Pinster

I remember months and months (possibly years) ago, I noticed a couple of friends using Pinterest.  I casually clicked through, saw a picture, and had no idea what was going on.  Like any truly curious soul, I completely ignored it.  I had enough going on just trying to keep up with random Facebook changes.

A couple of weeks ago, Pinterest shows up again, this time with friends.  Lots of friends.  I’d requested an invitation months back and received a thoughtful and sincere automated e-mail saying that one day I’d be worthy, but not anytime soon.  Since I have no pride, I begged an invite from a friend who was already registered.  I logged in, saw more pictures, and still had no idea what was going on.

Hmmm.

Thankfully Joe Waters  (http://selfishgiving.com/) decided to host a Pinterest-based contest:  create a board called “Causes I Love Contest”, add whatever you like, however you like.  He would judge them and the winners would get valuable cash, prizes, and puppies.  I’m kidding about the puppies. Maybe.

“I can do this!” I thought to myself.  I’ve always been an optimist.  I’ll spare you the torment of rising tension and suspense and tell you that I didn’t win (I didn’t even place. Not that I’m bitter.), but I DID learn a lot.  The most important lesson appears to be if you want me to learn something quickly, your best bet is a contest.  I also learned that I have the self-awareness of a spatula, since until now I’ve always considered myself to be very anti-competition.

Anyway, off I went, pinning my little heart out.  I pinned recipes and craft ideas and hair styles and beauty tips and books and music and geeky stuff.  It’s addicting, I’m not going to lie.  I’m sure there are a zillion posts about the mechanics of how to do it without being socially awkward, but it’s always nice to have someone to laugh at.  I mean with.  Look, sometimes you just have to jump in and give it a try.

A friend of mine who really doesn’t care for Facebook took to Pinterest like a duck to water.  Only she calls it Pinster, and now I’ll bet you will, too.

I’ve tried several recipes with mixed success.  The smoothie was the best, but it blew up my blender, so that was kind of a good news, bad news scenario.  The bread wasn’t bad.  The “no-heat-curl” tutorial ended in complete disaster, but did make me laugh until I cried.  And while my hair wasn’t going in the intended direction (nor was it technically “curly”), I can’t deny that it achieved the kind of volume I’d only ever dreamed of previously.

So far the most popular pins I’ve posted:

• 10 Canine Commandments
• Neil Gaiman’s “The Day the Saucers Came”
• “He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” by Yeats
• A picture of The Tick
• “The Bark Side” VW commercial
• Allan Rickman’s “Always” quote from Harry Potter
• A recipe for skillet macaroni and cheese
• Shawshank Redemption film poster (accompanied by Red’s opera quote)
• Anything from houzz.com (trust me on this one)
• A photo of Bruce Campbell’s Cream of Darkness Soup

I’d love to draw some deep, insightful conclusions from this extensive data set, but let’s be serious: of far greater concern is that fact that one person pinned this wildly erratic array of images. Ah, Pinterest!

So if you want to experience the awesomeness of my boards (or more accurately, witness firsthand the evidence of a deeply confused mind), you can find me at http://pinterest.com/mickeygomez/.

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Photo credits:  Vintage Spatula by GranniesKitchen on Flickr, Creative Commons Attribution License; Bruce Campbell’s Soup from Blastr 

Eye of who?!

In light of recent political events, it occurred to me that a certain type of small aquatic amphibian might need a bit of a PR boost.

Newts already have it tough.  Ever since Shakespeare, folks have been trying to use their eyeballs in potions.  They shared their name with a doomed character in the movie Aliens.  J.K.Rowling used the letters to stand for “Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test”, and who likes tests?  Really, they’ve been in need of some positive public relations for quite some time.

I happen to like newts.  So while people can be forgiven for confusing them with the man of the same name running for the GOP candidacy, I thought I’d give them a little help:

“I am a small aquatic amphibian, and I approve of this message.”

Remembering Indy

Please be advised that this is a self-indulgent post, meant to chronicle the life of a good dog. It is long. It contains many pictures. You have been warned.

