Long Live Love (RIP Davy Jones)

In 1988 I was 5, and much to the chagrin of my mother I wanted a pink bedroom, complete with pink carpet and matching floral print comforters on my two twin beds. The only thing in my room that did not match my chosen rose colored motif was the orange poster of The Monkees above my bed. I was 5 and I was madly in love with Davy Jones.

In 1988 Davy Jones was 43, but as far as I knew he was 20. I saw him every week on Nickelodeon and swooned, having no concept that the show I was watching was in fact as old as I thought he was. I watched as Davy got stars in his eyes just before he kissed a pretty lady and I wanted nothing more than for him to look at me that way. Between viewings of the show I would listen to my Monkees tape on my pink boombox and fantasize that I was sleepy Jean and Davy was my daydream believer. I was convinced that someday we would marry.

Apparently my parents never felt it necessary to tell me that in real life Davy was in fact older than the both of them. I can't tell you for sure when I figured it out. Slowly but surely Davy got inched out by Jordan Knight and The Monkees poster came down to be replaced by clippings of more current heartthrobs from Teen Beat.

Yet, my love for Davy Jones never truly died and when I learned that The Monkees would be touring this past summer I immediately notified my mum. Her response? "We have to go." Unbeknownst to her she had purchased VIP tickets that got us access to a meet and greet with none other than the love of my life, Davy Jones (oh, and the rest of the band). I did my best to feign nonchalance, but my inner five-year old was going nuts. What do you say when you meet your first celebrity crush? Naturally, you tell him and he says "thank you" like it's heard it a million times before, but you don't care because now you have a picture with him. It's as close as you'll ever get to any of those daydreams coming true.

They Just Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

When I was younger I made some questionable decisions when it came to guys. Don't get me wrong, I don't have any regrets; every choice I made had an effect on who I am today, but no one ever accused me of going for nice guys. Yet, I wasn't one of those girls who went for the "bad boy" either. Instead I went for the charismatic guy, the one everyone wanted to be friends with, the life of the party.

This didn't really register with me until one day my mum pointed it out. Her words were simple, but they've stuck with me: "you keep going for guys like your brother when you should be looking for someone like your dad". This might seem harsh now, but my mum was not being unkind towards my brother. He's a great guy and an amazing father, but he wasn't always the man he is now. He used to be the guy everyone wanted to be friends with and the life of the party.

My dad, on the other hand, is the quintessential nice guy. He's the first to offer a helping hand to a neighbor or friend. He is the last to say an unkind word about anyone. Unsurprisingly, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who would say an unkind word about him. He cares endlessly for his family and friends. He is loyal and trustworthy and kind-hearted and gracious. More importantly, he's got a pretty fabulous sense of humor; mostly because he laughs at my jokes. He's smart and knows how to fix most anything. He also happens to be quite handsome. Truth be told, he's just like his dad, a stand-up man with an infectious laugh and a heart of gold. A man that it would seem you'd be hard pressed to find these days.

These days, when anyone asks why I'm still single I simply say, "they just don't make 'em like they used to".

Adventures in Decision Making

This fall I will be teaching a course at Portland Community College called "Decision Making". The irony of this of course is that I am terrible at making decisions. Not only do I tend to be hasty, but I also change my mind. A lot.

It seems obvious that this is do in part to my hastiness. I make a fly by the seat of my pants decision and shortly there after come to my senses/change my mind. Sadly, this does not always happen before I have executed my less than thoroughly thought out plan. While I used to think this process made me interesting and free-spirited, I'm not exactly convinced that is the truth. Now don't misunderstand me, I do not have any regrets, but I have come to learn that this may not be the best way to go about making decisions.

The other thing standing in the way of my being a good decision maker is frankly a bit of laziness. I will be exceptionally zealous about the pending decision and do an abundance of research (I do love doing research) in order to make an informed choice. Yet in the end will almost always go with whatever option seems the easiest. This rarely pays off in the happiness or satisfaction departments. Instead I end up anxious, wondering what the other path would have looked like.

I can think of only one circumstance in which I let my heart make my decision. It was the time I did all that soul searching and found that what I wanted to do with my life was go to graduate school to become a therapist (never you mind that the location didn't exactly pan out the way I'd hoped). Turns out that decision was the right one and one which I haven't questioned or second guess once. Hm, I wonder if there is something to this follow your heart business.

