"Keep it classy, lawyer dude."

I got dumped last week, but that's not what I'm upset about. I'd had my own lingering doubts over the months we'd been dating and never quite felt as head-over-heels as I thought I should. He'd been "busy" and I thought that perhaps not seeing much of him was keeping me from feeling that intangible feeling I thought I was supposed to feel with the right person, so I was waiting it out until after the holidays to see if it got better. Regardless, the rejection of getting dumped still stings a little, but I'm hurt for another reason.

Apparently he'd made up his mind about us weeks ago and (by his own admission) was just avoiding telling me. Things came to a head over the weekend when he said he'd let me know about whether we could do something on Saturday. He never touched base with me and so on Sunday morning I texted him to tell him I was irritated by his blowing me off. No response. So I texted him Monday morning and still got no response. Fed up, I decided to call him and tell him that we obviously weren't on the same page and we should probably take advantage of the holidays to figure out what we wanted going forward (I was traveling for work and couldn't do it face-to-face). He didn't take my call. What he did instead was respond with a lengthy text message telling me that while he enjoyed hanging out with me, he didn't have the "right feelings" for me. 

It's the fact that he avoided me for weeks, ignored my text messages and call, and then finally dumped me via text message that really hurts. It shows that he had absolutely no respect for me, my time, or my feelings. At the very least, he owed me the courtesy of a conversation. Over the phone or face to face, I don't really care. But I believe that if you have respect for someone, you at least give them the courtesies of being honest and hearing their response. It's what decent people do for each other, even under difficult circumstances.

In retrospect, I shouldn't be surprised at how he dumped me. When Juliette died he  expressed only minimal concern for me and never once asked how I was handling her death. I chalked it up to him not knowing how to comfort me and never having lost a pet himself. When we had our one and only fight, he didn't acknowledge that he hurt my feelings or apologize until much later. Instead, he turned the aftermath of the argument into beating himself up for his behavior and avoiding me. Both incidents gave me pause, but I was willing to wait it out a bit longer and see if he became more emotionally available over time. In retrospect, that probably never would have happened. He avoided me and my emotions when were dating, he did it when he dumped me via text message, and if we'd continued dating, he probably would have done it throughout our relationship. In short, he's an avoider. 

I, on the other hand, am a confronter, so I sort of expected myself to react much more strongly. Instead, I responded with two text messages. The first said, "Okay, then," and the second one told him that for future reference, text message was not the appropriate medium for breaking up with someone. I beat myself up for a while and wondered what it was about me that made someone respect and value me so little that he'd dump me that way. I still find myself falling into that way of thinking, but more and more I'm realizing that 1) I'm better off without someone who treats other people that way, and 2) if that really is his M.O., we wouldn't have lasted much longer anyway.

At the very least, two good things have come out of this. First, I was reminded of what an amazing group of friends I have. One friend had me over to her apartment where we watched Hot Fuzz and drank beer while she baked me chocolate chip cookies. Because she's awesome. Another distracted me by inviting me out for drinks, and countless others listened to me vent. And all my friends expressed what I would describe as the only appropriate responses in this scenario. 

A sampling, for your reading pleasure:

"Is he 12?!?!"
"What a fucking coward!!!"
"I don't even know what to say." (Yes, speechlessness is an appropriate response in this instance.)
"Dude's a prick."
"What an asshole."
"The guy's being a jerk."
"Wow."
"Well, that's just wrong."

And my personal favorite: "Keep it classy, lawyer dude."  

(For context, he is a lawyer, in case that wasn't obvious.)

See? My friends are an amazing, empathetic, and articulate bunch. And I am lucky.

The other good thing to come out of this is actually for all of you. I had already purchased a couple Christmas gifts for the guy, and while the majority of them are things that I can happily use myself (an assortment of locally produced hot sauces from around Texas, for example), there is one item I most definitely cannot use or return. And so, I'm giving it away to one of you lucky people.

Let me preface this by saying that it was a gag gift. You must keep that in mind.

It's a pair of these Sriracha (aka rooster sauce) boxer shorts from The Oatmeal, size XL. I imagine they'd make an excellent (free-to-you-but-will-probably-arrive-a-little-late-but-hey-free-is-free) Christmas gift or stocking stuffer.