We had to say goodbye to Indy, Adventure Dog last Friday morning.  He was 8 years old, and we’d only had him for 16 months or so.  It’s hard to believe he’s gone – I don’t want to believe he’s gone.  For such a little guy, he sure left a mighty hole in my heart.

His previous owner couldn’t keep him, and the day that we first learned about him is the same day that we welcomed him into our house and our hearts. Our dog Sophie, who we’ve had since she was a puppy, is also a rescue dog.  She’s about to turn 11, and we’d wanted to get her a companion for quite awhile, but the “right” dog never came along. Until Indy.

He was the sweetest dog I’ve ever known.  He was patient, and quiet, and content to be in the background until you had time to acknowledge him. I’d often look up from doing something to find him silently watching me with his gentle eyes.  Although he didn’t love loud noises, he’d often “help” me vacuum by following me through the house and simply being present as I cleaned.  I referred to him as my silent Greek chorus of one.  Sophie (who, let’s be honest, can be a little on the jealous side) often barked at him as a not-so-subtle reminder of who was the boss.  And Indy didn’t care at all.  He’d just sit there, content to be nearby.  I’d often remind Sophie, “You know, there’s enough love for both of you.”  And there was.

We often referred to him as spatially challenged.  He’d try to give you a paw and accidentally swat you in the nose, or the eye.  When you’d toss him a gummy bear (his favorite snack), he’d invariably open his mouth (or close it) at exactly the wrong time.  Peanuts, crackers, biscuits would bounce off of his head.  If you gave him a treat from your hand, though, he take it so gently you barely felt it.  He could be a restless sleeper.  His paws would race, and when he snored he sounded like Curly from the Three Stooges – whoop whoop whoop whoo whoo.

I miss the feeling of him curled behind my legs when I’m sleeping.  When we first got him, he didn’t want to get up on the bed.  We’d wake up in the middle of the night looking for him, only to find him all alone on his dog bed in the office.  We’d entice him back up to the bedroom – happily he figured it out quickly.  After that, he’d always be on the bed, whether it was time to sleep or just keeping one of us company.  He’d lay there quietly, watching or snoozing in the sunshine.

He’d often wake me up by just staring into my face, softly breathing.  I’d wake up, and he’d look hopeful – is it time to get up yet?  Sometimes it wasn’t, and he’d wander back down to the foot of the bed.  Sometimes he simply couldn’t contain himself, and I’d feel his tail wagging through the mattress.  I’d look at him, he’d stop, and then whump whump whump it would start again.  When the time came to get up, he’d jump from the bed and bounce into the hallway, front end down, back end up, tail wagging so hard you could barely see it, then zoom down the stairs like he just couldn’t WAIT for the day to start.

He rarely barked, but when he did, he’d give his gruff little woof, look back over his shoulder, tail wagging with delight as if to say, “Did you hear THAT?!”

He was the happiest dog I’ve ever known.  Just being around him filled me with a simple joy.  He could amuse himself playing with a favorite toy, shaking it and flinging it only to pounce on it then shake it some more.  Indy LOVED sticks, could reduce even a big one into tiny pieces in a matter of minutes.  Sophie enjoyed barking at Indy while he was playing, so much so that she earned herself the nickname of “the fun police”.

Indy was a talker.  When he yawned, sometimes, he’d make a noise halfway through and end up sounding like Axl Rose – AH-oooh! He’d make little grunts and groans.  He loved to wiggle – there were times when we had to moderate his wiggling, in fact.  He’d stretch out on the carpet and drag himself forward with his front paws – a position that we laughingly referred to as “junk rubbing”.  He’d often put his front right paw on your arm, just set it there and look at you.

He loved rolling in the grass in the backyard.  When we first got him, he’d go outside, do his business as fast as possible then race back to the door.  As he got to know us, he’d spend time rolling in the grass, zipping around in dizzying laps or just laying in the sunshine.

Whenever Sophie would race outside after a squirrel, Indy would fly after her.  Since he was faster than she was, he’d invariably crash right into her butt, at which point she’d whirl around and bark at him.  He was just learning what a squirrel was, and that it was “the enemy”.  Whenever he came back inside – rain or shine – he’d sit on his little rug by his favorite book shelf and wait for you to dry his paws.  He LOVED having his paws dried.  We’d fuss over his paws even if they were dry as dust, asking, “Whoa, Indy, were you swimming out there or what? How did your paws get so wet?” And he’d sit there, grinning and wagging.

