Bye Bye Birdie

Lounging by the pool in Cape Coral, FL

It’s a hard thing, losing a pet.  It’s been three days without the Bird, and I still find myself looking for her.  I was under the assumption that since she had never lived here with us in Flagstaff, I wouldn’t miss her as much.  Don’t misunderstand...of course I was going to miss her terribly, but since the end of September, Lady hadn’t been a part of my everyday routine.  When Simon and I made the decision to leave her in Minnesota with my parents for this leg of our adventure, it was one of the hardest decisions I’ve had to make in regard to my pets.  Lady had gone everywhere with us for the last few years...it just felt wrong to leave her behind.  Of course she was in the best of hands...few pets are more spoiled than the pets at Sharon and Richard’s house.  I knew she would miss us and we her, but at the time it was the best decision to make for all of us.  As Lady had gotten older, she had started to have less control of her bladder, as all older living things do.  Having accidents was so stressful for her.  She would obsessively clean herself afterwards, and would even try to clean up any bedding or carpet that she had soiled.  She was always watching me out of the corner of her eye, expecting the discipline that she would have received in her younger years for peeing in the house.  I assumed (hopefully correctly, she never did tell me otherwise) that it would be less stressful for her to stay in Minnesota with my parents, who work shorter hours than I, and  who would be more available to let her out more often.  I thought that maybe the stress of not being with Simon and I would be lessened by a decrease in accidents.  And I can’t say for sure.  At the time it seemed like the right decision to make, for all of us.  So Simon and I and the pugs went to Arizona without her.  I cried for about the first half hour, feeling like I had abandoned my most loyal friend.  I had a sense of peace in leaving her behind, knowing that she was going to receive the best care in the world, but I knew that I was going to miss my buddy, my constant companion for over 11 years.        

Lady at the Outer Banks in North Carolina

In early January, my parents brought her down to Arizona with them (and their two dogs) on their regular road trip to the Southwest.  I could tell that there was something different about Lady when she arrived in Arizona.  She was entering her 16th year of life, and life in general had taken its toll on her.  She had led quite the full life for your average dog, and I have no regrets about all the things we did with her and all the places we went together.  In fact, I wish we would have had time to do more.  But everyone wishes that when they lose a family member, a friend, or a pet.  Lady was all three of those things to me and to my family.  I know it’s probably a bit of a “crazy dog lady” thing to do, but I’m going to tell her story...give her a bit of an obit, if you will.  Of course there will be nothing “bit” about it, as I’m not known for my short prose.  It’s the least I can do for her, and I think it’ll help me with the grieving process as well.  So sit back and get comfy, and enjoy reading about the full life of my best good friend.  Rest in peace Ladybird, Birdie Boo, the Bird, Old Girl, Ladybug, Binners, Laderbins, Bird Butt, Big Girl, and whatever other name she might have been known by to anyone she met.

Passive snuggling with Cooper

I met Lady when I was 21 and going through an early quarter-life crisis.  I had just finished my junior year of nursing school, and I just didn’t have a great feeling for the nursing profession.  In my younger years, I had always wanted to be a veterinarian.  Always always always.  Animals had always been my passion, especially dogs.  When it came time to meet with my high school guidance counselor to decide on a career path, he had dissuaded me from the veterinary field, stating that the education process was long, that there weren’t a whole lot of schools in the area that offered a veterinary degree, and that veterinary jobs are hard to come by.  I took him at his word and did no research of my own, and we settled on nursing instead.  Nursing was in the medical field, and it was still caring for living things.  I thought that it probably wasn’t too much of a stretch taking care of people versus animals (and there are days when I have to assume that it isn’t different at all).  And...I was allergic to animals.  Pretty much all animals, especially the ones with hair.  I figured it probably wasn’t the best idea to take on a career in which I was allergic to all of my patients.  So nursing it was.  I did all right.  Nursing school is tough, and having been out in the profession for a while, I feel that there are schools that prepare their students for what nursing is really like, versus what it should be like in theory.  My school fell into the latter category, and by the end of my junior year I still didn’t feel like I knew what nurses really did.  I was having doubts, and I was seriously considering dropping out of the program all together and pursuing my original career choice, which was veterinary science.  

At the top of Hanging Rock with Matt, Suzie, Simon, and I

At the behest of my incredibly intelligent mom, I decided that summer to get a job in a place that takes care of animals.  Either a vet office, a pet shelter, or something of the like.  I ended up landing a position at Paws and Claws, the local humane society in the Rochester area.  Of course, taking this job came with a few stipulations from my parents.  Well, just one...I was not allowed to bring any animals home.  Ha.  We should have all known from the start how successful that stipulation was going to be.  So I got the job at the shelter, while simultaneously doing a nursing internship at St. Mary’s Hospital.  I figured one way or another, I was going to figure out what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life in regards to a career.  And I did.  My nursing internship showed me what nurses really do, what a difference they can make, and how important they are to the patients they care for.  I found my stride, and decided that nursing was the right choice for me.  Scooping poop at the dog shelter...not so much.  I came home multiple times that summer covered in “muddy” foot prints from my canine patrons.  “oh cute, muddy paw prints!” people would say.  “That’s not mud.” was the only response necessary to have them recoiling in disgust.  Yep, all part of taking care of animals (although I do get poop on me at the hospital too...just less of it...hahaha!).  I continued my job at the dog shelter throughout the summer.  It was sometime in July that I first met Lady.  I came to work in the morning and there was this sweet little dog just sitting in her kennel, while all the other dogs were going batshit crazy like they always did in the morning.  Water bowls were flying, poop and pee was spraying literally everywhere, a barking chorus of 20+ dogs greeted me and did...not...stop for the entire 8 hours of my shift.  That was my typical day.  Apparently Lady had been found on a farm outside of Plainview, MN, where she had given birth to a litter of puppies.  The people who lived on the farm were able to give all the puppies away, but no one wanted Lady, so they brought her to the shelter.    

She always curled up in the littlest of dog beds

Lady was different than the other dogs.  She didn’t bark, she didn’t mess in her kennel, and she never went nuts in the morning or any other time for that matter.  I would go into her kennel with her, and she would gently jump up and put her paws on me, longing to be petted.  And to be taken out...she would go about 14 hours without going to the bathroom because she refused to mess in her kennel.  And these were big kennels...she could have gone and easily gotten away from it, but she didn’t.  She waited.  I bonded with her almost instantly, and I looked forward to the days that I worked so I could spend time with her.  After she had been at the shelter for a few weeks, I found out that she was going to be adopted by a couple of ladies who were venturing into dog ownership.  They were cat people, and thought that if they could just find a nice, calm dog, the transition from cat-people to dog-people might not be too difficult.  I was so sad to see her go, but happy at the same time in the hopes that she had found a new home.  A couple weeks later I worked the afternoon shift, and was out walking one of the other inmates (as I called them) when I looked up at the outside runs, and there was Lady, watching me.  Seriously, I ran back to the shelter and instantly went to her cage, where she jumped up on me was so happy to see me.  It was then I decided that I had to have her.  I emailed my college roommates and asked them if it was okay if I brought a dog with me to our senior year of school.  I wouldn’t say it was a unanimous “yes,” but everyone agreed on some level that it would be all right to have a dog living with us (by the way, we were some of the coolest people at college because of that dog...I’ll get to that later).  Convincing my parents was another matter.  Mom was pretty easy to convince, and she deferred the decision to my dad.  So I waited until he was taking a nap to ask him, as the odds of getting an agreeable answer out of him are better when he’s sleeping.  All he asked was, “How big is she?”  I told him about 15-20 pounds, since that’s what they told me at the shelter and I hadn’t actually weighed her myself.  “All right then” was all he said before rolling over and going back to sleep.  I had won!  The very next day I went to the shelter and got her.  Upon arriving home, the first thing my dad said was, “There’s no way that dog is 15 pounds.”  Yeah...she was closer to 35 (okay, 45), but there she was.  After a brief snaffoo with some potty-training (for some reason she thought my brother Mike’s room was her personal bathroom),  she had become part of the family.

