carrol, his daughter, had a huge influence on who I became as an adult. She was wildfire and I was water. She was a tiger and I was a kitten. She was the ascent from the highest peak and I was rock firmly resting on solid ground. She'd jump from a plane without a parachute and I wouldn't even step onto the plane. Night and day, but we balanced each other in many ways.

I think her father, Jim F. knew that. Though he was rarely around, rarely really in Carrol's life, he stormed through often and frequently enough that he knew I was the common sense to Carrol's irrational risk-taking. And for that, he treated me like a daughter. Not all loving and cuddly or even supportive and proud, but rather he smiled when he saw me and he'd occasionally give me a hug. He's ask about my life, check in on what I was doing, and he'd do so with the utmost sincerity.

I can't imagine what Carrol is feeling. Her relationship with her father was stormy at the best of times and tsunami-like the rest of the time. She feared him in many ways (I did too...perhaps more than she did), but she always defied him. She'd swing from one end of the teenage angst continuum to the other never resting in the middle, which is where her father would have liked her to land.

Still, he was proud of her, he loved her -- that was obvious -- but there was always the hint of cynical disappointment that his daughter didn't quite turn out like he'd imagined.

Of course, the dead get off easy. It's the living who must deal with all of these questions and doubts, losses and longings.

I've been trying to write a sympathy card to the Jim F's family all day, but I stumble over my own words. Yes, I am sad at his passing and even sadder that his family must now keep on living with all that baggage of their relationship with their father, husband, brother, but Jim F's passing is a 3 on my Richter Scale and I'm struggling to not feel bad about that. Maybe he should be a 5 or a least a 4, I keep thinking. Maybe if he were a 4 the words would flow more easily and the sympathy card would say what I need it to say.

Instead, I just keep thinking about that funny man -- the odd and scary one, too -- who had a biting wit and a quick temper. I keep remembering how we were forbidden to go into his study and how, as a kid, I thought for certain it was protected by an invisible electric fence. I keep remembering how, when Carrol and I would bake cookies or heat up soup, he'd gruffly tell us to "Clean the damn kitchen," or "Don't make a damn mess" and I find it hard to be gentle and thoughtful in my sympathy for his family.

To write about death is more complex than any other topic I've ever tried to write about. It has such layers, stretches to depths I can't quite grasp. It's tangled like roots and knotted together in complex twists my fingers hurt with the attempt to pull it apart.

Ann put a photograph of her mother on the wall in the study the other day. I know she needs to do this, but the other night I had to tell her that it was hard to work when Genevieve kept looking at me with her sad, tired eyes. "Perhaps we could find a different photograph," I suggested and Ann agreed. Ann's sister sent a photograph the other day with a note that said she, too, was trying to "bring up some fond memories."

That is all we are left with in the end, I suppose, shreds of memories that hold us up in the tumble of our grief. Too many are tumbling these days. I want to recall the memories, allow myself to remember fondly, but sometimes I find myself just shutting down. It's too much, I think, it's too much and I worry that this is just the beginning.

Death is a part of life. Death is a part of my life now more than ever and the future does not look promising.

And then I think of when I first heard the expression of Mother Jones who said, "Pray for the dead and fight like hell for the living." I always thought that was a feisty bit of advice, but now, with these deaths of the past few years, I understand what she was saying in a much different way. It is the living who need us the most.

It is the living who I need the most.

Due Dates

Ann flies out tomorrow morning for Phoenix where she'll meet up with her younger sister for the 3 1/2 drive to Mexico. There they'll connect up with their mother's much younger boyfriend and they will divide up their mother's ashes.

Genevieve died Monday morning and our house has been about answering phone calls and Skype calls and emails -- from France and Mexico and Madison, Wisconsin. Ann spent all day yesterday in her classroom preparing lesson plans for the week and tonight admitted that she's lost her patience with demanding parents and energetic second graders.

Nothing's really hit her yet. At least, that's my unprofessional assessment. She cried on Monday morning just a bit, but has been focused every day on working, preparing, and making plans to travel to Arizona and then to Mexico. I know she'll cry eventually. She's not the kind who doesn't cry. She hates it when I tell her, but she's not a pretty crier so I can only imagine how ugly it will be when she really opens up and lets herself feel the loss of her mother.

And then when it hits her that her father is gone, too. They'll be a flood.

We're planning a memorial in early December in Phoenix. Ann has asked me to go with her then, but not tomorrow. When we made that decision it seemed like the best one, but now that I think about her in Phoenix and then Mexico absorbing it all and crying in that tight-fisted way she does, I wish I were going to comfort her.