When you were sitting on the couch, he’d come up and lean his head on your knee, even though most of the time it meant that his head was bent almost sideways.  Sometimes he’d lay down at your feet and, often as not, lay his head across a foot, or simply lay there touching you.

We’d often think he was going to break his tail with his wagging, or that his butt was going to lift off the ground. Thump thump thump thump.  You could feel it through the house.

His favorite spots were his dog beds in the office, under my desk, the living room by the bookshelf, the sofa or the window, and the bedroom upstairs.  He’d just learned to get up on the couch, earning him the new nickname Mister Couch.  Prior to that he’d pull this hysterical move where he’d jump up with front legs only, back legs firmly on the ground.  Once he jumped into the back of the mini-van – he was so worried we were going to leave him home – slammed into the back of the rear seat and collapsed into a boneless heap on top of a cooler, tail wagging feebly to reassure us that he was okay.  Indy dog made me smile each and every day, and laugh out loud in delight more times than I can count.  There will never be another Indy.

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When his end came, it came FAST.  We’d expected to have years with him, you see.  He was only 8, we took great care of him, and we loved him beyond all reason.  But he got cancer, a horrible, ugly, malignant sarcoma that took him from us so fast that it’s almost a blur.

I don’t like to think about how long he might’ve lived with symptoms that we couldn’t see.  He was the bravest dog, and so courageous that it wouldn’t surprise me to know that it was for longer than I can even imagine.  And that breaks my heart.

This is a dog, mind you, who once shredded the skin off the top of his own nose trying to get outside to go to the bathroom one day when we were at work.  He ALWAYS wanted to be a good dog, and you know what? He was. He was the best dog.

We took him to the vet’s two weeks ago because he’d been throwing up.  Our vet gave us medicine to help his digestion and relax his tummy, and it worked for a few days.  That Thursday I took him back in because he’d thrown up twice the night before, and gave the vet permission to do exploratory surgery because the x-rays still looked strange.  The vet found telescoping bowels, and in the section he was forced to remove, he found a gigantic, tennis ball sized mass.  He told us how lucky we were – the mass was contained, there were no tumors in the area, and the mass had sealed his bowel, so waiting even a short time would’ve meant necrotic death for his bowels and thus death for him.  Our vet sent it to be biopsied.

Indy looked like he was completely on the mend, all the way up until Tuesday, when he didn’t want to eat again.  I figured maybe it was a little set-back – I mean, up until then he’d been doing amazingly well, even bouncing around a little (although we tried to limit that because we were afraid of him messing up his stitches).

Wednesday morning I woke up to find him staring at me in bed.  It would be the last time he was able to be on the bed.

I fussed over him – I was always fussing over him, calling him a Silly Old Man, or Mister Bounce, or Indy Dog, or Littlest Man and petting him or hugging him or giving him kisses.  You have no idea how thankful I am for that, although, of course, you always feel like you could have done more.

How could I possibly know that we had to fit that much love into such a short time?

I let him out back, and he tried to go to the bathroom then staggered to the side, collapsing in his favorite spot in the yard, right in the middle of three trees.  He lay there, head high, a thousand yard stare gazing into the forest behind the house.  I thought he was dying – it turned out he was dying – and somehow I managed to get him into the car and to the vet’s.

They opened him up a second time.  You see, sometimes when they remove a mass that large – one that we discovered on that day was so incredibly malignant – it opens the floodgates and let’s the cancer take off.  My husband and I made the difficult decision that if the vet found Indy riddled with cancer when he went back in, we didn’t want to wake poor Indy back up.  We spent every second in that room with him – from the time we got there until they took him into surgery again – telling him want a good dog he was, how much we loved him, and that if it was his time to go, he should go and not worry about us.

He made it through this second surgery.  It turned out the sutures had torn and a small amount of toxins had been seeping out.  What great news!  We could recover from this, although it wouldn’t be easy.  We were over the moon!  No sign of cancer.