I'll keep you posted.

Recycled: I'm Gonna Get Married

I have recently been a little consumed with pondering the idea of partnership. This of course includes weddings and marriage and commitment and the rest of the list of things I have avoided and adamantly denied wanting for years. These thoughts not only consume my waking hours but also my sleeping as I have had a recent rash of wedding related dreams. I awoke from a dream in which I'd been trying on wedding dresses unsure if I should be terrified or pleased. I chose neither and have instead been obsessing over it for weeks.

Now please do not be confused, I am not obsessing about finding a boyfriend or a husband or am in any way, shape or form on the prowl. I am simply allowing myself to explore the idea of what it might be like to be partnered. I suspect this new line of musing is due in part to the fact that more and more of my friends are getting married off each year, but even more so because I am coming up on ten years of self-indulgent wondering.

Part of thinking about partnering is also considering what it might be like to make a decision based on someone other than myself. The idea seems almost unnatural and that scares me a little. If I continue on this path of me first decision making will I eventually be simply too selfish to be partnered? Sadly, I suspect yes.

Surprisingly, while perusing some older blog posts I came across one I had written two years ago on what would have been my parent's 36th wedding anniversary. I was shocked by my lack of cynicism and my overall tone of optimism. As I read the post I was surprised at how little had changed. Today the words seem pretty poignant, so I'm going to recycle them here:

My entire adult life I've struggled with the fight for my need for independence/fear of commitment/free spirit versus my desire to have a traditional life with a husband and kids. I'll be honest, the older I get the quieter my biological clock seems to get, but the stronger my desire for partnership seems to grow. I'd be lying if I didn't say that there are days when the loneliness is palpable. I love my girlfriends, they are my strength and support, but with so many of them being attached it forces me to reflect on my own singledom.

Aside from what might be the obvious reasons (being the third wheel gets old, even with the best of couples), here are some of the reasons that I have determined I will one day get married:

Simon and Garfunkel's America I've been in love with this song since I was 17. The opening line is so poignant for me, "let us be lovers we'll marry our fortunes together". I want to be Kathy. I want to travel around America on a Greyhound and play games with the faces. I want to look for America with someone who understands the importance and meaning of this song to me.

Coffee and Newspaper I make a pretty killer cup of coffee. I enjoy drinking said coffee while reading the newspaper. It would be nice to have someone (besides my awesome Grams) to make coffee for and discuss the daily news with.

Traveling I have been to some of the most romantic cities in the world (Paris, Prague, Florence), alone (well, with my family or friends, but still...). I've flown half way around the world, alone. I've seen and done so many amazing things, but haven't had anyone to share it all with me. I want someone to hold my hand as the plane takes off. I want someone's shoulder to sleep on during those long flights. I want someone to walk through the streets of Paris with and have other people be totally disgusted by how in love we are. And maybe for those same people to think we're French.

My baby need a daddy Hendrix loves boys; she loves male attention. I'm not sure where she gets it because it certainly isn't from me. I know it sounds silly but I want a slew of pups and it would be real nice to have someone to walk them with me and help name them.

Cooking for Two I really enjoy cooking, but it gets depressing cooking for one. Not just because then you have to do all the clean up, but also because you're eating leftovers for days. I want someone to enjoy my cooking and wash my damn dishes.

Dream Wedding As cynical as I am, I'm still like every other girl and have been dreaming about my wedding since I was a little girl. I think I've just about got it right in my head...except for the groom part. Minor detail.

Make a House a Home The one thing I want almost as much as someone to share my life with is a house. Maybe even a little more, but Jill tells me I have to have a husband to get a house. Le sigh. But seriously, I really really really really and really want a house. A nice old house that needs a little bit of work. Someplace that is older than me with a big front porch and a back porch. Shoot, this is my fantasy, it's gonna have a wrap around porch. It'll have loads of character and we'll fill it with vintage furniture that is as eclectic as we are. We'll collect odds and ends on our travels and have a story for every rad accessory we have. Oh man, I'd get married tomorrow if he came with a house.

Happiness is... being married to your best friend. And that's exactly what I want, so that someday I can hang my Gram's magnet on my fridge.