But I don't think there is much comfort to be offered. Her mother died. Unexpectedly, but not necessarily surprisingly. Her mother's health had always been iffy and she was stubborn about her medications and doctor's opinions. You couldn't argue with her. She knew what she was going to do and there was no persuading her otherwise. She'd lived her whole life like that so it makes a kind of ironic sense that she'd die that way clutching her heart that she was convinced was perfectly fine even after all the doctors told her otherwise.

Ann is pragmatic, though. Unlike me, she doesn't hold onto things past their due date. She feels her grief with intensity and commitment, but when she's grieved, she moves on with sensitivity and practicality. I'm not sure I could do the same, but then I'm the person who holds onto way too much stuff long past its due date.

Still, I wish I could be there when the tears come just to hold her, just to listen, just to hand her tissues and remind her to breathe. That's the problem with her crying, really. She holds her breath for what seems like hours. Her face scrunched up and red it's like she'll burst. And then I say, "Breathe" and she laughs just enough to take some air in once, twice, and then holds her breath again and then I wait, nervous about how long it's been since her last breath and I say, "Breathe" and we go through the whole thing again.

Rubin is worried. He sees her packed bag by the front door and all night long he's curled up by her feet, wherever she may be, and sighs these big deep sighs. He's reminding her to breathe too. He wants to be there in Phoenix and in Mexico, but instead, we'll be here waiting for her phone calls, her Skype calls, her emails...waiting for her return.

This is the time of my life, isn't it, when people die? I've been lucky (if luck is really the right word) that not too many people I'm close to have died yet. There have been some, important people, but when I talk to others my age, my death statistics are a mere blip on the screen compared to others. Of course, that might mean that my blip, when it happens, spikes all at once. For now, my grief tank is pretty full compared to so many others.

Compared to Ann's.

Ann comes home on Saturday evening. I'll be there, of course, with open arms and the dog waiting in the car in the airport parking lot. She'll like that, to see the dog and know that she's coming home. She'll talk about the difficulty of it all -- finding the will, bringing home the ashes, seeing her mother's belongings, meeting the boyfriend for the first time. She'll talk about the stories she remembered with her sister and the hot weather in Phoenix and the hotter weather in Mexico. She'll talk about her Dad, remembering his death again. And she'll talk about her mother and the complicated relationship she had with her, they all had with her.

And I'll make potato leek soup again, from her mother's recipe, and bake fresh bread and on Sunday morning, we'll get up and I'll drive to the wonderful French bakery in West Seattle and buy a fresh baguette and some pomme chaussons for us to eat. I'll make her my best latte and rub her feet and later, when Rubin gives us that look, we'll go for a walk down by the lake and look for the turtles who like to bask in the sun.

It's November now. They'll be no turtles. It's too cold, but we'll look anyway. You just never know.

Gnawing

I like how Rubin deals with his frustrations. Take this photo where he's destroying a large stick with glee. I sometimes feel like I need a large stick on which to gnaw. Even the word "gnaw" sounds mighty appealing. It actually fits the action which it labels.

Currently, I'm still sort of gnawing on being "fired" by one of my dog walking clients. Everyone tells me not to worry. She'll pay me for last month's services and that will be that. But late at night (or early in the morning) I find myself still gnawing that stick. It doesn't matter what the gnaw is about, I just can't seem to let it go, which is funny because, in the middle of the day, when everything is rational and balanced, I'm actually glad to be rid of her. And her dog, too.

That dog was my most difficult walk and since I walked her every day, I started to dread the 1 o' clock hour. I liked her well enough, but the physical energy I had to exert to get that dog to focus on walking nicely was exhausting. A few weeks ago I got a massage from my favorite massage therapist. She started digging into my left shoulder when I flinched and gasped. "Sorry," she said, "But there's something deep here."

"The dog," I said only I named the dog and then I told her how hard I had to work to not be pulled down the street by this exuberant, out-of-control dog. Weird thing is, I really liked the dog. I mean, when she settled down and we got to walking, she was really quite fun and silly. But settling down and getting to walking sometimes took 50 minutes of the hour we were together. Sometimes, because I felt so sorry for her that she had to go back into her crate for another 5 hours after I dropped her off, I'd take her out for a longer time at no charge to the owner. That wore me out even more.

But today, when I was making a pear streussel and using the last of our tomatoes for a pasta sauce, I said to Ann, "I feel free knowing I don't have to walk that dog anymore."