How can you win them? Just leave a comment on this post before 11:59pm CST on Wednesday, December 19. One comment per person; any comments after your first one will not be valid entries. Be sure to include an email address so I can contact you and get your mailing address if you've won. I'll use the random number generator over at www.random.org to select one lucky winner from all the comments. So go on, hurry up and comment and get yourself some free boxer shorts!

Look at that: lemons into lemonade! I'm just like Jesus, I tell you.

Little Things

There is no denying that sometimes life shits all over you. There's also no denying that sometimes life hands you something beautiful just when you need it. The announcement that my favorite musician ever, Josh Ritter, has a new album coming out in March and that his tour will take him through Austin is just about the best news I could have received this week. This new song, Joy to You Baby, is perfection. I love it.

Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all

I am grateful for an increasing knowledge of who I am, and for growing more comfortable with that knowledge every day.

I am thankful for the time I had with those I have loved and who loved me back, especially my sweet, precious Juliette. I would not trade that time for anything.

I am grateful for the life experiences that have made me stronger, even if they were unpleasant at the time. They made me who I am now, and that is better than who I was before.

I am thankful for discovering the phrase, "Not my circus, not my monkey."

I am grateful for 12 life-affirming days in Paris, and sunsets, and friends who indulge my themed birthday parties at the ripe old age of 32, and possibility, and wine, and tea, and roller skates, and pinatas, and freedom, and life after loss.

I am thankful for yesterday, and today, and tomorrow, even if they suck.

I am grateful for this moment, regardless of what it does or doesn't lead to.

I am thankful for it all.

Clearly, Kittens Will Be My Undoing

Note: While this post has a somewhat hilarious ending, it does contain a scenario that might be a "trigger" for some people who have experienced violence or trauma.

I woke up at 2am this morning to the sound of an unfamiliar man's voice in my house. I live alone, no men have keys to the house, and I knew the deadbolt was locked when I went to bed. I immediately panicked: a strange man was in my house, and I had no way to defend myself. I grabbed the heavy Maglite flashlight that my dad gave me when I moved into my college dorm (and taught me to hold over my shoulder and wield like a baton if necessary). I huddled in my bed and listened. The man sounded like he was talking to himself, almost carrying on a conversation with himself. His voice rose and fell, got louder and then quieter. I thought I saw lights flicker and wondered if maybe a crazy person had broken in and taken up temporary residence in my living room. My heart raced and I was terrified.

After several minutes of holding my breath and listening, I decided to call 9-1-1. I whispered into the phone that I thought there was someone in my house. My voice was shaky and I had to repeat the address three times. The dispatcher kept asking me whether anyone was staying with me, if I had given anyone a key. At one point I snapped, "Jesus Christ, just send someone already!" The dispatcher stayed on the line with me for the entire 12 minutes it took for the police officers to arrive. I had images of the police finding me bloody and dead by the time they finally arrived. Finally the dispatcher told me to go out the front door and the officers would be waiting for me. I streaked through the house clutching my flashlight, threw open the front door, and ran out onto the porch.

Two of the officers went through the house, clearing every room and closet, while I waited outside. I stood on the porch, clutching my flashlight, my knees shaking, terrified of what they'd find. I couldn't catch my breath and my heart was still racing. Finally, the officers came out and told me that they didn't find anyone inside. "Are you serious?!?" I snapped. But no, there was no one else in the house. They asked me if maybe the television had turned itself on; I said no, that wasn't it. Two other officers came around from the backyard; they didn't find anything either. I was shocked and still scared. They had to have missed something. But the officers left, telling me to lock the doors and call back if I needed them again.

I went inside and locked the door. As I walked back toward my bedroom, I heard what sounded like white noise coming from my dining room. My laptop was sitting open on the table. I sat down at the table and woke the computer from sleep mode, and up popped my browser. It was tuned to the streaming kitten cam I'd been watching earlier in the day. I had a sinking feeling, and backed the video feed up by about 20 minutes. And there was the kittens' foster dad sitting in front of the camera, talking to viewers around the world about the litters of kittens he's fostered. It was the exact same voice I'd heard earlier. I had scared myself half to death and summoned four police officers to my home in the middle of the night because I'd left a kitten cam streaming on my computer.

Humiliated doesn't even begin to cover it.