I'll agree, this all sounds a little Hollywood, a little clique, a little unrealistic. However, I think I deserve it, and at the end of the day all I really want is someone to hold my hand. The way my grandpa used to hold my grandma's in church when he thought no one else was looking. Because when all is said and done, it comes down to the simple things...someone to sit with in church and hold your hand after 50+ years of marriage. Better get crackin'.

Better with Age

Another writing sample from my class last weekend...

As a young child, perhaps four or five, I remember someone asking me how old my parents were. I of course had no real idea, why would a child know such a thing? But I assumed I knew. My mother was in her twenties and my father was in his fifties. In reality, they were 32 and 36, respectively, but I had logic backing up my guesstimation. My mother had a beautifully smooth face and raven hair that I likened to one of her favorite singers, Cher, who in my mind was also in her twenties. My father on the other had had light hair and a farmer’s tan like my grandpa. Moreover, he had a mustache. Obviously only men in their fifties had mustaches.

As I got older it became apparent to me that my parents were slightly older than those of my classmates and friends. Being from the Midwest it was natural to have your first child before your twentieth birthday and apparently most of my friend’s parents had. My mother recalls my embarrassment at the fact that they were ever so slightly older than the parents of my peers. I suppose I attributed their old age to them being less fun. My mom especially, she was always less fun. She was the rule maker, and while she denies it, the wearer of the pants. Her mandates were overbearing and absolute: only sugar free products were to be consumed; this included but was not limited to Jell-o, Kool-Aid and gum, no MTV, no Simpsons and no highly processed foods. We had to go to church every Sunday. Compared to my friends, with their young, hip parents, I lived in a prison camp.

As I moved into high school I realized that shockingly, there were people with parents older than mine. Several of classmates had parents in there sixties! I was delighted to discover that now my parents were somewhere in the middle of the pack instead of the old dogs, waiting to be retired. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that my parents weren’t even that oppressive or uncool. They refused to join my high school’s Parent Network, an organization designed for parents to police their teenagers so that punishments could be doled out promptly and accordingly. While I did have a curfew, it was later than many of my friends and I rarely had to ask for permission to attend social events. I was even allowed to go to concerts with boys, on school nights. My mom worked and traveled all over the world and would fly my friends and I to stay with her in various locations. My dad was a marathon runner and helped coach cross-country. He may have been wearing spandex, but he was the only coach to actually work out with his athletes. They both encouraged me to be my own person and think independently. Ultimately, they allowed me to move to London on my own at 19.

Now that I am a grown-up and inching closer to 30 everyday, I believe that I have won the parent lottery. Perhaps the genetic lottery as well. My parents both continue to not only age gracefully but also to encourage me to pursue my ever-changing dreams, wherever they take me. While other parents are hounding their children about marriage and grandchildren, mine have embraced my decision to put that option on the backburner. Even if my mom does it somewhat begrudgingly, she accepts that the only grandchild she’s getting out of me, at least for the time being, has four legs and a tail. My dad, at 60, runs marathons with me and humors me by wearing the goofy shirt I handmade to match mine in order to designate us as a father-daughter duo. They may not always get my sense of humor, but they laugh at my jokes. They continually ask how I turned into such a free-spirited, open-minded, liberal thinking hippy, and all I can tell them is that it’s because of them.

Postcard from the Edge of Inspiration

As my academic career winds down, I have little left other than what I like to refer to as "super electives". These are classes that will have little to do with my professional work, but we are for some reason still required to take. I had intentionally put these classes off and quite frankly missed out on a few that sounded interesting in order to charge through my program. With no time left I made my decision based primarily on time, with some consideration for the level of interest.

This weekend I have "Audio Postcards". I won't bore you with the specifics of the course, but I will tell you that it has renewed my love of putting words on paper (or in this case, computer screen). I spent most of the day yesterday writing and feeling inspired. What follows is a small piece of what was produced.

I know only one story of my grandpa’s time in Europe. It involves him sitting down on a rock to eat his dinner only to find out the rock was a decapitated head. I found this story titillating as a child, I relished in each retelling of it, but in reality I am not even certain it was Grandpa who told it to me. Gram was always the storyteller and Grandpa the keeper of secrets.