Hiking at Hixon Forest in LaCrosse.  The sun was in my eyes

I learned a few things about her in those first few weeks I had her.  She was terrified of men.  I learned from the higher ups at the shelter that when the vet did her intake exam, he noticed that she had a cracked tooth, in a pattern that is more consistent with being struck in the face than by chewing.  So it was assumed that she had been abused by someone at some point, most likely a tallish man.  So she was not having anything to do with my brothers or my dad.  In fact, she nipped at Mike the first time she met him, which is odd since he was the smallest and youngest of the guys living in the house.  She connected with my dad the quickest, and came to love my brothers too.  I think taking her to college with me was the best thing for her to get over that as well...I lived with 5 other girls, 3 of whom had boyfriends who were always coming and going.  She had no choice but to be around men almost at a constant.  And she did get better.  I think she was mostly over her fear of men by the time I finished my senior year.  Another weird thing about her is that she didn’t know how to play with toys.  We’re thinking that she was around 4 years old when I got her, and I honestly don’t know that anyone ever played with her in those first years of her life.  Instead of playing with toys, she would sit down and rip them to shreds until there was nothing left but bits of fuzz, some plastic pieces, and sometimes a squeaker.  She did know how to catch balls, but she would neither chase them nor bring them back.  You basically had to bounce the ball right at her head, and then she would catch it.  And then drop it.  And that was the end of it.  She was absolutely terrified of thunder.  I can’t even count the number of times that she tried to wedge herself under the bed, behind the entertainment center, under the end tables, or in the corner during a storm.  She panted, she puffed, she paced.  There was no consoling her.  I tried wrapping her up in a blanket or snuggling with her, but she wouldn’t have any of it.  She just trembled until the storm passed, and then life resumed.  As she got older and started losing her hearing, the storms didn’t bother her as much, which was good.

Dirty Birdie after hiking in Colorado

Lady adjusted pretty well to life at Winona State.  She attended her fair share of keg parties, and was always a willing recipient of table food.  She even put on her own Freshman 15.  When we went for walks, we were stopped almost constantly by other college students missing their own dogs.  Had I been a dude, it would have been so easy to meet girls.  I had countless offers from people offering to dog-sit her or take her for walks if I ever had the need.  People thought it was the funniest thing to have a dog wandering through a party.  Fortunately Bird never developed a taste for beer...that could have been bad.  Or maybe she did have a taste for it, and college was just too much for her.  Whatever the case, she was never one to accost me over a beer bottle.  Brie, on the other hand, is a total lush.  

Paddle boarding champ

After college Lady moved with me to Rochester where I began my career as a nurse.  She begrudgingly welcomed both Brie and Cooper to the family.  It’s funny, Lady was present for all the acquirings of both my pugs and my parents’ pugs, and she was always the one the little puppies would want to snuggle with.  I have so many pictures of her curled up with a little pug puppy.  I don’t think she was necessarily mothering them, but tolerating their presence.  She liked other dogs; she would absolutely freak out if we were on a walk and she saw another dog.  Whining and carrying on...I never understood what that was or why she did it.  After letting her give the other dog a sniff or two she was ready to move on.

Once I started doing the travel nursing, she got the opportunity that I think few dogs and even few people get...she saw the country.  She hiked with me to top of mountains in Arkansas, North Carolina, Vermont and Colorado, she swam with me in the mighty Mississippi, she paddle boarded with me in the ocean.  She went for a ride on a four-wheeler in Wisconsin and went boating on Lake Minnetonka.  She’d gone across the country and back, from the east coast to the west coast, Boston to San Francisco, Vermont to Florida, and several places in-between.  Over the last few days I’ve been looking through old photos, and I’m amazed at all the places she went with us.  I even have a video of her jumping across a 6 foot stream in a canyon in Colorado.  She was fearless, she was resilient, she was up for anything.  As long as she was with me, she could do anything.        

Surrounded by her pug siblings

Little bits and bobs about the Bird: I’ve never seen a dog who shed as much as she did.  It was insane.  You could brush her all day long and still get hair off of her.  You pet her and fur went flying.  I have no doubt in my mind that there are still Lady hairs floating around our old house in college, and every place she’s lived since then.  Even after we moved to Flagstaff without her, I was still randomly finding her hairs.  It’s like it was her little parting gift.  When we used to go for walks, I always thought her floppy ears looked like butterfly wings.  My brother Chris thought the same thing.  She loved to go for walks, and in her younger years, she loved to go rollerblading with Simon and I.  She would get so excited when we would get the rollerblades out.  She kept up pretty well, and even pulled me along sometimes.  I appreciated having her on those big hills...hahaha!  She loved to be petted.  I think she would have given up almost everything else in life to sit and be petted for hours on end.  She was a little bit of a turd about it...she’d come up to you when you were sitting somewhere and nudge your hand.  She got so good at it that if you just let your arm go limp, she’d find a way to flip your hand onto her head using only her nose.  For a dog who loved to be petted so much, she didn’t like to snuggle.  She would tolerate it for a short time, but then had to move somewhere else.  She definitely liked her space.  She loved to sleep on the bed...not so much when Simon or I were in it, but when we would leave the house we could usually count on finding her in the bed when we got home...always with her head on my pillow.  Being part cattle dog, she had herding instincts.  If she was in the house or apartment with more than one person, she would constantly pace back and forth to do a visual check on everyone.  She hated closed doors, including the bathroom door.  If I knew I was going to be a while in the bathroom, it was sometimes just easier to have her come in with me.  She used to do this chattering thing with her teeth when she would get excited...it sounded exactly like the Predator.  Taking her to the dog park was a bit futile...she didn’t like to play or run with the other dogs, but was content to just wander to each and every one and give them a good sniff.  When everyone had been thoroughly sniffed, she would come back to me and look at me as if to say, “All right, we’re good.  On to the next thing.”  My nephew Jett absolutely adored her.  The feeling wasn’t mutual, but it was really cute to see how much more gentle he was with her than with the other dogs.  She was his Li Li.  And she hated having her picture taken.  In most of her photos she’s being physically held up by one of us, she’s splayed out with her belly up in a position of submission, or she’s facing away from the camera all together.  I don’t know what that was about, but I have very few “good” pictures of her.  But, I feel like the pictures I do have captured who she was pretty well.  I literally could go on about all the little things I’m going to miss about her.    

She was the most fiercely loyal dog I’ve ever met, and she was very tuned in to human emotions.  Even when I was having a bad day and feeling particularly snappish, she still stayed by my side.  No matter what.  There are days that I wonder if I was even deserving of such loyalty.  I guess I’ll have to assume that I was, or she wouldn’t have given it to me.  Through everything, the good days and the bad, the sickness, the old age, the thunderstorms...literally everything, she was always my dog, and I was always her person.  She might have preferred the company of Simon or my dad, but at the end of the day, it was my side of the bed she slept on, it was me she came to first when I’d come home from work.  I don’t know what I did to deserve that from her, but I feel lucky that she chose me.  

Rollerblading at Cherry Creek State Park in Colorado

The end was hard, but inevitable.  Like I had mentioned earlier, she just looked different to me.  She had basically quit eating, and I honestly think that towards the end, she was just eating to appease me.  She would take a few bites, look at me, take a few more, and when she noticed I wasn’t watching her, she would just slip away, leaving her dish of food behind (much to the delight of the gluttonous pugs).  Simon and I came to the decision together that she was ready to go.  I truly and honestly believe that.  I think that at the end, she wanted nothing more than to be with the two of us for just a little while longer.  So we packed her up and brought her to Flagstaff with us.  She didn’t explore the apartment, she didn’t eat, she didn’t drink, she wouldn’t give either of us any kisses; she just laid on the pet bed I put out for her and went to sleep.  I sat with her for a few hours and petted her, played with her ears, rubbed that little spot between her eyes that she liked so much.  I cried.  A lot.  We took her to the vet in town that I’ve come to love...this woman is fantastic, and is the most caring and compassionate vet I’ve had the pleasure of meeting.  She made sure we were all comfortable, and the end came very quietly and peacefully.  Like my mom said, it was the last good thing I could do for Lady.  It was hard to go home without her.  Even though she didn’t even live here in Flagstaff, just having her in the apartment for a few hours felt right, like we were all together again.  It’s sad that our time here together was so short.  It’s strange how having her here for those few hours has me looking for her now.  When my hand falls off the edge of the bed, she’s not there to lick my fingers.  I don’t hear her contented sleepy sighs, or her little yips when she’s dreaming.  I see the empty pet bed and I just fall apart.  She’s just not here anymore...she won't ever be again, and I miss her so much.    

I’m still dealing with intense guilt over putting her to sleep.  I feel like I let her down in some way, but I keep telling myself that it isn’t my fault that she couldn’t live forever.  Believe me, I would have tried everything.  Well, that’s not true.  I could have done more to keep her going for a month, two months, half a year, but I recognized that that’s not fair.  I didn't want her to get to the point where life was an all day struggle for her.  I did the humane thing, the right thing, in giving my furry buddy a comfortable and quiet exit from this life.  Simon said it best when he said that dogs are so innocent, and there’s just a different kind of tragedy in their deaths.

So there it is.  The story of my Ladybird.

                           

My Spiritual Journey

So this is a blog a long time in the making.  And it’s one that I’ve thought long and hard about.  There were several reasons for waiting, all of them valid in my eyes.  I was afraid that people would be offended.  I was afraid that people wouldn’t understand.  I was afraid that I would lose friends over my personal beliefs.  I wanted to make sure that I knew exactly how I felt and that above all, I was able to put it into words in a way that was clear both to me, and to whomever might read it.  But...I’ve spent years listening to others weigh in on their personal beliefs, and even if I didn’t personally agree, I respected their beliefs.  I know that none of us have the answers.  And I use that plural intentionally, because I truly believe that there isn’t just one answer.    