Ann just kept correcting papers and so I added, "She really wore me out!"

"The dog or the owner?" Ann smiled without lifting her head up from the 2nd graders' spelling tests.

Good question.

So in those balanced moments like today, I'm glad my schedule has opened up more. I'm glad that my left side won't be pulled up and down hills, that I won't be jerked left to right or have to pick up large poos 5 or 6 times in one walk.

It's just at night when that I start gnawing on it all, replaying the whole thing in my mind again that I wish, like Rubin, I could just find a huge stick to destroy enthusiastically and then be done with it! Fall fast asleep in a little ball, my feet flinching with the memory of it all.

49 hours

My clock will be turned back one hour on Saturday night. I want to turn it back now, but then everything would be wrong tomorrow.

Still. Not everything has been right this week.

I want to turn it back now because I want time to turn back just a little. Not a lot. Just one hour of a little.

This has been a weird week. Ann's mother died at 5:30 Monday morning. We received an email from her ex-convict, Mexican much younger boyfriend. In broken English he wrote "your mother dead" and we sat staring at the screen like someone had just sent us a chain letter that we didn't quite understand.

Phone calls to Mexico and France and Phoenix and even to Peru. Arrangements. Cremation. Emails from her mother's Facebook friends. More phone calls. More emails.

Ann must buy a ticket to Phoenix, but not until her sister comes home from her vacation in Peru. They must make their plans. The day they drive to Mexico. The day they drive back to Phoenix.

Still Ann has not cried. She did at first, but only a little. Now it feels unreal. It's just a thought, not a reality yet. I know when she sees her sister she'll cry. They'll both cry and that will be good.

Meanwhile, I will stay at home until December when we will fly down together for a memorial. Meanwhile, I will continue working at the school in the mornings and walking dogs the rest of the day. The rest of the week.

Only one less dog since an owner "fired" me. A training dispute, she called it. Ironically, I was formulating a letter to fire her. So today, I didn't walk the dog I normally walk every day and I was happy about it. Well, sort of happy. I wasn't nearly as tired as I normally am on a Friday. I no longer have the dog pulling at my left arm, lunging forward on the wet sidewalks, making me worry that I'd slip on the slick leaves.

Yes, training differences. We can call it that.

And in between Ann's mother dying and the dog not being walked today were all these stupid worries that consume me at times, making it hard to sleep, making it hard to believe in myself, making me doubt the path I am on. Can my body take being a dog walker as a career? Can I make a living at it? I mean, I am making somewhat of a living, but I can't walk that many more dogs to increase my income. Do I really want to go back to teaching?

And what about Ann? She deserves time off, too. She deserves to find a passion and follow it. But we need her health insurance and her steady income. If I went back to teaching, even more part time than I already am, she might get that break and my body might not hurt so much from dogs pulling me down the street.

But it was only really one dog and now that dog is gone. I will miss her, but at the same time I won't miss the owner who thinks everything the dog does wrong is my fault. Yes, I am too excited and therefore the dog jumps on me and bites my hands or my collar or my hair. Yes, I am too excited. If I were calmer, she'd behave. Calmer like the owner only every time I see her with the dog, there is the same behavior -- the biting, the jumping, the crazy flaying and spinning.

Training differences. I should say.

So much is swirling around my head. Ann wants me to get angry and realize that this is for the best. No more dog that destroys my body. I want Ann to cry about her mother's death so I can comfort her. She must be sad. Or maybe not yet. Maybe it's not her reality yet.

It's so hard to figure out what to do next. That's why I need the extra hour so I don't have to anything next. The other 48 hours I'll do something -- mostly practicing letting it go -- but during that one hour I just want to sleep in or sit in the sun (if there's sun) or eat a waffle with blueberries or raid the Halloween candy one more time.

A 49 hour weekend. How blissful. Or so I hope.

On Second Thought

It crossed my mind today that maybe I don't want to be a dog walker. For those who know me well, this second guessing comes as no shock since I'm always doubting my decisions. But today, while walking only 3 dogs, I thought, "Maybe this isn't what I want to be doing."

Of course, I'm sick with some laryngitis thingy, am feeling overwhelmed by both teaching part-time and owning my own dog walking business, and have realized that owning one's own business means it's really difficult to call in sick. Perhaps this isn't the best time to be second guessing myself, but it's against my nature not to so here I go.