Since he passed away six years ago I have devoted a great deal of time thinking about how many stories he never told. How closely he held his cards to his chest. I have longed for one more day, if only to hear one story, be filled with one tiny morsel of a secret. The story I have hungered for more than any other is the one behind the photo album.

Grandpa had this photo album that fascinated me as a child. It was covered in what appeared to be burlap and was small, the perfect size to fit into the pocket of a military uniform. On the cover were two polka dancers, decked out in their leiterhosen, holding hands as they joyfully danced. Inside were tiny pictures of a 20 year old version of my grandpa and my great aunts, my grandpa and ladies that were not my gram, my grandpa standing proudly outside the farmhouse in his uniform. I looked at this album countless times, mesmerized by my grandpa’s handsome features and majestic stature. Intrigued by the scandal of him showing affection towards any woman that was not my gram. But most especially I studied the captions under the pictures, all in German, all words I didn’t understand. Nor did my grandpa, for he had, according to family legend, taken the album off a Nazi solider and made it his own. If I had just one question it would simply be, “Grandpa, who was that man and what happened to his pictures?”

The Math of Not Dating

My friend Eric is a funny guy. He's the kind of guy you would want to sit down and have a micro brew with. If you were stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire you'd want Eric there to keep you company and entertained. He's a good arguer, too. We have fairly opposing viewpoints on a plethora of topics; I am the flaming liberal to his mildly conservative. He's also a pretty decent writer. He has an easygoing style reminescent of Chuck Klosterman. His writing is often thought provoking and almost always laugh inducing. Naturally, I do not always agree with what he has to say, but I appreciate his point of view.

Eric recently wrote a blog entry taking a musical trip down the memory lane of his ex-girlfriends, and their numbers are many. It seems there would be enough musical nostalgia to make an anthology rather than a single album release. I can relate to this concept. I can hardly listen to Damian Rice's "O" without being transported to various London locales with a specific boy. My first (and only) boyfriend in high school introduced me to Coldplay and while I don't listen to them much these days, I do find myself thinking of him when I do (this is generally shorted lived though as I hated high school and rarely allow myself the time to be nostalgic about it). There are more songs than I can recount here that have meaning for me directly related to the various boys I've been involved with. But this is not the point of my diatribe.

My point it related to a brief statement Eric made at the end of his post, "dating is important". I could not disagree more and my reasons mostly boil down to simple mathematics.

Let's say my time is limited and I only have 24 hours per day. Straight away at least 7 hours of that day need to go to sleep if I'm going to be able to function like a normal human being. That leaves with me 17 hours, and 2 of those are usually dedicated to the gym/yoga/running/me keeping myself sane time. So for those of you following along at home, we're down to 15 hours. Now, on any given day I have any combination of internship, work and school taking anywhere from 5 to 10 hours of my day. This leaves me with a mere 5 to 10 hours for studying, reading, socializing and being a pet parent. That isn't much and if I have a minimum of 10 hours a week in reading/school work that means socializing gets a very small percentage of my time (I'm not real good with math so I can't give you exact numbers). So say I have a minimum of five friends in Portland that I try to see on a regular basis, a minimum of five friends I try to keep in touch with via phone or internet on a regular basis and two parents I call once a week. That, my friends, equals all of my time. Gone.

Now I know what you're going to say, "why don't you just take time away from one area in order to make time for dating?". I will tell you why, and it again relates to simple mathematics. In order to graduate from school and get a job to pay back all of my student loans I need to put 100% of the time I've alloted to school work to school work. Moreover, I need to give it 100%. To meet the requirements for graduation I need to spend 20 hours per week at my internship site. No wiggle room there. In order to live and afford a social life I need to work a minimum of 15 hours per week. So? Why not spend less times with friends? As it is, they are not exactly getting a ton of my time and at the most basic level if comes back down to percentages. If I am spending time with friends there is at a 75 -90% chance that I will have a good time. Sure, I could have just as good of a time on a date and maybe even meet the man of my dreams (probably not though since I don't even know what that means), but let's be honest, at best the odds are 50-50. And I am just not a gambler. I'll take the sure thing every time.