Readers, if you take only one lesson away from this story, let it be this: friends don't let friends watch kitten cams. Period.

Ten Things I Learned from My Cat, or Goodbye to a Friend

For those of you living under a rock, my sweet little kitty Juliette died last Thursday. At 15 years old, she was well into her golden years. She had been in chronic kidney failure for at least a year and a half, and a few weeks ago I noticed she was eating less and losing weight again. I took her to her specialist who immediately did an ultrasound. She diagnosed Juliette with a kidney tumor that had metastasized throughout her abdomen. She prescribed steroids, but they had little effect. After several days of coaxing and pleading on my part, Juliette stopped eating and drinking entirely and slept almost all day long. She no longer purred when I pet her. I spoke with her regular vet, and we agreed it was time to let her go before she suffered any more or experienced any pain. It was a terribly sad decision and one I didn't want to ever have to make, but I couldn't justify keeping her around just so I could have her in my life for a few extra days. It simply wasn't fair to her. Her death was quick and peaceful.

Juliette came to me 8 years ago from a boyfriend who lived halfway across the country. He had five or six cats in his house at the time (a sign in and of itself) and at 7 pounds she was the runt of the bunch. She was bullied by the other cats and afraid of virtually everything, so she lived on top of a kitchen cabinet that was beneath the access to the attic. Her food and water were on top of the cabinet with her, and when she wanted to go out she bumped her head against the access panel and went up and out through the attic; she waited on top of the carport for him to bring her inside when she was done. Essentially out of sight and therefore out of mind, she got very little attention. But I thought she was adorable, so one day I climbed a footstool and reached for the far corner of the cabinet where she was huddled and petted her just a little. I created a monster. From then on, any time I was in the room she stood on top of her cabinet and meowed incessantly until I got a stool and climbed up to pet her. She was still skittish, though, and would retreat to the farthest corner for several minutes before she'd finally let me pet her. Eventually she trusted me enough to let me pet her readily, and after a couple weeks I started bringing her down from the cabinet and taking her into a secluded bedroom for an hour or two at a time, trying to acclimate her to life on the ground. Slowly, she began to trust me and let me hold and pet her without hesitation.

My then-boyfriend and I agreed that she'd do much better in a single-cat household, so I flew her back to Austin with me. Once I let her out of her carrier and she cautiously prowled the apartment to confirm she was, indeed, the only cat around, she began to blossom into an entirely different cat. She explored. She played. She stopped looking for high spots when she was scared. She claimed windowsills and chairs and pillows as her own. She was friendly with everyone who came over, demanding petting and affection like she was making up for lost time. Over the years we shared two apartments, one half of a duplex, and a house. She was there when I left to get married, and she was still there when I came home from getting divorced. She was my constant companion during most of my twenties and into my thirties, and through what I now call some of my most formative experiences. She was my friend.

I am extraordinarily sad without her. I hear sounds that trick me into thinking she's trotting down the hall, and I look at her favorite spots and still expect to see her sitting there. I was handling her collar and the tags clinked together, a familiar sound that made me turn my head and look for her. It's worst when I first wake up in the morning or right before bed, when I have to omit steps in my old routine and am acutely aware that she's gone. No more feeding her, leaving the bathtub faucet dripping for her, or cleaning her litterbox. 

But I'm also so grateful to have had her in my life. Like many pets, she loved unconditionally. She always wanted to be close to me and followed me from room to room. She was affectionate and playful. She was a great companion for the eight years I had her in my life, and despite all the sadness I feel right now, I wouldn't trade a single day I had with her to escape it.

   
I've never really had to grieve a loss like this before. Although several of my grandparents have died, I wasn't especially close to any of them once I moved to Texas. I saw them once or twice a year at best. But I saw Juliette every day, and I cared for her. We loved each other in our own ways. The grief feels so heavy and foreign and I'm not sure how to navigate it. In the moments when I'm able to think about her without falling to pieces, I remember that having her in my life made it better in so many ways. The best way I know to memorialize her is to share that with the world. And so, without further ado, I give you Ten Things I Learned from My Cat.