Every journey needs a beginning, and here is mine.  I was born and raised in a Catholic household.  I went to catechism classes weekly all the way through my junior year of high school.  I went to church every weekend.  I refrained from eating meat on Fridays, I didn’t eat before church, and I went to confession.  I was a Catholic.  I assumed that I was Christian because the Catholic faith is considered one of the many sects of the Christian faith.  So by default, being Catholic made me a Christian (I’ll expound on this more later).  I didn’t reserve any ill will towards my friends who were Lutherans, Methodists, or Baptists.  I even went to a Baptist Christian camp in the summers following my 7th and 8th grade years.  I thought that Christians were Christians and that since we all believed in essentially the same thing, we were the same.  Unfortunately, not all Christians felt that way.  

I very distinctly remember the first time I experienced anti-Catholic attitudes.  It was during my second summer at the Baptist camp in northern Minnesota.  I had just finished 8th grade and I was so excited to go to camp for the second summer in a row with my best friend Dana.  We were all sitting around and chatting in the cabin with our cabin mates, when one of the girls said, “I hate Catholics.”  Being 14 years old and not yet having filters, I blurted out, “I’m Catholic.”  The room went silent and everyone stared at me.  No one knew what to say.  It was like I was an impostor in their midst, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.  Seconds ago we were just a bunch of 13 and 14 year-old girls giggling and having fun, and now we were divided by faith.  But we were technically all Christians.  It was very awkward, and I still think about that moment to this day.  At 14 years old, I really don’t think there is any way that a young girl could come to the conclusion on her own that she personally hated Catholics.  I doubt she understood all the facets of her own faith at that point, let alone all the facets of mine.  Someone she knew and respected in her life had undoubtedly made the comment that they hated Catholics, and in solidarity, so did she.  This is the conclusion that I’ve come to.  She and I never discussed it, so I can’t say that I know for sure where she was coming from, but most 14 year-olds I know are not educated in religious theology.  

Over the years I encountered several other people with anti-Catholic leanings.  I even dated one for a good year and a half.  He was Lutheran, which in my experience, really isn’t all that much different from Catholicism.  I’ve been to Lutheran services before, and found that I know most of their prayers; their church service followed pretty much the same outline as my familiar Catholic ones.  In fact, the only discernible difference (to me) was that the Lutherans didn’t kneel.  And throughout my life when I would ask other Christians why they didn’t like Catholics, the kneeling was brought up more often than anything else (followed closely by the length of Catholic weddings).  Okay...so you don’t like kneeling.  Then don’t kneel.  But don’t say you hate my faith because we choose to kneel.  That’s stupid and petty.  And in the broad scheme of things, a complete non-issue...there are far more logical reasons to hate Catholics than for the simple reason that they kneel during the church service.  It’s like these other faiths were looking for reasons to hate Catholics.  And I can honestly say, in all my years of attending Catholic mass, not once did I hear a priest bash another Christian religion.  Not once.  But that has been my experience with my particular priests.  I understand that others have had different experiences.  I tried to find good, solid reasons why other Christians didn’t like Catholics, and they were hard to come by.  It became clear to me that not only did some of these people not know the Catholic faith, they didn’t know their own faith.  But they passed on their religious hatred/superiority simply because they felt they could, or because someone at some point in their life had told them that they should.  

I have a huge issue with the way Christians fight amongst themselves.  To be Christian means that you believe Jesus was the son of the God and that he died on the cross for our sins.  I don’t mean to over simplify, but that’s basically what it is.  Lutheran, Catholic, Methodist, Baptist...they all believe that.  All their religious rules and doctrine came afterwards.  It doesn’t matter to me what Christian religion a person happens to be.  If all Christians truly believe that Jesus died for our sins and believing in him and his sacrifice means that we’ll get to spend all eternity in heaven with him, what’s left to bicker about?  Kneeling, eating fish on Fridays, length of weddings, and who happens to be “the most” Christian.  That’s what’s left.  It drives me insane.

I also remember quite clearly the progression of distancing myself from the Catholic faith (I call it my “fall from grace”).  The first incident happened when I attended a mass at a church in a neighboring town.  The alter was in the middle of the church (different than what I was used to), the cup that held the wine was made out of glass, the bread that we had was more like a biscuit, they had a full band, and there were people dancing around the alter waving ribbons around.  Oh, and they didn’t kneel.  They didn’t even have kneelers available for those inclined to kneel.  Now, I had been taught in my many years of catechism that the wine should be contained in an unbreakable chalice, meaning a glass that could not be broken.  Glass clearly did not fit that criteria.  It was also taught to me that the bread was to be unleavened, and the bread at this particular church clearly was leavened.  I was so disturbed by it that I didn’t go up to receive it.  I thought these Catholics were bringing a travesty upon our faith with the breakable chalice, their fluffy bread, and their full band (including a drum set) rocking out unfamiliar hymns, not to mention the people ribbon dancing (I will admit, I didn’t mind that we didn’t have to kneel).  I went home from mass that night and couldn’t get that church service out of my head.  What were they thinking?  I was trying to wrap my head around it all.  And then I started thinking about why I was so sure that the way things were done in my church was the “correct” way.  So what if the bread was leavened?  It was still symbolic of Christ’s last meal with his apostles, right?  Wasn’t that the basis behind the ritual of passing out bread during mass in the first place?  So I started thinking.  And thinking.  And thinking.  I thought myself all the way into a literature class in college that was based on the varying styles of prose featured in the bible.  

For the first time in my life, I was reading the bible.  Not just listening to the selected passages that were recited in church every Sunday, but really reading it.  And understanding it.  And I came to the conclusion that the bible was a collection of stories.  It wasn’t a text listing the rules and regulations of the Catholic faith, or any other faith, for that matter.  It was just a bunch of stories.  Like an adult version of Mother Goose.  I’m not trying to trivialize the bible by comparing it to Mother Goose, but I found some very distinct similarities between the Good Book and a book of cautionary children’s tales.  The bible is essentially a collection of (sometimes very violent and awful) cautionary tales, and from those cautionary tales sprouted one of the largest faiths on the planet.  No where in the bible was there mention of a breakable chalice, or of eating fish on Fridays.  It simply isn’t in there.  At least not in any vernacular that I could discern.  And that’s another issue with the bible...it’s been translated into so many different languages, by so many different people, so many different times.  What’s been diluted?  What’s been left out?  What’s been changed?  In my college literature class, we would read a bible passage and discuss as a group what we thought it meant.  The different responses were astounding.  It was crazy to me to think that a small group of 15 people could come up with such differing opinions on what a single paragraph was saying.  And who was right?  Were any of us right?  Broaden that out to millions of people reading one paragraph, and what do you get?  What do you get when those millions of people read not only one paragraph, but entire passages, chapters, and books in the bible?  Add to that the passages that people cling to, and the passages that people choose to ignore.  It’s no wonder that Christians have a hard time finding common ground with each other.

And lets go one step broader, since we are not all Christian in this world.  Muslims have a book.  Jewish people have a book.  Each faith claims that their faith is the correct one because they have documentation of it.  I’ve read a few stories from the Quran and the Torah, and I found some interesting similarities.  They all have similar versions of the Noah’s ark story (amongst others...this is just the example I’ve chosen to use).  I find that interesting, and I try to find meaning in it.  I’m not a religious theologian by any means and I’m not trying to say I know any more than anyone else when it comes to religions, particularly the non-Christian sects, but I find it interesting that three very different religions contain similar stories in their respective defining texts.  Why do they contain similar stories?  Is it coincidence or is it plagiarism?  Is it something else entirely?  Does it mean we all started in the same place and divided when the waters receded?  And then you have to take into account Buddhism, Hinduism, Native Americans, and tribal cultures, who have multiple gods, or believe in reincarnation, the Spirit World, etc.  Are they wrong because they don't have a bible to guide them?  Why are Christians so convinced that everyone else is wrong?  And I have to make this point, because the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.  People rag on Scientologists all the time for basing their religion on the writings of a science fiction author.  How different is that, really, than basing a religion from the Bible?  They are both texts written by human beings.  I admit, the Scientologists are little difficult to understand, even for me, but they believe what they believe and they have the texts to back it up.  Same as Christians.   