Excessively Sentimental Yearning

Last night I had a dream about a boy I had a crush on my freshman year of college. This came as no surprise to me as I have been exceedingly nostalgic as of late. That, and I am still Facebook friends with this guy and he's still pretty hot. However, that is beside the point right now.

Last week at work they seemed to be playing the greatest hits of Edward's Bootlycious Night. At first I was impervious to these lyrical throwbacks, but as the days went by the songs began to take me back to the days of bopping around without a care in the world. Except that isn't the truth at all, I had plenty of cares. But it is not the bopping around that I miss, it's the excitement.

When I was in college (and those few years just after) I made a lot of bad decisions. I thought doing stupid things made me more interesting. I stayed out too late, I drank too much and I wasted too much time with boys who treated me badly. I thought I was exciting and that this drama I surrounded myself with made my life more exciting too. I was wrong, I know that, but I still miss the hell out of it. I do not miss the drama, but I do miss the excitement that always seemed to accompany it.

I miss having crushes and wondering if a boy with call or text me. I long for the days when the thought of sitting at home on a Friday night made me cringe. I miss being able to make bad decisions and not worry about the long term consequences. Shoot, I just miss making bad decisions. I miss not feeling like I'm too old for something.

On a perhaps kismet related note, I looked up the definition for nostalgia on Merriam Webster and one of the entries was as follows: He was filled with nostalgia for his college days.

Not a New Year's Resolution

I am fundamentally opposed to New Year's resolutions. The idea that somehow because it is a new year on the calendar you will change behaviors that have previously been problematic is preposterous to me. Does is being 2011 instead of 2010 really make a difference when it comes to how many times you'll hit the gym this year? or how many cigarettes you smoke? or how often you call your mother? Be honest. No, it doesn't.

I gave up on New Year's resolutions years ago.

This year will be no exception, but upon reflecting on 2010 I realized that there has been one area of my life that is in desperate need of repair. While I know most of you are anticipating that I'm going to say my love life, you're wrong. (That will continue to maintain its position on the back burner of my life.) However, it is my relationships that are lacking and this is predominantly due to my seeming lack of ability to communicate. It is hard to admit this, but it is true. I have done a crap job of keeping in touch with far too many friends and family members this year, and the old excuse of being too busy just does not fly.

If you make the time you'll have the time and I simply have not made the time. Too often I sat on the couch thinking "oh, I should call so and so" and did not or spent too much time on Facebook neglecting to respond to all of those messages piling up. While I pushed myself physically to be my best, I let myself become emotionally lazy and neglectful. I let too many lines of communication grow silent.

For someone who has always prided herself on being a good friend, this realization has come like a slap to the face with a cold hand. How did I not see it coming? I suppose the how it is not important now, it has happened and all that I can do now is shake off the pain, hold my head up high and pick up the telephone. And hope that the person at the other end answers.

Give Yourself the Gift of Forgiveness

I am friends with someone on Facebook that for the past four years has been the only person that I would ever say I disliked. If I'm being honest, there were points when I downright hated this person. I could not stand to be in the same room as them and whenever their name was brought up I would draw back as if having just been slapped in the face. Slowly I moved from hating to strongly disliking, from feeling like I'd been slapped to slapping down some nasty side comments. I felt this was progress. I was certain that the closest I was ever going to get to forgiving this person was not cursing the very air they breathed.

Now, I know what you are thinking, why in the hell did I accept this person's friend request? Well, the answer is simple, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Also, I was secretly hoping that I would be able to witness this person's demise via an electronic medium.

No such luck.

However, what I have been able to do is move from blind hatred to apathetic disliking to simple apathy and today the train finally stopped at forgiveness. This person had made a status update that I had considered commenting on but was in a rush to get out for a run and didn't. I did however think about this update as I was walking home from the gym and for the first time I found myself thinking positively about this person. Not just in a way that I wish peace to all mankind, but in a way that I specifically wanted good things for this specific person. My pace suddenly slowed and I realized that forgiveness is not something you give someone else, but rather something you give yourself. I suddenly felt lighter, as if a tremendous weight had lifted from within my heart.

As my pace quickened I smiled and for the first time released the grudge I had been holding tightly for so many years. And in its place I let in light and love.