Indy looked tired but happy when we picked him up Wednesday night.  His tail was wagging, he went into his favorite bed in the office and slept peacefully.  He wouldn’t eat, though.

I slept downstairs with him, me on the couch, him on the floor next to the couch.  My hand was resting on his back each time I woke up.

I took him into the vet on Thursday for monitoring, and we were told we could pick him up at 7.  He didn’t look as great, but I thought, you know, he’s been through a LOT, poor little guy.  You’ve gotta be patient.

I don’t want to write much about Thursday night, except to say that even though it was sheerest torment to see what my poor dog was enduring, his ears were alert and he wagged his tail every time he saw one of us.

He wagged his tail.  Do you have any idea what kind of unconditional love makes you wag your tail when you are going through that kind of pain?  It was like he knew the end was racing towards him, and he was happy just to be spending his final moments with us.

He couldn’t walk, in the end.  We had to carry him on a folding table to the van to get him back to the vet’s.  They could barely stabilize him long enough for us to say goodbye.  The cancer had gotten him, you see.  It was killing him from the inside out.  His systems were failing.  When the vet told us – and I’d been hoping against hope that there was something he could do, anything – I felt like someone had reached into my chest and ripped out my heart.  Then they’d crushed it, and set it on fire and scattered the ashes into a strong, cold wind.

Saying goodbye to my littlest guy, holding him and hugging him and kissing him and petting him while he slipped away, was agonizing, but something we had to do.  We HAD to be there with him at the end.

He was a loyal dog, a sweet dog, a gentle dog.  Indy was full of love – he was overflowing with unconditional love, no strings attached.  He existed to be near you, and to love you, and to be happy.

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We could all learn a lot from Indy dog.  Keep wagging until the very end.  Be happy.  Live in the moment.  Give love with no strings attached.  Be optimistic.  Try new things.  Have fun.  Race around the yard.  Be open to love, because you never know where you’re going to find it.

I had a hard time dealing with losing him.  I know that life isn’t fair – I’ve known this for a long time – but watching a sweet, innocent, loving dog meet such a fast and nasty end shook me to my core.  We were so unbelievably lucky to have him in our lives – far, far luckier than I ever deserved – but I can’t help but feel that we were robbed.  That we should’ve had more time with him – that we deserved it and he deserved it.

I look around this home and I realize how empty it feels without Indy here.  I look for him in his favorite places.  I think that he’s just out of sight, that if I call his name, he’ll come racing to my side to cheer me or comfort me or just be there.  I see his muddy pawprints on the folding table we used as a ramp for him to get into the car without straining his stitches.  I see the padded basket that we used just once to raise him into the car.  I see his soccer ball sitting, abandoned, in the middle of the backyard and it makes me cry, every single time.  I stumble on his favorite toy, or glimpse his empty bowls.  I look up at dinner time, straining to see his one eye peeking at me from the other side of my husband’s chair.  I walk out of the bathroom and swear that I see him, just for a moment, laying on the bed, patiently waiting for a look, or a word, or a pat.  I refuse to wash a sweater covered with his hair.  I carefully listen, hoping to hear his tail thumping against the wall just outside the kitchen doorway, waiting for a gummy bear.

It took about a day for Sophie to realize that her little brother wasn’t coming home.  They were never really peas and carrots, but I can tell that Sophie misses the hell out of him.  She has far too much yard to patrol now, and the squirrels are getting bold.  There’s no back up to help remind us that it’s food time.  There’s no one to bark at during playtime.  She’s stuck trying to cheer us up all alone.

I don’t know that I’ll ever entirely get over the loss, but then I think, you know what?  That’s okay.  He deserves to be remembered, and you have to take the good with the bad, right?  There’s one thing I do know.  There are so many dogs out there – sad, lonely, abandoned, scared – that need a forever home, just like our Indy dog did.  I also know that I’m going to miss out big time if I let this stop me from getting another dog.  It would be the worst insult to Indy’s memory that I can think of if I didn’t share my life and love with another dog in need.  It will take time, though, for the pain to pass and the healing to start.