I never really thought of myself as a Christian.  I was first a Catholic, and by definition that made me a Christian.  People would ask me if I was Christian, and I would respond with “Yes, I’m Catholic.”  I didn’t even stop to think about what they were asking and what I was saying.  I never had a relationship with Christ.  In fact, I felt like Christ was a bit of an afterthought.  Some Catholics might disagree with me on this, but remember, this is my take and my experience.  Yours may have been different.  Of course Christ was mentioned and we said prayers referencing him and sang songs that glorified him, but I never felt that we were encouraged to have a personal relationship with him, as some religions do.  So when I started to move away from the Catholic church, moving away from Christianity wasn’t really that much of a stretch for me.  And I have moved away.  That might come as a surprise to some of you as I still take part in prayers at mealtimes and I still go to church with my family when I’m home.  Doing those things is comfortable to me, it’s what I had been doing for most of my life, and it’s something I continue to do to this day when I am surrounded by friends and family who are practicing Christians.  Does reciting a prayer to a God that I don't technically believe in make me a hypocrite?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  I guess that’s for other people to decide.  I’m perfectly okay with it.    

Not being a Christian doesn‘t make me a bad person.  I know that some people feel they need the overseeing eye of God to keep them from doing bad things, but I disagree.  I think people are good because they want to be, and likewise are bad because they want to be.  I don't think there's anyone orchestrating our behavior from above.  Life, as I see it, comes down to choices.  I don't believe that we are separated into the righteous and the evil.  I don’t believe that not believing in God means that I’m destined to burn in hell for all eternity either.  I don’t believe in hell.  Perhaps I’ll have a rude awakening at the time of my last breath, but at this moment, I don’t think I will.  I don’t know what will happen when I die.  Maybe something, maybe nothing.  I don’t know, and neither does anyone else.  Maybe we just cease to exist.  Maybe there's another plane of existence where our energy continues to reside long after our bodies are gone.  Maybe our energy dies with us and we go back to nature.  People can believe whatever they want to believe, but at the end of the day, no one definitively and without-a-doubt knows.  And people have said to me, “You have to have faith, you just have to believe.”  But I don’t have to do either of those things.  I don’t begrudge people for believing or having faith.  Some people can’t imagine life without it; it gives them comfort, it gives them strength, it rights their moral compass.  Whatever happens at the end of my life happens, and it’s not going to change the way I’m living my life today.

People ask me, “If you’re not Christian, what are you? Atheist?”  The fact of the matter is, I don’t have a label for myself.  I’m not Atheist, I’m not Christian.  I don't believe in a Christian God.  I don't know that I believe in a "god" character at all, but I'm not ruling it out.  I don’t know enough about any of it to be comfortable committing to a label.  I have a very "live and let live" philosophy about life.  I might not agree with other people's choices and beliefs, but they have the right to their choices and beliefs just as I do.  I don't feel that we accomplish anything by shoving our beliefs down other people's throats.  Religious doctrine can be upsetting to some people, myself included.  I don't push my lack of Christian beliefs on anyone.  If you believe in God, great.  If you don't, equally great.  I have a saying that I revert to every now and then, and it goes something like this: "I'm willing to let you go along with these ideas, so long as they're not hurting anyone."  I don’t have all the answers, but I’m not willing to trust something blindly either.  I feel like I'm much too rational of a person to believe in something because someone says it's so.  I’m just me, living my life the best way I know how to live it.  I believe in myself, and I believe in those around me.  I believe in what I see, in what I experience, in what I’ve learned.  I‘m no different than I was yesterday, and I’ll be no different tomorrow.  I’m just here on this earth like everyone else, trying to find my way, trying to be as happy as I can.  I take comfort in my friends and my family, my job, my travels, my dogs, and the random people I come across everyday.  My life is very full of very good things, and I feel lucky for that.  

Some might question the timing of this blog, with it being so close to Christmas and all.  I honestly just realized that this evening as I was typing this out.  It hadn’t even crossed my mind.  What really brought this on was the shooting in Connecticut this past week.  It was horrific.  It was awful.  It left me questioning what is wrong with humanity, and wondering why something like that happened in the first place.  People were quick to take to social media, condemning the shooter, the failure of our government to both tighten gun control laws and to find a solution to the increasing mental health population.  Condolences abounded for all those who lost a child or a loved one.  People were also quick to quote scripture, both as a form of comfort and as an explanation for the tragedy.  Many said that they were sad to hear about what had happened, but that they trusted their faith in the Lord and that through prayer he would protect them and their families.  Others quoted scriptures in which the Lord would protect and keep those who were faithful to him, those who believed, and that through Christ all things are possible.  What I am struggling with is how a Christian, especially one who lost a loved one in that massacre, is able to reconcile their trust in God after something like this happens.  Because I frankly don’t get it.  I don’t cut people in my life any slack for doing bad things to me, and I likewise wouldn’t be able to handle the thought of a deity, a God that I believed in and trusted, allowing something like that to happen to me or my loved ones. I personally would much rather hear that what happened in Connecticut was a tragic accident, a case of too many people being in the wrong place at the wrong time. “Everything happens for a reason,” “God needed them in heaven more than we needed them here on earth,” “God doesn’t give us any more than he thinks we can handle,” are all meant to be words of comfort.  And to some they probably are.  If someone said anything like that to me after losing someone as violently and as senselessly as those people did, I would rage.  I don’t want to hear that this horrible tragedy was orchestrated by the very God that swore through scripture that he would protect his people, the very same God who people place their trust in every day of their lives, the very same God who sacrificed his own son as payment for our sins so that he wouldn’t have to punish us like this anymore.  God couldn’t find it within his power to spare those innocent children, many of whom probably came from Christian families.  In essence, are we to believe that he allowed the violent death of the very people he was supposed to protect.  How are people rationalizing this?  Are people really under the assumption that the deaths of all those children and teachers is to be interpreted as some sort of atonement for the sins of the rest of the world, the "wicked," if you will?  As the bible would have people believe, all that ended with Jesus on the cross...or am I mistaken?  

I don’t mean to sound like I’m attacking anyone for their faith...I truly am just trying to understand.  I’m a curious person by nature and I just want to understand the world around me, if that’s even possible.  I’m upset about the state of our country just like everyone else.  Some people take comfort in their faith, some people take comfort in alcohol, some people take comfort in their families, some take comfort in just sitting quietly and thinking.  I’m thinking.        

                                       

            

Checking in

Good gravy it’s been a while since I’ve written.  I’ve thought about it.  I even started a blog not too long ago.  It sounded forced and uninspiring.  Tonight I feel like I have diarrhea of the fingers, so hopefully something good will come of it!

So Simon and I are now living in Flagstaff, AZ.  I’m not gonna lie...I really like it here.  We’ve been here since the very end of September, and so far have managed to go on several hikes, we’ve made friends with a few fellow travelers and we’ve been eating out like there’s no tomorrow.  Seriously, the number of restaurants to try here is almost overwhelming.  I keep telling people that we’re slowly eating our way through Flagstaff.  So far we’ve had Mexican, Latin, and Cajun cuisine.  All of it was phenomenal.  The other night we had burgers at a place called Diablo Burger and it was one of the best burgers I’ve ever had.  It was interesting because it was served on an English muffin, which was something new for me.  I devoured that burger.  I honestly barely remember what it tasted like, it was that good.  I guess that means I’ll have to go back for a repeat tasting.  What a bummer.  ;)

It’s safe to say that we’ve finally adjusted to the altitude...well, at least we mostly have.  We’ll still randomly get out of breath for seemingly no reason.  I’ve been using my inhaler a lot more than usual.  And our noses will not stop running...we’ve been here less than a month and have already gone through 2 boxes of kleenex.  I have no idea what that’s about.  It is more dusty here than we’re used to, and lately they’ve been doing controlled burns in the surrounding forest, so maybe that has something to do with it.  All I know is that I woke up this morning to a pile of kleenex next to me from the previous night’s nose-blowing.  The dogs are loving it...they love to eat used kleenexes...filthy beasts.

I found out that the nursing unit I’ll be working on has 12 beds.  That’s right, 12.  When I clarified with my nurse manager that the unit was indeed 12 beds and not 12 rooms (it’s 6 double patient rooms), she was concerned that I wouldn’t like working on a small unit.  In fact, I’m excited to work on such a small unit.  The last three nursing units that I’ve worked on have been long hallways that left me with aching feet most mornings.  Sometimes I felt like I hobbled rather than walked to the car after a shift.  I used to count a shift of work as exercise due to all the walking that I did.  Not that I’ll be slacking at this job; I’m told that the patients we have will keep me plenty busy throughout my shift.  Speaking of patients, we’ve been told that we have a lot of patients who come from the Native American reservations, mainly Hopi and Navajo.  I’m actually looking forward to learning more about them, since my knowledge of Native Americans is basically nil.  I’ve heard that taking care of them can be challenging due to cultural differences, but any patient at any given time can be challenging, so I’m trying to go into it with an open mind.