All That I'm Allowed

Every time I listen to this song I cry (or at the very least get undeniably teary eyed). Without fail. Every mother loving time. As much as I like to pretend that Elton's "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters" is my life theme song, I'm pretty sure this is actually it. Well, maybe if the two songs were combined to make one mega song like "Funeral for a Friend/Love Lies Bleeding". Oh wait, I digress...

The bottom line is that I am so incredibly thankful for...

four spectacularly wonderful parents, including a mum who still kisses and hugs me like she did when I was 5, a dad who I admire more and more every day, and two step-parents who have patiently put up with all my shenanigans over the past 10+ years.

having perhaps the most fabulous big brother ever given to a little sister. Mostly I say this because he is funny as hell and I really like to laugh, but also because he is truly the only other person on the face of this planet who knows what it is exactly that I have been through.

every single day that I get to spend with my gram/every day that she is here with us.

step-siblings that I want to spend time with and get to know and "grow up" with.

being able to say I'm an auntie and watching my wonderful little nephews (and step-nephews and nieces) grow up into awesome little people.

friends! This includes, but is certainly not limited to, my Boy Bestie, my old friends, my new friends, those who have stuck with me as I have traversed this country and others, and those who have forgiven me probably more times than I deserve.

my family that are not bound to me by blood.

knowing that no matter where in the world I am I have friends and family who will always have my back.

the world's funniest, snuggliest, cutest, scrunchiest, most loveablest dog who is lying next to me snoring as I type.

being able to take time to pursue my dream...as practical as it may be.

my two strong, runner's legs.

my body agreeing to go along with all of the ridiculousness I put it through.

Lucy socks, Nike headbands and gloves, my iPod Shuffle and Body Glide.

yoga.

coffee, yellow highlighters, and Dragonfly Cafe.

discovering I love peanut butter.

having a job and an internship and going to school and trying to maintain a social life and training for a marathon and keeping up on weekly calls to my parents and taking time for myself and walking the dog and...

all the experiences I have had (good and bad) that have ultimately made me who I am today; someone I truly love and feel deserves to be loved.

living this adventure I get to call my life.

Love Is:

checking the weather of the city your loved one lives in, every day.

Every time I talk to my dad on the phone we discuss weather and every time he mentions how he saw in the newspaper/on The Weather Channel that the weather here in Portland was x, y or z. Every time, without fail.

It had never occurred to me until I was out running the other day that this means my dad is thinking about me. Every day. It is an incredibly small gesture, but it shows an even more incredible amount of love.

Then it dawned on me, all I'm really looking for in life is someone that doesn't have to ask, "what's the weather like?" because they already know.

Onto the Next One

As I begin to mentally prepare to physically prepare for my next marathon (Oakland, March 27) I have recently changed my desktop wallpaper and Facebook profile picture to an amazing photo of Kathrine Switzer. She's the first (numbered) woman to run Boston. She's a ballsy lady and she worked hard to pave the way for female marathoners. Before Paula Radcliffe and Kara Groucher were gracing the covers of sports magazines in their sports bras she was rocking sweats while nonchalantly running away from race officials. The lady is a true hero and I will think of her next Monday as I take my first steps towards my second marathon.

Special Zest for Life

I will be the first to admit that I can sometimes take teasing a little too far. I like to laugh, I like to make jokes and since I don't mind laughing at myself I too often assume that others don't mind either. I know this is only an excuse, but it's hereditary; my whole family (especially the original four - my mum, dad, brother and me) enjoy a good tease. I have spoken to both of my parents about this, "don't you think sometimes we tease too much?" and I am always told, "no, it's all in good fun". But it always has to be admitted that not everyone grew up in a house full of jokers.

More than a joker I am also at times painfully sarcastic making it difficult for even those who know me best to tell if I am serious or not. I cannot even begin to recall how many times I have had to say, "I know it is hard to tell, but I am being serious right now".

Perhaps more than anyone my boy bestie, Peter, gets the brunt of my teasing and sarcasm. I cannot tell you why because I absolutely adore Peter. He is truly one of the most generous and genuine friends I have ever had. I have only known him for a relatively short two years, but sometimes it feels like I've known him my whole life. We often bicker like an old married couple but there isn't a doubt in my mind that I would go to the ends of the earth for Peter and that he would do the same for me, without a second thought, without question.