There will never be another Indy, Adventure Dog.

But we have to keep on wagging, just the same.

Objects in Mailbox Larger than they Appear

We’re not great at checking our mail.  It’s delivered in one of those boxes on the corner – you know, the kind intended to ‘build community’ by encouraging everyone to chat while gathering the latest appeals to change wireless providers?  In the six plus years we’ve lived here, I’ve run into neighbors at the mailbox exactly twice.

Ours is conveniently located in a low area that attracts water, which provides the added recreational challenge of navigating a swamp-in-training for the privilege of recycling the latest Pennysaver.

One of my favorite features of these mailboxes is the determination of the occasional mail delivery person, in direct defiance of the laws of physics, to wedge any package smaller than a washing machine into a space about the size of a shoebox.  They could teach Chris Angel a thing or two about technique.

Today I went to the mailbox to discover what I thought was a JC Penney catalogue, circa 1980. I wrestled it out, quite literally wedging a foot against the front of the box for leverage.  Were they mailing phone books now?

It was a catalog.  A 615 page catalog.

I couldn’t imagine what company, in this day and age, would think that a 615 page mailer would be a lucrative and successful marketing decision.

The answer?  Restoration Hardware.

I’ve been in the store several times.  I don’t know when I lost my mind and decided that it would be a good idea to give them my mailing address – I went through a mailing purge several years ago that only left a handful of retailers standing, after all.  Maybe once a year I’d receive a reasonably-sized catalog from them – never enough to set off any alarms.

Until today.

I wasn’t in the house for 5 minutes before I was on the phone, speaking with a customer service representative.

“How can I help you?”

“I’d like to be removed from your mailing list.”

“May I ask if you’ve decided to use a different company?”

“No, but I certainly don’t need 615 pages of soon-to-be-recycled catalog.”

Now, I am by no means Captain Sustainability, but I do try.  This mailing offended me on several levels.  First, the sheer waste.  Second, who can afford to produce and mail a catalog that large?  And if they can afford that, can I afford their products?  Third, I generally prefer to shop online, so if you want to appeal to me, send me a small mailing featuring select products that might tempt me onto your website.  Finally, I happen to enjoy reading, but even my mind boggles at the thought of leafing through 615 pages of merchandise.

The customer service representative, who was very kind and understanding, did say, “You know, you might want to stay on the list. You aren’t the first person we’ve heard this from, and I suspect there might be changes on the way.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, “but excess like this demands a response.”  I’m such an activist.

So there you go.

Am I a marketing professional?  Nope.  But I also don’t think my perspective is that unique.  Then again, maybe it is. You could argue that I’m clearly not their target audience, and you’d be right.

The good news is that next time I go to the mailbox to get my latest invitation to switch to Comcast, it won’t require a degree in spatial mathematics, a lever and a small black hole.  It most likely will, however, still require wading boots.

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Photo credit:  Some rights reserved by The Rocketeer

 

Driving While Driving

It’s a gorgeous sunny day, not too hot. I get in my car, roll the windows down and back out of the driveway.

I make it almost four houses up the street when a boy on a bike zips out into the road from between two cars.

This isn’t going to be one of those dramatic “I managed to stand on the brakes and squeal to a stop with a centimeter left to spare” stories, just so you know. 

I saw him in plenty of time, mainly because I was paying attention.  I wasn’t on my cell phone, or texting anyone, or checking Facebook.  I wasn’t doing my nails or reading a book or ironing my clothes or playing the trombone, which are all evidently perfectly acceptable things to do while driving as long as you don’t get caught.

I also go pretty slowly on our street, because of Exhibit A above.  So I stop, and I watch him peddle away, totally oblivious in his Helmet of Indestructibility.

I wait.

A tiny head peeks around the end of one of the cars.  I can see one eyeball and part of a what I have to assume is the Helmet of Much-Smarter-than-the-Other-Kid, because this one isn’t taking any chances.  A little hand extends in the universal sign of “Go ahead.”   I motion back, “No, you.”

He wobbles out, gaining confidence with each pedal stroke.  He carefully raises one hand to wave his thanks and shoots me a grin, turning his attention back to the road just in time to narrowly avoid crashing into a mailbox.