It’s nice that both Simon and I will be working on this assignment.  When I took the job in St. Cloud over the summer, I didn’t realize how hard it would be for me to go to work while he got to play.  And Simon and I didn’t see each other as much as we normally do.  I know that a lot of people find it weird that we spend so much time together...I even think it’s weird, but it works so I don’t really question it all that much.  I tried to not be jealous of all his free time, but it was hard sometimes.  I kept reminding myself that it was my choice to take the job, that initially we had talked about both of us taking the summer off.  But I knew that St. Cloud was a great hospital to work in, their staff is great and the patients weren’t too complicated.  I had had a great experience working there in the past and wanted to work there again.  I thought that working in Minnesota for the summer would get me close enough to still see everyone I wanted to see and do everything I wanted to do.  It didn’t quite work out that way.  When I’m away on an assignment, I don’t get too bent out of shape when I miss out on barbecues and camping trips and get togethers because I physically wouldn’t be able to go.  Being so close and still not being able to partake in fun things with my friends and family was torture.  It truly was.  I don’t even know how to explain it without sounding like a total brat...everyone works and everyone misses out on things because of work.  That’s how it goes.  And as Simon frequently reminded me, I was getting to see and do more with friends and family even while working than I would have if we were across the country.  I needed to focus on the things that I was able to do, and quit dwelling on the things I was missing.  I think I just had it in my head that being back in Minnesota means tons of time with friends and family...because normally when I’m back in Minnesota I’m not working and I spend as much time as possible visiting people.  So yes, there was a lot of attitude adjusting on my part taking place over the summer.    

In other bits and bobs not related to my recent relocation, I have decided that I’m not going to write a book.  To be honest, I wasn’t all that serious about it to begin with, but the thought of it was tempting.  I spent a decent amount of time around a good number of friends this summer, and I realized that I’m not a good story-teller.  I’m really not.  And I don’t say that to get a chorus of, ‘but you’re such a good writer!’  And I may be a good writer.  But I’ve found that a good writer and a good story-teller are two very different things.  I know that a person doesn’t just sit down and write a novel...it takes years of practice, years of trial and error, and years of research.  I’ve been reading a lot lately, and I’ve been paying attention to what makes for a good story.  I don’t think it’s a show-stopping plot, a whole troop of colorful characters, or even slapstick humor.  It’s attention to detail.  It’s the ability the writer has to bring the reader into the story as if they were an active participant in the story.  I don’t have that.  I skimp on details.  Half the time when I’m talking I leave out pivotal details on the story I’m trying to tell.  I can’t slow down enough to write about the little things, and the little things are what make a good story great.  But don’t worry, I’ll continue to blather on in my blogs.  And even better yet, reading my blogs is free.  Reading my published novel would not be.  So really, I’m doing everyone a favor by continuing to write here.  :)

I’m an active participant on Pinterest.  If you don’t yet know what it is, visit the site with caution...it’s extremely addictive.  I’ve been using Pinterest for about a year now and I’m finally to the point where I can visit my site without pinning anything.  I used to spend hours on there though.  Lately I’ve noticed a bit of a trend.  Women are pinning pictures of their nails painted all funky colors and whatnot.  Instead of just fanning out their fingers and photographing from above, they are curling their fingers in like a claw and taking the photo facing their palm.  Are you following?  It’s creepy, and I don’t like it.  Those pictures make me uncomfortable.  They don’t make me angry like the pictures of people making hearts with their hands (hate that), but they put me on edge.  Stop making the claw, it’s giving people (me) the heebie geebies.  

This is going way back to August, but what is the deal with water polo?  I felt that while the Olympics were on, there was a disproportionate amount of time spent broadcasting water polo matches.  Nothing like watching a bunch of people tread water while tossing a ball about.  Boring.  I’d rather watch volleyball or the equestrian events or track or crew or some other swimming event...basically I’d rather watch anything but water polo.  Water polo has got to be one of the most boring Olympic sports ever.  Ever.  And I’m not trying to take anything away from the athleticism of the water polo competitors, because they’re in better shape than I could ever hope to be, but their sport is a giant yawner.  

After several years of planning, my t-shirt quilts have become a reality.  And they are fantastic.  Truly, they have become two of my most prized possessions. Sometimes I’ll just sit on the bed and run my hands over their soft cottony covers, remember where and when I aquired a particular shirt.  It’s like a scrapbook that I can wrap myself up in.  And it’s so soft.  I had the quilt made by Campus Quilt Company, and the entire process couldn’t have been easier.  I basically sent them a $100 deposit, they sent me a package that contained layout instructions, customizations, and a mailer to send the shirts back to them.  That’s it.  They sent me updates when they received the shirts, when they were starting to cut the shirts, when they were starting to sew everything together, and when they had completed.  They even called me a couple times to discuss layout issues that they had come across.  They sent me photos of the completed quilts so that I could see them before they arrived at my front door.  They provided fantastic customer service, and a great product besides.  And now I have this wonderful keepsake that I can take with me anywhere...and not only is it a keepsake, but it’s also functional.  After two queen-sized quilts (42 t-shirts each), I still have a few shirts left over, so there will be more quilts in my future.  

In the last few months I’ve become aware of a certain precedent that I’ve set with people.  Someone will send me a picture of genitals on a statue or a turd on the ground and say, “this made me think of you.”  I’m not sure how to feel about that.  On one hand I’m flattered that people are thinking about me.  On the other, they’re thinking about me because they saw either poop or genitals.  It’s no secret that I talk exorbitantly about genitals and poop, so it makes sense that people would think of me when they see either of those things.  I just think it’s funny.  

On a more serious note, I made one of the toughest decisions of my adult life before coming to Flagstaff.  The morning Simon and I left Minnesota, it turns out.  I decided that my dog Lady would stay back in Minnesota with my parents rather than come with Simon and I to Arizona.  It wasn’t an easy decision, and one that I had been struggling with in the months leading up to it.  I may have mentioned in an earlier post that Lady has been having trouble holding her bladder.  With some new medications, things were getting a little better for her, but she was still getting me up at least once a night to go outside.  Which is fine, I had no problem with getting up to let her out.  That’s a lie, I hated it, but I did it because I wanted her to be comfortable...and because I don’t enjoy cleaning up urine off the floor.  Back on topic, with regular toileting Lady was doing fine.  But reality was quickly catching up to me when I realized that if she can’t hold it for 8 hours at a time, there’s no way she would be able to hold it for 13 hours at a time, which is roughly how long she would be left alone while Simon and I were at work.  And the thing with Lady is, she’s smart.  And she’s always been very shameful.  For every little drop of urine that dribbled out of her in the house, she stressed.  She was constantly licking herself, her bedding, and anything else that she thought she may have soiled.  She constantly looked like she was just waiting to be punished for going to the bathroom indoors.  I knew she couldn’t help it, so of course she wasn’t punished, but still she waited for the punishment.  So I made the decision that she should stay home in Eyota with my parents.  My parents work 8 hour shifts, they have two dogs of their own, and are more available to the dogs than Simon and I would be while we’re working.  I still feel guilty about leaving her behind.  I know that my parents are taking fantastic care of her, and they give me weekly updates on how she’s doing.  I have no doubt in my mind that my parents provide the same care for her that I would.  I just feel like I betrayed her by leaving without her.  I’ve had her for 11 years.  She was with me during my senior year of college, during the purchase of my first home, and during most of my travels across the country.  She’s been my constant companion for all these years and I left her behind.  It’s hard.  I guess these things always are.  

It’s difficult to see our pets age.  Brie is now mostly blind and almost totally deaf.  She doesn’t enjoy going for walks anymore because she can’t really see where she’s going, and objects that are so obvious to me seemingly jump out of nowhere and startle her.  Just three years ago Simon and I would take all three of the dogs hiking up a small mountain in Arkansas.  Brie was the most agile of the three, leaping from rock to rock like it was nothing.  Now she can barely jump up on the bed.  Is she miserable?  I suppose sometimes she is.  It’s hard to tell, I guess.  She’s miserable when she’s outside, but when she’s inside snuggled up with me on the couch, she’s happy as can be.  So I guess that counts for something.  

On to lighter things...I just realized recently that Simon and I tie our shoes differently.  I make the one loop and do the wrap around, while Simon makes two loops and ties the knot with the loops.  I don’t know how this had escaped me all these years that we’ve been dating.  Truth be told, since I’ve been wearing Salomon shoes, I don’t ever tie shoelaces because they have a pull cord system.  Spending half the year in Florida for the past three years has left us wearing flip flops the majority of the time.  Today I bought a pair of slip-ons and a pair of velcro shoes.  I don’t have a single pair of shoes with me right now that have laces.  How weird is that?  I think it’s pretty weird.  And the only reason that I bring it up is because while I was home before moving to Arizona, I was wearing a pair of shoes that had laces and I momentarily forgot how to tie them.  It was just for a couple seconds, but I honestly thought I was losing my mind.  