What I miss this year (as opposed to last year when I was just freelance writing and walking dogs) is the extra time I had in my life for things like cooking, cleaning, paying bills, and just thinking. I miss the thinking the most -- those quiet times in the morning when I could really stretch out and collect my thoughts. I don't have that anymore, which is probably partly the reason I am sick and partly the reason for my second thoughts.

So today I thought, "How do I get that back? How do I get that time back to write, to read, to think?" I could quit teaching, though that won't happen until next June since I can't really abandon my contract. Or I could quit dog walking and just teach part time. But here's the irony of it all -- dog walking gives me the physical stimulation I need as well as the time to really think about my writing and my life. Teaching sucks it out of me and by "it" I mean everything that grounds me.

Even this year. I'm only teaching a minimal amount and already it feels consuming. And the weird thing is, I'm not really into it. I go in, do my job, but nothing feels like it's on fire and that's the part I used to really like about teaching -- being on fire. Of course, being on fire is probably what literally burned me out because frankly, no one can sustain that kind of energy for very long. I'm living proof.

So now, between the walking dogs all day long and the teaching in the mornings, I'm back to that place I was before where there's no time for me. No time for thinking. No time to relax. No time to breathe. No time for doctor's appointments or going to the post office or shopping at the Farmer's Market.

No wonder I'm sick. And I know better. Don't make decisions when you feel crappy because the decision will always end up being crappy.

So I shall go to bed. I shall sleep. I shall shake this thing and get through what needs to be gotten through. No more second thoughts. I just need to find time for the first ones, then I can have the second ones!

I Just Had Ta

Each week I put in about 30-40 miles of walking with my dog walking business. My feet hurt by the end of the week. On Friday, I got a massage and my massage therapist said, "Do you walk on weekends?"

"Not usually," was my mumbled response since she always puts me in a state of such relaxation, it's hard to do anything but grunt and groan.

"Good, you need to give your body a rest."

It's true, but today I just had to go for a walk down by the lake and up through the neighborhoods. It's beautiful out there and with the promise of rain for the next few weeks, this seemed like my last chance for a shirt-sleeve walk and photographs. So armed with the dog, my camera, and my backpack we headed out for the lake and then up through the neighborhoods, about 5 miles in total.

While the lake was beautiful, the part I like the most about the walk is the passage through Sam Smith Park. Whoever designed that park needs continued accolades because it's the best kept secret in Seattle. The trees are blazing with color and the park invites you to just stroll and take your time. It leads to the tunnel over I-90 and down to the lake. I spend a lot of time in this park and I never tire of it. So today, I whipped out the camera and took photos of the trees, the park, and the views of Seattle.



I know I should have rested my body today, but really, I just had to walk this morning. The benefits of the walk had to outweigh the damage to my body. It just had ta!

Chagrin

Much to everyone's chagrin, I do not own a cell phone. I may be stupid in many ways, but I cannot tell you how much I loathe and despise them. It's like they rule everyone's life and they have become an acceptable excuse for being rude. How many people do you know, with whom you are carrying on a conversation, stop everything to answer their phone? No apologies, no turning it off and answering the message later, no, "do you mind if I get this?" Nope, they look at the phone and maybe, maybe say, "I'm sorry, I have to take this call from my brain surgeon," though more times than not, they take the call and stop all conversation.

Okay, I'm ranting. My rant comes from the fact that yesterday, as I crossed the street at a designated crosswalk complete with red lights and my own walk sign, I almost got run over by a woman who was looking at her cell phone while driving. I've seen this many times and have often yelled or worse while similar cell phone addicted drivers run red lights, but yesterday was beyond comprehension. I was halfway through the crosswalk! I had one dog walking on my right side, the other on my left. Luckily, they were close at my side and I had control of them because when I looked up (HALFWAY ACROSS) a minivan was moving on through the crosswalk with nary a drop in speed limit. I yelled, "Hey!" as loud as I could and the woman looked up from her cell phone as she passed me by and then waved.

Waved! Like "Oh hi, didn't see you!" Didn't see me? What about the red light you just blatantly ran? Or the two large dogs at my side. Or the fact that I had on a bright red shirt? Guess you can't see anything when you're LOOKING DOWN AT YOUR CELL PHONE!

Did she stop? Nope. Just a wave and she was off. The driver behind her stopped and from her car I could see her shaking her head. "I was almost killed here!" I wanted to shout. I wanted someone to notice the stupidity of it all, but instead, I made my way across the rest of the crosswalk to the park on the other side and burned my anger all the way home.