One of the many reasons why I admire Peter is because of what I have proclaimed his "special zest for life". I wordsmithed this phrase while we were touring Wisconsin and I was able to see my state for the first time through someone else's eyes. Peter has such an exuberant optimism about life that I envy. At times I feel old and beaten down by life when I am with him because I cannot fathom being so utterly optimistic, so youthfully zealous.

What makes this quality even more awesome is that despite the relative subjectivity of a difficult life, Peter has not had it easy. He has faced adversities and hardships I cannot imagine handling, and to make it through with eyes that are able to see the world as his do is so uniquely outstanding. It is if as though he is only able to see the good. While I am focused on the dark clouds, Peter is able to point out the small patch of blue off in the distance. And more than that he is unabashedly unashamed to express his complete and utter joy for the thread-thin silver lining.

And while I am haranging him about being so over-the-top I am secretly wishing I could acquire just a quarter of his special zest for life.

Front Loading Life

While considering a move back the eastward way it has come to my attention that I have perhaps front loaded my life. What if I peaked in my mid/late 20s and now it is only downhill from here? Certainly this has not been my intention, but I also do not intend to spend the rest of my life vagabonding about from city to city in search of adventure. I do not want the sum of my life to be the cities I have lived in and the amount of times I have moved. Yet, I fear that to settle (down) will be to resign myself to a life of boredom. I will spend the rest of my days suffering from a chronic case of itchy feet.

Last night I tell this to my mum whose response is "maybe you will find new adventure with a husband and kids". I immediately think, but do not verbalize, "maybe I will find a cure for cancer, too". At this point in my life that is about how realistic a husband and kids seems. I am still not convinced that path is in the cards for me.

I spend the rest of the evening contemplating that perhaps the larger issue here is that I am still stuck at square one. Shit.

Forward

I love to learn and am always on the search for new and interesting facts (mostly so that I can use this trivial information to impress and/or bore people). Recently, while perusing the rack of post cards at the Cheddar Head Store in La Crosse, I learned that the state motto of Wisconsin is "forward". I turned to my friends, also Wisconsin natives, "Did you know this?" Ben says, "Yeah, it's on a statue at the court house (or some such governmental building)". Hm, apparently I had missed this little tid-bit, but I was excited by my newly acquired knowledge and tucked it away in the back pocket of my mind.

However, as my dad and I traversed the country on my way back to Portland, I kept thinking about this word forward. Leaving my family and friends in Wisconsin and Minnesota had been especially hard this time, and my heart was feeling pretty heavy. Over the past few years I have slowly begun to rediscover how beautiful the Midwest is and how blessed I am to have been raised there. Yet, I always felt that moving back "home" could only mean I was moving backwards. This is something I have always refused to do in my life; I have set my focus on forward movement and tried never to look back.

But now as I review my short list of places that I would like to move, and the list of pros and cons I have mentally made for them all, the list of cons for Minneapolis is the shortest. In fact, it only has one item on it: winter. Perhaps moving "back" doesn't mean moving backwards after all. While it might mean moving through snow it feels like it might be the most forward movement I've made in years.

Summer Sounds Vol. 2

The Mynabirds : Numbers Don't Lie

I've only made it to two shows this summer (an all time low I think) and this was one of them. This band from Omaha, NE is absolutely outstanding. If you haven't already been listening to them, start doing it now. Now.

The Avett Brothers : Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promises

These guys were the second show I saw this summer. I saw them last summer at Sasquatch and thought they were pretty rockin, so took the opportunity to see them headline. I was not disappointed. There song "Kick Drum Heart" has been known to add an extra umph to my workouts, too.

Mumford & Sons : Little Lion Man

I saw these guys several years ago at a tiny little dive bar in London and sort of forgot about them until they came blasting across the radio waves on 94.7. I am now sad for all the years I missed them.

Janelle Monae : Tightrope

Such an outstandingly killer tune. Every time I hear it I just wanna dance. Dance, baby, dance. My legs move a little faster when this comes on my Shuffle.

Scissor Sisters : Fire with Fire

I've said it before and I'll say it again, Jake Shears makes me want to be a gay man. Night Work was well worth the wait and is an fabulously gay rock opera. Loves it and can't wait to see them in September.