With the help of my friend Dana, I finally purchased a couple pairs of skinny jeans.  And I’ve actually worn them!  And it really wasn’t all that awful.  It’s still kind of strange though.  I only wear them with boots.  After all these years of wearing flare-leg jeans I’m a little geeked out by seeing my shoes, or at least that much of my shoes.  With flare leg jeans I saw the toes of my shoes and that was usually about it.  Seeing the entire shoe is weird and I’m not used to it yet.  So I wear the skinny jeans with boots.  I suppose I’ll wear them with regular shoes one of these days...I’m just not there yet.  Skinny jeans themselves were a huge leap for me, so it’s no surprise the skinny jeans worn with shoes probably won’t happen for another year or so...hahaha!  Other than that though, I’m a complete fashion failure.  I just can’t do it.  Any time I try to change it up and be fashionable I wind up changing back into jeans and a t-shirt.  Or yoga pants and a hoodie.  I feel like fashion looks weird on me, like I’m a poser, like I’m trying too hard.  It’s just not natural for me to be on-trend.  I’ve mostly given up.

And I guess that’s it from me at the moment.  I had to take a break during the writing of this to bathe my dog.  At 1:00am.  I’m keeping some weird hours tonight.  And now I have the problem of going to bed with a wet dog.  Do I make her sleep in the kennel tonight, or do I try to have her sleep on a towel in the bed?  I know she won’t stay on the towel, and if I put her in the kennel she’ll just cry all night.  The washer isn’t big enough for the comforter to fit, so if I let her in the bed then I’m going to have to go to the laundromat to wash the comforter, and I really don’t want to waste a day off at the laundromat.  All these decisions!  I guess if these are the most pressing decisions that I have to make tonight, life isn’t treating me too badly at the moment.  I can only hope that the rest of you have nothing but trivial decisions to make today.  Have a good one.

Stefanie

   

     

  

So I'm running a half-marathon...

Yeah...how weird is that?  Me, the girl who doesn't run...ever...unless something happens to be chasing me, then I'll run.  Or if it's a case of finding the bathroom or soiling myself, I'll run then too.  But to run for the sake of running, that is something that I just don't do.  Until now, apparently.

I've always hated running.  There are a few reasons that I don't enjoy it, but mostly I don't like it because I have trouble breathing while doing it.  I've suffered from exercise-induced asthma for years, so I've been limited to sports and activities that have rest periods...even short rest periods give my lungs time to relax and regroup.  In the past, I would get so out of breath while running that I would start to panic, which in turn just made the breathing more difficult.  I've realized now that I need to tailor my pace to my breathing.  I run really really really slow.  I can probably walk almost as fast as I can run.  I don't know if what I do even qualifies as running...it's probably more like slow jogging.  But I'm doing it, and so far it's working.  

A few weeks ago I was out to dinner with my friends Ellen and Molly, and they convinced me to run a half-marathon in Orlando with them.  I had already been planning to attend the race, but only as a spectator with an obnoxious cowbell.  I have to admit, they were very convincing in their assurances that I would, in fact, be able to do the race rather than just spectate.  I don't know if it was the wine or the fantastic steak or those heavenly garlic mashed potatoes that we happened to be enjoying at the time (we were at Pittsburgh Blue...yum!), but somehow I agreed to run the race.  I still haven't signed up, but I will.  I'm actually looking foward to it, and have even begun to train.  How crazy is that?  I ran 2 miles/walked 4.5 miles on Monday.  I felt good, I was able to breathe the entire time, and I wasn't even that sore aftewards.  This might sound a little overconfident, but I'm really not all that worried about tackling this race.  However, most people I know who have run half-marathons have said that I should be. 

Here is why I'm not worried about it.  I have 3 hours and 30 minutes to go 13.1 miles.  I have every intention of using every single minute of that time to finish this thing.  I figure that at the very least, I can maintain a 4 mph walk and still finish the race in the allotted time.  I don't have any goals regarding finishing within a certain amount of time or running a certain number of miles.  My only goal is to finish it.  That's it.  A few people I know who have run marathons and half-marathons have their reservations about my attitude towards the race, but it is what it is.  I'm not an athletically competitive person by nature; if something is too hard for me, I have no problem quitting.  I hate competitive sports...even volleyball has lost its appeal for me, which makes me a little sad because I really used to enjoy it.  I like to watch other people play, but I don't enjoy playing it myself...partly because my skills aren't what they used to be, and partly because I don't like getting all worked up over a game.  And I secretly am afraid of getting creamed in the face by the ball, which would be unpleasant.  When it comes to my personal physical fitness, I tend to gravitate towards things that are individualized...where I set the pace, I control the weights, and I decide when enough is enough.  I don't push myself beyond what I feel is reasonable, and I don't exercise for the sake of exercising.  As long as I can fit in my clothes and look halfway decent in them, I'm happy.  It's true that in the last 8 months I've been going to the gym as regularly as I can, and that I get outside several days a week to go for walks.  I've even made peace with sweating, which was a huge obstacle for me.  I know, it sounds silly, but I've never been a sweaty person, so initially it felt really gross.  I've come a long way in just under a year, and I'm happy to say that I'm proud of myself.

So now that I've got running on the brain, I've got all kinds of crazy goals for myself for 2013.  The first is the Disney Princess Half-Marathon at Disneyworld in Orlando in February.  I'm not a crazy Disney princess person, and I haven't seen a Disney princess movie in years, but the atmosphere of the race promises to be a good time, so that's why I'm doing it.  Most of the racers dress up in tiaras and tutus, and we'll be running through the Magic Kingdom.  I've never been to Disneyworld, so this will be an interesting way to see it.  And I'll be running with some pretty fun girls, and I'm sure they'll motivate me to do more than just walk the entire thing.  I do intend on running at least half of it.  I'm glad to see that it seems like a very non-intimidating race, meaning that people are mostly just there to have fun.  Right up my alley.  We're planning on making a weekend of it by going to Epcot and visiting some of the giant outlet malls that are spattered throughout the city.   

The second is the Lululemon Half-Marathon, taking place in Vancouver next August, and Simon might run this one with me.  Ellen and her boyfriend Fred might be joining us as well.  This is a marathon put on by the yoga/run clothing line, Lululemon.  I'm obsessed with their clothes, I'll admit it.  I love the fit, the function, and the quality.  I'm slowly replacing most of my wardrobe with Lululemon pieces...as slowly as possible or else I'll go broke!  On any given day I pretty much look like I'm either coming or going from yoga...but I don't do yoga...hahaha!  But clothing aside, Lululemon seems like a pretty neat company.  They don't just seem to be in the market for making money (although that's a huge part of their business model) but they also encourage people to be healthy.  They even go so far as to offer free yoga classes and run clubs.  I followed a few blogs regarding their half-marathon from this year, and it looked like an absolute blast.  They had everything from drag queens to people dressed up in Barney and Teletubbie costumes running the race.  The Lululemon Half-Marathon is not a qualifying half-marathon...there are no prizes for anyone finishing fastest in their age/gender range.  Everyone gets the same medal, and everyone is encouraged to have fun.  And the race is run through Vancouver, a city I had the pleasure of visiting in June, and I absolutely loved it and am definitely looking forward to this opportunity to go back.  Not that I need an excuse to go back, but this helps motivate me.   

The third race will hopefully be the Run For Your Lives Zombie 5k, which looks awesome.  It's a lot like the Warrior Dash/Mud Runs that all the kids are doing these days, only you're chased by people dressed up as zombies as you're trying to manage the obstacles.  You also wear a little flag football belt while you're running, and the "zombies" try to grab the flags off as you run past them.  How many flags you have left at the end determines whether you finish the race as a person or a zombie.  I'm by no means a Zombie Apocolypse person, but I think that the idea of running an obstacle course while people are chasing you sounds like a lot of fun.  And somewhat weird.  They have the zombie races all over the country, so I guess I'll have to see where I'm at when they're available.  I don't know that I want to fly anywhere for this one.  My marathon-running dentist gave me a funny look the other day when I mentioned it to him (I was cavity free, by the way...yay!).

And if I haven't had enough running after doing those three, I may just jet on over to California and do the other Disney Princess Half-Marathon at Disneyland.  We'll see about that one though.  That's a lot of traveling in one year, and a lot of running, to boot.  I'm told that if you do both Princess marathons in one year, you get a t-shirt.  I'm all about free stuff, but how far am I willing to run to get it?  Not that it's technically free, once you factor in entry fees, hotels, flights, etc.

So yeah.  Those are my up-and-coming running endeavors.  We'll see how they all pan out.  I'm hoping for the best, but am harboring zero expectations.  Wish me luck!  And if any of these runs sound fun or interesting to you, feel free to join!  I need all the motivation I can get!  ;)         

It's just me...again. :)

I’m inspired to write!  It’s been a bit for those of you following along...and for those of you I’ve lost along the way, hopefully I’ll have some interesting things to say in the weeks and months to come.  