1. Don't be stingy with your affection.
If there was one quality that defined Juliette more than any other, it was the total abandon with which she desired and doled out affection. When anyone walked into the room, especially a new person, it was time to rub on them and snuggle them and head butt them while they petted her. She expected you to lavish the love on her, and in exchange she did the same. She kneaded strangers' tummies and rubbed on their faces and purred her happy little head off the entire time. She gave love freely, and in exchange she got it back in equal measure. We should all be so lucky.

2. Ask for what you want.
And don't take no for an answer. You can start by asking for it gently, like Juliette did: reaching out and gently laying a paw on my arm, scratching lightly, until I turned and petted her. If that doesn't work, step it up a notch: say (or meow) something. If that goes unheeded, get louder (because obviously they didn't hear you). If Juliette felt like playing in the middle of the night, she'd bring one of her toys into the bedroom and yowl loudly until I finally woke up. No matter how many times I took the toy away and stowed it away somewhere out of reach, she'd repeat the performance another evening. She never got her way, but she knew it didn't hurt to ask.

"It's not begging unless you're desperate."

3. Forget about the bad stuff ASAP.
One of the benefits of having a smaller brain is having a shorter memory. Juliette's short memory meant she quickly forgot about the times I accidentally stepped on her tail, or kicked her out of her favorite spot on the couch, or even left her at the vet overnight when she was sick. If something didn't continue to affect her daily life, she didn't continue to remember it. I imagine that not hanging onto the little bad things made her life much more worry-free.

4. Never, ever do anything you don't want to do unless you absolutely have to.
Claws are good for a lot of things, but some of their best uses include hanging onto furniture for dear life when someone tries to move you somewhere you don't want to go and shredding someone's arms when they're trying to dose you with medicine you don't want to take. Juliette never saw any good reason to do anything she didn't want to do, and as a result she spent the vast majority of her time doing everything she loved: napping, lazing in sunbeams, getting petted, and playing with her toys. While I know I can't completely shirk my responsibilities, spending a little less time shrugging off the things I don't care for would probably improve my quality of life quite a bit.

5. There is no such thing as too many naps.
Juliette understood the power of a good, solid nap. On the windowsill, on the bed, in a chair, or on a pillow, she knew that naps were good for the soul. I followed her example and indulged in my own semi-regular naps, sometimes with her. At the end, she'd crawl under the covers, snuggle up next to my stomach, and purr until she finally fell asleep.

6. Sharing is overrated, unless you want someone else to do it with you.
Your favorite spot is your favorite for a reason, and since you only have one favorite spot, you can't share it without losing it for yourself. The easy solution is not to share it. It's yours, you claimed it first, and you're keeping it. But if you see someone eating a little bit of cheese you'd like to eat, or snuggling under a blanket that looks like it'd be awfully warm around you, there's absolutely no reason you shouldn't insist they share it with you. And if they won't share it? Just steal it. That'll teach 'em.

"Your pillow? What do you mean this is your pillow? Finders keepers, loser."

7. There's nothing as tasty as a cool drink of water. Or salmon. Or bread. Or ice cream. Or cheese. Pretty much anything, really.
Juliette was a girl who had her priorities in order when it came to food. First, she was a carb fiend: flour tortillas, baked goods, and most especially, breads. Any kind of bread was fine, but specialty breads were best: challah, babka, and a good French bread were top notch. She would meow and paw at me until I finally tore off a tiny piece and put it at her feet, and when she was done with that she'd meow and paw until she got some more. The same thing was true with cheese: in her final days, bits of melted cheese that I pulled off my quesadilla were the only thing she would eat. Canned salmon and tuna were reliable favorites, and she absolutely loved to lick my ice cream bowl clean. But really, nothing could ever compare with fresh water, dripping straight from the faucet. Juliette knew what she liked and she took every opportunity to get her paws on it through begging, coercion, or just plain adorableness.

8. A girl can never have too many shoes.
This one really ought to go without saying. Juliette loved shoes - the stinkier the better. She sniffed them and rubbed on them and sometimes she even slept with them. One time she even took her favorite toy and stuck it in one of my sandals. 

9. Cleanliness is next to goddessliness.
Like many cats, Juliette was fastidious when it came to hygiene. She kept her coat clean, shiny, and fluffy. Her paws were usually litter-free and her claws were sharp. And Juliette made hygiene a priority: she wasn't above plopping herself down in the middle of the hallway, leg up in the air in some sort of feline yoga pose, and cleaning herself whenever she saw the need. Juliette knew that while appearances may not be everything, they're definitely worth keeping up.