Okay, maybe this has nothing to do with my own refusal to get a cell phone, but I just don't want to become that kind of person - oblivious and over-multi-tasking. Friends call me on their cell phones, family members too, and if I can tell they are driving -- even if it's a hand held device -- I tell them to call me when they've stopped. God knows I don't want them hitting some dog walker in the middle of a cross walk.

Enough of my rant.

In my calm moments, I see the benefit of a cell phone especially as a professional dog walker. But the idea of it feels wrong. I mean, 15 years ago there were dog walkers without cell phones, right? They got along just fine, didn't they? Why is now any different?

My real dislike stems from the idea that we must be communicating or open to the possibility of communicating every second of every day. In other words, we keep ourselves busy -- dialing, texting, talking -- and why? Does it really make for better relationships? Does it really make us more connected? What I love about being a dog walker is that amazingly wonderful quiet time when it's just me and the dogs walking through whatever kind of weather happens to present itself that day. I can think about all sorts of things and not have to feel pressured to connect in ways that pull me into a million different directions. Even when I'm pulled into four different directions I feel ineffective. I can't imagine being pulled into any more.

I know cell phones serve a purpose. I know they aren't evil in and of themselves (though they are made from coltan mined in Africa by hungry teenagers and destroying jungle habitat), but they've somehow turned us into evil people. Okay, lady, you almost hit me. Couldn't you stop your van, get out and apologize? Couldn't you say, "Gosh, I'm so sorry. I was being stupid while talking on my cell phone. I'll never do that again!"

Or were you just too busy talking on the phone to give a #@% that you almost killed me?

My Mother's Daughter

My parents are both excellent cooks or perhaps the proper term these days, with all the cooking shows on, is chefs. My mother, in particular, spends the majority of her life in the kitchen. The rest of her time is spent campaigning for Democrats. While I admire her for both endeavors, I seem to have inherited more of her cooking side than her political side. Let's just say that politics gives me a stomach ache while cooking lowers my blood pressure.

So today, after a long, long week of teaching and dog walking, I needed to make something. I needed to relax and the best way I know of relaxing is to cook.

See, I am my mother's daughter.

It started with the desire to make these power bars that our friend Jessica once made for us when we went camping in Twisp (yes, there is a town named Twisp and the bakery...one of the best in the world in my humble opinion...is called the Cinnamon Twisp). These power bars were so natural, so organic I was certain that would grow roots out of my feet, fertilized by brown rice syrup, organic puffed rice, and steel cut oats.

Then Jessica left for India and I never got the recipe. Well, she's back now and today we made power bars complete with candied ginger, organic almonds and pecans, and yes, the infamous candied ginger.

As far as cooking goes, the power bars were beyond easy, so before Jessica arrived, I started to make chicken soup and prep for basil cream chicken pot pie. By the time Jessica arrived, I'd used every pan we own so we had to wash the dishes before we could melt the candied ginger with the brown rice syrup.


Now we're waiting for the basil cream chicken pot pie to finish in the oven complete with homemade biscuits on top. I've tried to help out by doing all the dishes, but let's just say, it's been a whirlwind in the kitchen. My mother would be (and probably is) proud.

Tomorrow there's a lot to do. Papers to grade, lessons to plan, billing to organize, dog walks to schedule along with cleaning the house and doing the weekly shopping. But I gave myself today -- no obligations, no commitments -- just an apron, a dirty pan, and some melted candied ginger!

Playing

"Dear Dog, she bought a new camera!"

The way things turned out -- my camera wouldn't work. Tried to fix it, but no luck. So, I decided to buy a new camera. In the course of buying a new one, I also bought a new battery for the old one and what do you know? The old camera now works AND I also have a new camera.

It's okay. Now that have my own (nice) camera, I won't hog the camera and Ann can use it more.

Lucky me.

I played with the camera and the settings yesterday and this morning. Here's what I'm learning...

This photo is on "fine" image. Later I turned to "standard" to see a difference. I like how the camera picked up the morning light as Rubin does his morning stretches.

Again, the light is defined really well and it captures the details of Quillette's whiskers on the left side (right in the photo) of her face.
This is a pot on our deck. I had on the telephoto lens. I think it would have done better with the standard lens, but still, lots of nice detail and pretty realistic with the colors.
I really get the feeling of morning in this photo, maybe because Ann's in her pajamas, but the eastern light highlights everything very well and I'm impressed that the camera picks that up.
We went for a walk up over the hill and I took this photo of the I-90 bridge or the floating bridges even though Quillette was pulling at the leash. This is NOT a "fine" setting, but rather "standard." Still, it picked up what it looked like with my eyes and did a nice job capturing even the details of the shade in which we were standing.
Coleman Pea Patch is the climb back up over the hill. Lots of shades of green. Can you see it?
Telephoto lens again. I like how the dahlias stand out against the green background.
Ann wanted to play, too so she fiddled with a few photos. This one turned out the best. I'm not darkened by the light over my head. Nice.
We stopped at the bakery at the top of the hill for some delicious bread pudding (the baker only makes it on weekends) and ran into an old border collie named Chance. Even the peeling paint on the door behind him is pretty vivid.