Florence + the Machine : Dog Days are Over

I've known about this band for quite some time, but have to admit it wasn't until seeing the preview for Eat, Pray, Love that I had no choice but to download their album. So. Good.

David Bowie : Modern Love

Because I am a sucker for the classics and this song speaks to me on an unearthly level.

Living Example

I am regularly told that Hendrix surprises people. They are amazed that a pit bull mix can be so submissive, loving and delightfully playful. They say, "oh, she is not at all what I imagined a pit bull would be like". I assure them that despite what they may have previously believed she is not the exception to the breed but the rule. She is a living example of how wonderful and loyal these dogs not only can be, but are.

This of course has got me to thinking about how I might too become a living example of how wonderful the human breed can be.

In several of my courses recently we have discussed advocacy and being an ally. What exactly qualifies you for this status? Can you simply call yourself an advocate? Is there a certain process one must go through, particular steps that must be taken, boxes that must be ticked? I would argue no. It came to me the other day during Intro to Family Therapy, one can be an advocate simply by living a life that leaves no doubt as to where you stand on the issue. That is in fact exactly how I try to live my life. I hope that there is never any doubt as to what I am passionate about.

I do not have the time I would like to be able to give to charities and volunteer work. If there were 26 hours in the day I would give the extra two away, but instead I take the 24 I am given and put them towards my education in hopes that one day soon I will more adequately be able to help change the world. And until I am able to be a more active ally I use my voice as my tool for change. I stand up for what I believe in and make my voice heard.

The World I Want for My Nephews

This summer has been exhausting for me. My 14 credit course load hasn't taken the wind out of my sails, but it has taken away my time and motivation to blog. I barely have enough time to keep up with all my reading and writing let alone find the time to infiltrate the blogosphere with my self-indulgent ramblings. However, I have had an ample amount of time reflect on the type of therapist I hope to one day become and in turn the kind of world I hope to help create. A better kind of world that my nephew's will inherit and be thankful to have.

I hope my nephews never know the hate, injustice and inequality that exists in our world today. I pray that Sytahn never has racial slurs hit his perfect little ears. That the world accepts him for the beautiful, thoughtful, loving little boy that he is. That he is able to maintain his innocence and curiosity and so be able to grow to be a beautiful, thoughtful, loving young man.

I hope that they both come of age in a world were we openly and happily acknowledge that love is love. We finally understand that love does not care about gender or sexual identity, so that my wonderful nephews will be able to love and be loved in a way that makes them happy and fulfilled without judgement or disgust.

I want the world they inherit to be full of the goodness I see in it. To be free of war and hatred. A world where there is no need for political statement t-shirts or bumper stickers.

I hope Tyson has access to every advantage and opportunity that he deserves. That he never has to know the taunts or teases of unkind classmates. That he meets and exceeds the expectations set for him by ignorant political blowhards.

I pray that every day they understand how much they are loved and how precious of a commodity they are not only to my family but to the world. That they are filled with fire and inspiration to make the world a better place, to treat others with the kindness that so fully inhabits them both. That they are strong to stand up to the ugliness in the world and encompass the ethos of community.

I want the world they inherit to be better simply because they are in it.

Hitting Reset

As part of my portfolio requirements for my master's program I have to complete 10 hours of therapy, which I am trying to take seriously. Number 1: I'm paying this woman a considerable amount of money to not and number 2: I will be the first to admit that I am not without my issues.

The point here though is not to go over these issues. There isn't enough blog space in the world for that. But my therapist did say something the other week that really resonated with me and I've been thinking about it ever since. Just sort of in passing she mentioned that it seems like I've hit the reset button on my life. At first I just agreed and didn't think much of it, but the more I thought about it the more I realized that is exactly what I've done.

I look back at a certain period of my life, let's just call it college, and I think, "how was I that girl?" Then I begrudgingly moved back to the US and spent 2 1/2 years in Phoenix trying to figure out who exactly I was if not that girl. I know I wasn't always a treat to be around for that period of time. I am sure that more than one person was turned off and turned away from my incessant "this isn't my life either" mentality, but it was all part of the process of getting me here. Of getting me to this point where I can say "it doesn't matter who I was but who I want to be" and reaching out and hitting that reset button.

I may not love Portland, but I love my life and I love who I have become, the best me I can be.