Simon and I have begun a new chapter to our travels in St. Cloud, MN.  I’ll be working as a nurse for the summer, Simon will be working on his art.  So...for those of you interested in some Simon artwork, now would be a good time to commission him for some projects.  He’s working on making high-quality prints of some of his more popular pieces, so hit him up if there’s something you’ve had your eye on.  There was my shameless plug for my other-half’s aspiring art ambitions.  :)  

So St. Cloud.  It’s been four years since I’ve been employed in this town, and not a whole lot has changed, at least not at a first glance.  One of the best and most exciting things that’s changed around town is the expanding craft beer availability.  St. Cloud used to be (and still kinda is) the mecca of chain restaurants, but there are some mom-and-pop shops giving the corporate guys a run for their money.  It’s refreshing and fantastic and I couldn’t be happier.  The other day Simon and I even saw an actual hipster...a flannel clad, mustachioed, ten-speed riding dude (I’m sure the fixed-gear bike is in the works).  Not that I identify with hipsters, in fact, I think they’re pretty ridiculous to tell you the truth, but I never expected to see one here.  I always assumed that St. Cloud didn’t quite have the right blend of underground, off-beat mystique that would draw a hipster crowd.  A lot can change in four years, I guess.  

It’s nice to be back in the great state of Minnesota, and it’s been great living so close to Simon’s sister, Abby.  I feel like we don’t get to see enough of her with all our travels, and now we have the potential to see her almost every day if we wanted to.  Simon’s mom lives just over an hour away, and my family is about three hours away.  Definitely driveable for visits.  

There.  I started out on a positive note.  Let’s get right down to the complaining, shall we?  We all know I can’t write a blog without complaining about something, so here goes.  We are living in squalor.  That’s about the only word I can use that can capture the state of the apartment that we’ve been placed in.  Arguably one of the dumpiest apartments I have ever lived in, in my life...including college.  401 Olmsted for those of you unlucky enough to have visited me at that apartment in Winona came close, but it was still a step above this place.  Let’s set the stage.  St. Cloud is literally infested with apartment complexes.  I don’t think you can go more than a block or two in any direction without running into an apartment complex.  One would think the pickings for apartments would be abundant.  There’s one caveat...about 1% (statistic made up on the spot) of them that allow dogs.  Snap!  Huge bummer.  Given the condition of our apartment, I can understand why apartments don’t allow dogs.  Our blinds have all been chewed on by something, pieces of the carpet are ripped up or missing all together, and there is not one square foot of the remaining carpet that doesn’t have some sort of stain.  I’m not exaggerating.  It’s disgusting, and I honestly can’t believe the management would allow new tenants to move in without replacing the carpet, at the very least.  The carpet had been shampooed prior to us moving in, yet the stains remain, leaving me to assume that the previous owners did nothing to try to remove the stains as they occurred.  Gross.  I could decide to just let my dogs poop and pee all over the carpet, and you’d never know.  Fortunately, I am a responsible pet owner and I expect and require my animals to do their business outdoors.  And if in the event they have an accident, I deal with it promptly.  I would assume that any normal human being with a sense of smell and a desire for basic cleanliness would feel the same way, but apparently that assumption would be wrong.  Two of our three closets smell like litter box/cat pee, and we all know how I feel about cats so I won’t even waste my time ripping them from one end to the other...I understand that the fault lies not with the cat (much as I hate to admit that), but with the crappy owners.  Even responsible cat owners can agree that if you don’t take care of your little box, it reeks.  Reeks reeks reeks.  And if the litter box isn’t cleaned, the cat starts going outside the litter box.  Again we can all agree that cat pee reeks.  Reeks reeks reeks.  Some people should just not be allowed to have pets.  And honestly, what fun could possibly be gleaned from a pet that poops and pees all over your apartment?  

So...in hind sight, I maybe should have left the dogs with my parents for the summer...I could have had much nicer digs.  But...they’re my dogs and I shouldn’t expect someone else to take care of them for me.  So here we are.  I just have to laugh that I’m 32 years old, I have a professional career where I make good money, and this is where I live.  Many would point out that I shouldn’t be complaining about living somewhere for free, but I gladly would have paid above and beyond what my company is paying to have had a clean apartment.  Since moving in I have also duct taped one of the fridge shelves to keep my condiments from falling out and rolling all over, I’ve covered the exposed carpet tacking with a rug so I don’t step on the nails and get tetanus, I’ve been obsessed with parking near the handicapped spot so I can only get door dings on one side of my car, and I’ve spent a good amount of money on air fresheners.  I’ve also gotten strategic about fan placement to try to take full advantage of the wall AC unit that barely keeps up...it’s been hotter than blazes here this summer.  The apartment is now liveable, however I will probably not be entertaining any guests here.  Comes with the territory, I guess...I chose this particular facet of my career, and I have to take everything that goes with it.  Good with the bad, pee stains with the view, litter box smell with the opportunity to not live in Minnesota in the winter, and so it goes.

One funny thing about our place is that there is a gamer that lives somewhere in our vicinity...I think we’ve finally figured out that he (I’m assuming it’s a he) lives above us.  And he’s not just a gamer, he’s a gamer with a subwoofer.  Yes, some nights it sounds like World War 3 around here.  At least it’s not crappy music...I would much rather try to fall asleep to the sound of mortars crashing than the bass line of some crappy music.  Last night there was some sort of wrestling match going on up there...I thought for sure someone was going to come crashing through our ceiling.  Ah, the joys of apartment living.

One tradition that we always have when we move into a new apartment is that one of the pugs usually christens the place with a turd.  Sometimes they both do.  It’s infuriating.  There’s few things worse than being in the throes of moving into a new place and then having to stop everything to clean the carpet.  And usually when we move in we don’t have any paper towels, so we’re stuck cleaning up the mess with whatever we have on hand.  Sometimes it’s literally our hands, gross as that is.  One time the pugs ate the turds for me...that was nice of them, I guess.  We’ve been working with them on this pooping business, and at 8 and 10 years old you’d think that they would have outgrown this by now, but they’re pugs and they’re stupid and the only way to beat bad behavior out of them would be to beat them to death, and you can only expect so much of them.  So THIS time around we walked them until they had all pooped and peed prior to bringing them in the apartment, ensuring that there would be no turds.  And there weren’t.  But Lady vomited a huge pile on the carpet a mere foot from the linoleum.  Gah!!!  She’s the good one!  I almost lost it.  I dragged her over to the linoleum where she immediately collapsed out of fear, and then proceeded to vomit while she was on her side.  All efforts to get her to stand up and vomit were unsuccessful.  Who vomits on their side?  So weird, and I was afraid she was going to choke on it.  The next day Brie overdid it on the water and vomited on the carpet mere inches from the linoleum.  It’s amazing I have any hair left...or that they’re all still alive.  So we still have yet to move into an apartment where one dog or another doesn’t immediately do something to soil it.  Maybe next time.       

The job is a job.  It’s better than the one I came from, I’ll give it that.  It’s presenting its own challenges though, and I’m slowly working through them.  St. Cloud Hospital utilizes a lot of LPN’s, and that’s taking some getting used to.  Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy working with LPN’s and I definitely appreciate their help, I’m just struggling with the idea of having someone else do my work for me.  At least that’s what it feels like.  In reality, we’re working together, but it feels like they’re doing all the work and I’m doing all the charting.  My first few nights assigned with an LPN were terrible, and I think it was mostly because I was trying to do too much myself, but partly because 9 patients between two people is still 9 patients...that’s a lot of sick people to keep track of at one time.  And it’s not like we split the assignment to where she had 5 of them and I had 4 of them...we each had 9 together.  It’s kind of hard to explain, but that’s all I got.  I know that eventually I’ll find my stride and everything will be just fine.  I really enjoyed working here four years ago, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy working here this time around as well.  Ellen tagged along with me from Florida, and we ended up having pretty similar schedules, so it’s been nice having her around too.

I had a conversation about work with a friend of mine recently that really made me think about the job market and what having a job means to people, especially people my age and younger.  My friend is involved in the hiring of new employees where she works, and she said that the younger generation isn’t just motivated by salary or loyalty anymore, but also by how much fun a job is.  People are looking for jobs that are emotionally, socially, and mentally stimulating, not just to take home a paycheck.  It’s interesting to think about it that way.  I think about my grandparents and even my parents, who have/had been at the same jobs their entire lives...either out of loyalty to where they work or motivated by pensions and whatnot.  I feel like my generation isn’t afraid to leave a job that isn’t meeting all their needs.  I’m realistic in the knowledge that I’m not going to get a pension.  Even when I worked for Mayo after graduating from college, they promised a pension but made so many changes in the four years that I was there as to when you could receive it and how much you would inevitably get, that I put it out of my mind.  I wasn’t going to spend the next 40 years of my career stressing about pension.  I just lived under the assumption that I couldn’t count on my employer to provide for my retirement, and I’ve taken measures to save up for retirement myself.  Pension means nothing to me, and maybe that’s the wrong approach to take...I might regret this decision someday.  But at the same time, I don’t want to stay at a job I’m not happy with in the hopes that I’ll get a pension someday.  It goes both ways, I guess.  Right now I’m happier with my job than I’ve ever been, and that means more to me than the somewhat transparent promises of a future pension.       