I think I'm going to really like this camera. Tomorrow will be the true test since I'll be taking photos of my students on a ropes course in the foggy morning (or so it's predicted) and then of my dog clients in the sunny (or so it's predicted) afternoon. And I get to test the action setting. Should be fun!

Lost to the Dogs

And here I stand

I've gone back to work teaching part time. These past two weeks, we've been in our classrooms, attending meetings, and doing all those little things that need to get done before the kids walk through the door. Every year of my teaching career (I'm about to enter into my 23rd), there are attempts to help teachers find balance in their lives. There are workshops and discussions, small group get togethers, and commitments by everyone to not work as hard this year as last.

Nothing has changed this year. In fact, we were all handed a leather journal and asked to complete a writing assignment that will be given to us every week. I have mixed feelings about this, but have decided to make the attempt.

The first topic of the journal is why I became a teacher. This is a difficult question for me to answer, but here's my attempt:

I was combing through photos the other day, clearing out my computer files of accumulations I really don't need when I came across a photo of Rubin, our dog, as a 9 week old puppy. He stood in the kitchen looking up at something, his round puppy belly covered in red curls, his tail straight up, and his ears perked and ready for action.

And then I laughed. The laughter came out of nowhere and caught me by surprise. He is now an adult version of that puppy picture in all respects except for his legs. In the photo, his body is about 10 inches in length, but his legs are about 3 inches high. Today, Rubin is all legs -- the tall, muscular legs of his poodle genes. But in the photo, I could barely find his legs and this is what made me laugh. Sure, I can see the adult Rubin in the puppy Rubin, but what I realized is that as he aged, his legs simply got longer. He literally grew up, his legs stretching tall lifting his body further off the ground with each passing month.

When I look back at my career as a teacher, I realize I am much like Rubin. I didn't have teacher legs. I had these little stubs that held up a form uncertain of my potential. I look back on why I became a teacher and I can't put my finger on any one moment or person that said, "You must teach" nor did I have any desire to teach. Not really.

My mother would disagree pointing out that as a kid I always liked hanging out with younger kids and as a teenager, volunteered to work at a school for autistic children all on my own. "No one made you do that," my mother would say. That may be, but I still don't remember saying to myself "I want to be a teacher."

I wanted to be a professional athlete most of my high school years and as a little kid, I wanted to dance on the Carol Burnett Show, but I the latter was more because I knew at a very young age I was gay though I had no language for it. I just had a serious crush on Carol Burnett. If I danced on her show, I'd be close to her.

I didn't go to college to become a teacher. Instead I worked in television news hoping one day to be an editor, which I thought would catapult me into film making. Then, after about three years working for an industry I have very little respect for anymore, I left, headed back to school and got my teaching degree. Looking back, I haven't a clue why I made that choice. I know I had some friends who encouraged it, I know I was fed up with my stressful job, I know I was at the end of tumultuous relationship, and I know I was always a follower more than a leader so somehow, someway I followed something other than my own initiative into teaching.

And the first years were anything but easy. Still that's when my legs grew, if you will, and 5 years later, then 10, then 15 I looked down and saw that my teacher legs had gotten longer and stronger. It was shortly after my 15th year of teaching that I could finally say to myself -- hey, I'm pretty good at this and really mean it. It was a bumpy, bumpy road up until that point and I still have moments when I doubt, in the deepest sense, what the hell I'm doing or have done with my life.

But these are my legs. Whatever path led me here, I've come to realize, was the right path. Just as Rubin was destined to be a long-legged dog even though he was born with stumpy short legs, there was some kind of voodoo working lifting me up into the teacher I am now.

And here I stand.

The World Asleep

I am sitting in my brother's dining room on his computer while everyone else sleeps. Even the dogs, each curled by my side, are asleep. I hear rumblings occasionally -- my parents' radio downstairs, my sister-in-law shuffling her slippered feet in the master bathroom, and the bird -- a loud cockatiel -- silent in her cage.