10. Celebrate the little things.
Like pooping. Sometimes when Juliette would finish in her litterbox, she'd sprint from the bathroom, around the corner, through the bedroom, across the hallway, and leap onto her cat tree, where she would scratch on the post excitedly. She'd pooped! She'd pooped! Oh happy day, she had pooped! Sometimes, it's the little victories of everyday life (like still having control of our bowels) that we need celebrate to remind ourselves that life is good.

I miss Juliette every day, but I also love remembering her. I'll never be able to replace her, but I can celebrate her life and the time we had together. 

Goodbye my dear, sweet Juliette. You were an amazing friend, and I love you with all my heart.

Down But Not Out

I've been a little AWOL lately, here and elsewhere. I haven't been feeling like myself - I'm not sleeping at night but sleeping plenty during the day, my mind is racing near constantly, and I frequently want to stab otherwise perfectly pleasant people with the nearest screwdriver. At first I blamed it on PMS because the timing was right, but PMS doesn't last for weeks. It took a little wake-up call before I could be honest with myself: my depression is breaking through, and I'm not managing it well.

I've written about my experiences with depression before. It's a life-long condition - a chronic disease, some would say - for me, and I'm lucky that it's usually well-managed with medication and a counselor who's not afraid to tell me when I'm completely full of shit. Most of the time, I don't even have to think about it. But once or twice a year it rears its ugly head, usually when there's a confluence of events that stack up like dominoes and fall in perfect succession. This time, work stuff and volunteer stuff and personal stuff all got their punches in. My bosses canceled a project I was really invested in, making me realize that their priorities don't match up with mine and that I probably don't have a rock star future in that office. That same day I got news that I'd been passed over for a volunteer position I really wanted, leaving me feeling disappointed and unappreciated. I haven't been able to progress in roller derby because my shoulder refuses to heal. My 15-year-old cat who's in kidney failure, Juliette, has been eating less and sleeping more lately, leading me to believe the end is approaching. And I recently started a new relationship with an awesome guy whom I really like, but the uncertainty of where it might go and what he thinks of me is wracking my nerves and leaving me twisted up in knots. The end result of all this is that my anxiety is through the roof and every minor irritation puts me more on edge. I'm an angry, irritable, moody, exhausted basketcase.

The worst of it all is the anxiety. I'm constantly trying to manage everything around me, and worrying about everything I can't manage. I grasp at superficial ways to control things: pushing my manager to define my workload for the upcoming year, asking the awesome guy to define our relationship too soon, offering Juliette four or five different foods in the hopes that she'll eat enough of one or any of them to stay over five pounds. When all that doesn't "fix" things, I start to consider the only real pieces of control I have: considering quitting my job, resigning my volunteer position, not showing up to roller derby practice, and quitting seeing the awesome guy all together. It's ridiculous, because none of those are what I really want, but the out-of-control feeling the anxiety is produces is so uncomfortable that they start to look like attractive options.

A far smarter (and funnier) woman than me pointed out that depression lies. It makes me think that things are far more dire than they are, but worse, it makes me believe that being in control is the answer to my problems. Intellectually, I know that being in control wouldn't fix everything, but emotionally, I believe that it would. I just can't believe that being in control wouldn't make everything better.

So right now I cling to the following words, and repeat them to myself over and over and over again, hoping they'll finally take: 

"No matter what happens, in control or not, everything will be okay."

Whether I get to do the big project I fell in love with or not. Whether I serve at one level or another in an organization. Whether people listen to my opinions and take my advice or not. Whether he calls or not. It will all be okay. I will still wake up in the morning (or afternoon, because let's be honest), and I will still have the same friends who love me, and I will still be able to make ice cream and write and roller skate, even if I don't do any of it as well as or under the exact circumstances I want. 

I will be okay.

I try to breathe and believe that, because I have to ride this wave out, and it's the only thing that will get me through.

Third Eye Blind

I do a fair amount of complaining about my job (all completely legitimate, of course). It's moments like this one that make it worth showing up every day:

Me: "I'm sorta ready to stab someone in the eyeball."

Sarah (the Awesomest Coworker Ever): "I wish I had a spare eyeball for you."

That's true love, my friends.