A big change for Simon and I was the recent purchase of a new vehicle.  We are now the owners of a Jeep Grand Cherokee, and so far we really like it.  It was a bittersweet move to make though.  My little Liberty was my favorite vehicle of all time.  There pretty much wasn’t anything that little bugger couldn’t do, almost no where it couldn’t go.  I’ve traveled across the country in that thing more times than I can count, and it’s been such a great little vehicle.  All those trips with the trailer though were definitely taking a toll on him, and it was getting to the point where he was getting too old to handle that kind of abuse.  I’m really going to miss that agile little guy.  The new Jeep is definitely more agile than any of the other similarly-sized SUV’s, but it definitely is bigger and I’m still working on parking it properly.  It doesn’t quite corner on a dime the way the Liberty did, but I’d say it probably corners on a nickel...that’s still pretty good.  I just don’t feel like this new Jeep is “us.”  At least not yet.  It seems like such an adult vehicle, and I feel like we’re going to have to grow into it a bit.  We did put a roof rack on it and have already had the paddle boards up there, so it’s starting to fit into our lifestyle a little better.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great vehicle and I know in time we’ll learn to love it.  It’s definitely going to be more useful with the trailer, and that was the main reason that we got it.  And we got it for a really good price.  We probably could have waited until the end of summer (and maybe for a red one to become available...I love my red), but we just couldn’t pass this one up.  I still look for my little red guy when I come out of stores though...hahaha!

Moving to a new city, a new apartment, and a new job requires a lot of handshaking.  I feel like I’m constantly meeting new people and shaking hands.  And I’m surprised by the number of people who have really limp handshakes.  I’m disturbed by limp handshakes...they give me the heebie geebies.  I don’t know why.  I guess I grew up around people who had nice, firm handshakes.  I don’t know what to do with those limp hands.  I’d rather not shake at all if that’s what they’re going to give me.  I do a firm but gentle squeeze and a pump.  Yes, I’m still talking about handshaking.  You perverts.

I recently learned what a tractor sprinkler is.  I’d never heard of them before, but it’s a sprinkler that looks like a tractor, and it follows the hose around.  It literally moves around the yard by itself.  I’m completely enthralled by them, and our apartment complex uses no less than three of them in their watering endeavors.  Every time I go outside I get to see a tractor.  I would stop to watch but they move really slow and Simon isn’t as amazed by them as I am.  I’ll have to add that to the list of things to get for our future home.  I’ll be entertained for hours. 

Cheeburger Cheeburger...where the service is always fantastic!!

I have decided that unless I get extraordinary service, I’m going back to tipping 10%.  I was annoyed when standard tipping went to 15%.  And it’s not that I’m stingy or a bad tipper.  Most of the time I tip pretty well, extraordinarily if it happens to be a Jimmy John’s delivery person...hahaha!  But I don’t like the idea of tipping 15% for someone to perform the very basic requirements of their job.  The other day my family and I were at the Mall of America, and we had lunch at Hooters.  Yes, my family went to Hooters.  There were 12 of us, the food court was packed, some of us wanted to have beer, and we needed a place that would seat a large party.  So we went to Hooters.  They ended up seating us 6 at one table, and 6 at another, which was fine.  Each table had its own waitress, so it wasn’t like one waitress was handling all 12 of us.  Our waitress started out with a poor attitude, and I don’t know if it was because she was taken aback my my dad asking what brand of root beer they have (he can’t have caffeine, and there are certain root beers that are caffeine-free) or if she just didn’t want to be there.  We had to ask for silverware several times, one of my four buffalo chicken sliders had a drummie in it rather than a boneless wing (Simon was the unfortunate recipient of that one), and at the end of the meal, the tab for all 12 of us was together, rather than by table.  We didn’t specify that we wanted to split the tab between the tables, but I guess we assumed that the bill would be split since we were at different tables with different waitresses.  There goes that assuming again.  So while we were figuring out the bill, my aunt from the other table was all fired up and didn’t want to leave a tip at all.  Apparently their waitress had been worse than ours.  We ended up leaving about a 5% tip because we felt guilty leaving nothing at all.  And still we felt a little guilty...guilty that it was too little.  But should we have?  Our service was poor, and the waitress did nothing to right the slider that was prepared wrong (I get that the kitchen messed that one up, but as the waitress she is our liaison to the kitchen and it’s her job to make sure that wrongs are righted).  Why do we feel that we should still tip for poor service?  And I’ve heard the argument from people in the industry that sometimes servers have bad days or sometimes they’re working short or that their base pay is crap, etc.  You know what?  I don’t care.  And maybe that sounds callous, but I don’t go to a restaurant expecting poor service...and rewarding it besides.  I also happen to work in an industry that feels an awful lot like waitressing some days, and people don’t care that I haven’t peed in 10 hours or that I haven’t had lunch or that I haven’t had a break yet or that I’m feeling a little under the weather.  They’re not there to care about my feelings and my well-being...that’s on me to take care of those things.  That’s just the way it is.  Poor service is poor service no matter the reason, and people shouldn’t be rewarded for it.  Now I sound like an old bag, but honestly.  

So after a month and a half hiatus I went back to the gym today.  It felt good, and I was actually a little surprised by the amount of muscle tone I had been able to salvage during my time off from the gym.  There’s those genetics again.  I’ve got some ground to make up, but I was relieved to see that I don’t have to start out at zero again.  The gym here in St. Cloud uses the same Body Pump program that I had gotten used to and enjoyed in Florida, so that was my main motivation in joining.  We joined what was formerly known as Gold’s Gym, now called Fitness Evolution.  Or Evolution Fitness...I’m not sure what order those words are supposed to be.  At any rate, it’s basically the same gym with a different name.  This gym is bizarre though.  I’ve never seen so many muscle bound (meathead) men in one place in my entire life.  I had heard along the way that Gold’s had a reputation for these behemoth dudes, and maybe a few rumblings of some steroid use, but I finally got to see it with my own eyes. These dudes are huge...and admittedly, a little bit gross.  I don’t know what possesses men to strive to be so big and muscular, but I find it very unattractive.  Not just the way it looks, but knowing how much time and effort goes into getting that big and staying that big seems a little pathological...and let’s not forget narcissistic, since there’s really no logical reason any person needs to be that big. It gets to the point where that’s not even fitness anymore...how much stamina can those dudes really have when those giant muscles are tapping all the body’s resources?  The free-weight area is always packed with these giant dudes...luckily the women have a separate free-weight area that is meathead-free.  Simon said that he wants to come lift weights on the women’s side...hahaha!  This morning while we were getting ready to start our body pump class (in a room with the door closed and away from the rest of the gym) we heard a man just bellering away in what I can only assume was the free-weight area.  Bellering.  Grunting.  Loudly.  I was embarrassed for him...although my embarrassment was undoubtedly wasted seeing as he was obviously purposely lifting far more weight than he probably should have been if it was causing him to yell out like that.  But I digress...it’s the idiots in this world that cause us to feel good about ourselves.  Am I right?  

I am inappropriate with little kids.  I can’t help it.  I try to remedy it, but that usually just ends up making it worse.  I was hanging out with my friends and their eleven year-old son recently, and he was talking about the SAW movies.  I told him I’d seen two of them, and he started asking questions about what it was about and what happened.  Some of the questions he was asking led me to believe that had seen parts of them, so there I went, giving him a graphic description of the movie.  I had been blabbering on for what felt like hours before I finally came up for air and saw all around the me the appalled faces of Simon and the boy’s parents.  Really?  Did I just tell an 11 year-old kid that one of the characters in the movie had to cut a key out of another character’s stomach while he was still alive, for the sole purpose of unlocking a spiked mask from her own head, thereby preventing turning her own head into a bloody colander?  Yes.  Yes I did.  I just don’t have filters.  And I try.  I try so hard not to swear, not to be perverted, not to act out, not to talk about adult things...and I fail every time.  I’m sure after every interaction with me, parents are forced to give their kids a disclaimer about my behavior.  Perhaps parents now are warning their children in advance.  There certainly has to be some measure of damage control whenever I’m involved. Oy.

And that's it from my end.  At least I hope that's it...this was certainly long enough!  Toodle-oo!