The loudest noise comes from the swallows who have nested in my brother's chimney. Every 15 minutes or so, they chirp in urgency. No doubt the mother had returned from a successful hunting trip and they loudly protest to be fed first upon her arrival.  

It's beautiful here, though the beautiful blue skies of yesterday have given way to gray. Still, the horses are in the pasture just beyond the fence line, the wide expanse of open fields dotted with groves of walnut trees stretches out before me, and the colors of summer -- wheat and green -- remind me of a pastoral watercolor. 

I am taking pictures, trying to lift my lens from the dogs and the landscape to my family. My mother with her gray curls for the first time in a long time not working in the kitchen; my father quietly sitting in the shade on the porch, smiling ever so slightly at our constant stories and witticisms; my sister-in-law who takes up work in the kitchen preparing meals, cleaning the counters, and discussing exact instructions for barbequing the halibut; Ann, my love, swinging in the macramé chair suspended at the corner of the deck, enjoying my family as much if not more than I am; and finally the dogs -- ours and theirs -- learning to co-habitat and share and occasionally chase each other around the yard.

This is not what I expected my life to be, but now that I'm here, I can't think of any other place I'd rather end up.  In the car ride down here, I told Ann that I was hesitant to say it, but my life feels golden right now. 

"I don't want to open myself up to disappointment," I explained and she laughed telling me to relax and appreciate it all.

I'm trying. 

Now, with the world around me still asleep, I'm letting myself settle in to the golden moments. And just as I feel my body sigh, a bathroom door opens, I hear more rustling from downstairs, and the world opens its eyes.

Oops, I'm Not Keeping Up

Summertime is always so much busier than I think it will be. I can't keep up. Ann's mom left yesterday morning and Ann morphed back into her real self -- relaxed, jovial, unhurried -- but the busy pace of the past few weeks keeps building and I'm not sure I can keep up.

Okay, so I'm blowing it all out of proportion, I'm sure, but still it's hard to find time to do all the things I want to do like hiking and lake swimming and cycling and visiting and let's not forget eating. Summer foods are my favorite. I must find time to eat, but not gain back the weight I've lost.

And there you have it: The paradox of summer. So little time, so many temptations.

Ann just set a slice of her beautifully delicious cherry clafouti down in front of me. What's a girl to do?

So here is my attempt at catching up. My favorite moments of the past two weeks captured digitally:

The best grilled polenta I've ever tasted...
Jocelyn and Maisy (cousins) sitting in a leather boat made by Maisy's dad out of two leather chairs pushed together. Who needs toys!
A magnificent lunch with my amazing parents who entertained Ann's mom for an afternoon -- yum and thank you!
The lunch was so good I had to sleep it off before we headed back to Seattle...
Ann's mom, Genevieve, stemming cherries that later she pitted (by hand) and from which Ann made three clafouti's, six jars of cherry/rhubarb jam, and still there's a bowl of pitted cherries in the fridge.
Visiting our good friends on Vashon where Rubin got to swim in the Sound (brrr) in the shadow of Mt. Rainier.
Swimming at Doris and Steven's house...
And there is that cute, cute Maisy again getting her diapers wet...
Oh and there is so much more...stay tuned. I'll catch up at some point!

A Father and a Day

The other night I woke from a bizarre dream. I was on a boat with my entire family right down to uncles and cousins and distant relatives on board as well. We were leaving. That was the sense. Not that we were going anywhere, but that we were leaving only something was wrong. Mom and Dad were not on the boat. We were still at the dock so I looked to see if I could find them and there they were -- my mother in the lead, my father right behind, and my sister behind him holding her little dog. My sister was laughing, my mom was waving, and dad was looking down at the water.

I thought Is he nervous about the water? Is his eyesight bad? Does he know the boat is about to leave? What does he see?

I knew they'd missed the boat, but I tried to make it up to the pilot house to let the captain know we needed to go back, that the whole family wasn't on the boat. But I couldn't find the pilot house or anyone else who worked on the boat so I stood on the stern and waved as the boat powered on its way. My mother was looking off in the distance, not in the direction of the boat, my father was still looking down at the dock, and my sister was still laughing, slapping her thigh as if she just heard the funniest joke.

No one waved back.

Then I realized it was all a dream. This happens to me often. In the middle of the dream I realize I'm dreaming and then I redirect the dream. This is my dream and I can make it do what I want, I say to myself and then whatever I want to have happen, happens.

So I made the boat go back to the dock. I didn't make it turn around. Instead, I made the boat back up or go in reverse so that I never lost sight of my parents and my sister. But once I'd realized it was a dream and that I had control of what happened, I woke up. My last image was of my father looking up from the dock and finally seeing me. He lifted his right hand slowly and ever-so-slightly gave a little wave then turned toward my mom and sister to let them know I was on the boat, but they didn't see me.

I'm never sure what dreams mean. I try to analyze them for some kind of meaning and with my father 81 years old, my mother 82, and my sister living across the country, there are a bevy of interpretations I could offer this dream.

I don't want to. Instead, I want to focus on the fact that I could get the boat to go in reverse with my thoughts alone. No need for a captain or a crew member, no need to find the pilot house or to alert any of my other relatives that our family was incomplete.

When I woke from the dream, I felt a combination of grief and confidence. The dream stayed with me for most of the day as we drove to my parents' house for the Father's Day weekend. I suppose it's rather ironic that my brother, who came with my niece, brought kayaks and we spent the first afternoon paddling the inlet where the current pushed us rapidly toward our parents' house. My brother and niece headed out on the boats first and as I stood on the shore waving to them, the emotions of the dream returned to me. I was sad, but hopeful. I was confident, but overwhelmed with the feeling that the tide was more powerful than my ability to change any course.

We had a great weekend despite my dream. We're boarding a cute dog this weekend named Argo, so he came with us as did our own dog, Rubin. They were both fun to have around with Rubin lying by my father's or my brother's feet depending on who was sitting in the living room. Argo hung out on the couch, but occasionally sat in dad's lap just long enough for a photograph.
We ate way too much (why can I never feel full at my parents' house?) and laughed a lot. We told stories, watched bad TV, and took naps.

That's how a Father's Day should be spent, I think, the sails not as full as they normally are, surrounded by a family all looking up.

A Matter of Money

Running my own business, a business dependent upon people and their money, has made me realize (though I realized it before just not this realized) we all look at money in very different ways.

Take for instance this client: Three cars -- two SUVs and a sports car -- one BMW, one Mercedes, and one Honda. There's money there, yes? Or perhaps it is locked up in car payments. Hard to say, but three cars and two people makes very little sense to me. Okay, there's a small child involved and an even smaller dog but the small ones can't drive. So while each adult drives a car, one car sits. The client said to me, rather off hand, "I'm not sure why I bought that BMW."

I'm thinking: Sell it.

Instead, I am asked to cut my rate for dog sitting. Not by 10% or 20%, but by 60%. Only, they didn't ask me directly. They accidentally "replied all" on an email and I got to see the request from wife to husband. "Perhaps we could negotiate the price?" she wrote and then offered a sum for seven days of work, a sum 60% less than what I'd normally charge.

I would have offered them a discounted rate since I know seven days is a long time and times are tough. I usually do this, but I wasn't afforded (interesting word) the opportunity. And it's hard to imagine cutting my rate by 60%.

Not when they have three cars in the driveway, two of which cost more than the full-time salary I made as a teacher.

Not when I inadvertently receive an email asking to negotiate my rate.

Or take a look at this client: Large house on the water. In large I mean at least 4000 square feet. Four cars which includes a Volvo for their daughter. Really nice people. They never once questioned the rate I charged for pet sitting their dog.

Okay, that works for me. I clear my calendar to make room for their dog since I only sit one dog at a time. Now they may want the dog back earlier, which means I cleared my schedule of potential clients who would pay me for the whole time in exchange for a dog who won't be staying with me for as long as scheduled.

Not a big deal to them...they get their dog back, but I'm out money. Money I could have earned from someone else.

I can't figure out if they just assume I have enough money and dog walk and pet sit for fun or if it never crossed their mind that $100 carries more weight with me than it may for them.

Or maybe it's both.

Or maybe it's neither. Maybe it's something entirely different. I can't tell, but in both instances I would not make the same choices.

I know this makes me sound as if I think I'm better than them, which is not my intent, but still may be how it comes across. I wouldn't own three expensive cars nor cheat my dog walker out of the rate she quotes me. I might cancel my boarding dates, but I'd expect a cancellation fee or even offer to pay part of what I'd agreed to pay originally.

What I've learned is that people with money and people without have a very different view of the world. I have one client who I know scraps together the money to pay me every month AND they include a tip. I have another client who balked at a rate increase, which was still half the rate I normally charge and yet every month she flies to San Francisco or New York because she "has to get away." And she NEVER tips. NEVER.

Money makes my stomach hurt. It always has. Funny how I end up here, dickering over money with people who view it very different than I do.