I still think the odds are in his favor.

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Flickr Photo credit: Some rights reserved by Stephen Mitchell.

Things That Go Moo in the Night

In second grade, we were told to find an American legend or myth, research it and write a report.  Simple enough.  One classmate picked Paul Bunyan.  Another chose Johnny Appleseed.  I went with the Headless Horseman.

I’ve always been intrigued by the mysterious.  You know, the things that you can’t quite explain.  The universe is a pretty big and complicated place, I reasoned.  Surely we can’t know EVERYTHING about it.  I am also cursed with a vivid imagination.  These qualities together formed an unholy alliance of stupid that has resulted in countless hours of lost sleep throughout my lifetime.

For years, it seemed, I’d go out of my way to find spooky stories, haunted houses and creepy movies.  I’d sit with my friends, laughing and laughing at the ridiculous people who would hear a noise and go investigate one by one until the only creature left was the dog (the only one interested in being in the sequel).

My cousin and I were convinced that our grandma’s house was haunted. It was a charming old two-story with high, painted tin ceilings and all manner of nooks and crannies and unfinished parts of the basement and attics.  We’d use the bathroom on the buddy system: one would go and the other would act as look-out.  One time, as my cousin was peeing,  I leaned back against the towel shelf and *whooomph!* – just like something out of Scooby Doo, the wall moved back and revealed a dark, dusty, hidden room.

To this day I remember the sight my cousin’s bare butt exiting the bathroom, and the sounds of her falling down the three stairs to the first landing because her legs had gotten tangled in her pants.  I figured it was only a matter of time until someone came to rescue me, so I tried not to panic.  Laying on my back, I looked around to see creepy, cobwebby old pictures in ornate frames propped against shadowy boxes. I whimpered. And I waited. And waited. And waited.  Finally, I dragged myself to my feet and staggered downstairs, covered in dirt and grime and spiders, only to find my cousin and the rest of the family calmly eating lunch.  “Where have you been?”, everyone asked, “We’re almost finished.”  So much for the cavalry.

It was all fun and games until I was home alone.  In fact, I didn’t even need to be home alone.  I could be in my room alone and still be convinced that someone (or something) was lurking in the attic, waiting until my breathing evened out and I just started to snore to sneak down the steps, one by one, ease open the attic door and…

“Look,” my dad would say.  “Do you really think someone snuck into the house and is waiting up in the attic for you to fall asleep?”

I’d nod.

“Melting in the hot attic, just waiting?”

I’d nod again.

“Do you think maybe you shouldn’t read those scary books?”

I’d shake my head.  “They have nothing to do with this,” I’d explain earnestly.

“Why don’t we go up in the attic and I’ll show you there’s nothing up there?”

“NO! Dad! That’s EXACTLY what they want us to do! Don’t you watch movies?!”

He’d sigh.  If there were a lifetime award for patience, my dad would get it hands down.  I must’ve woken him up 10 billion times throughout my childhood, convinced some psycho killer was biding his time, playing solitaire in the basement or a demonic beast was dozing fitfully in the closet, prepared to pounce and swallow me right down to my bunny slippers as soon as I opened the door.

I used to create elaborate, Rube Goldberg-like traps for unwary criminals seeking to gain access to my room.  I’d position a hairbrush on the floor just inside the window (in my mind, people with sinister intent didn’t wear shoes so they’d be quieter when sneaking in).  The bad guy would step on the hairbrush and fall forward to be impaled on the horn of my unicorn statue.  To me, this was the height of ingenuity and, of course, completely foolproof.

Once my friends and I started driving, we’d cruise around the backroads listening to music.  One night my friend Ellen and I found a great hill in a quiet subdivision.  She accelerated, crested the top of the hill, came down on the other side, and then…

CLAP!

We glanced at each other, then returned our eyes to the road.

“Did you hear that?” Ellen asked.

“Yes.”

“What do you think it was?”

“It sounded like someone clapping in the backseat.”

We continued to stare forward.  Ellen turned towards home.

“You should check the backseat,” she suggested.

“I’m not checking the backseat!” I said. “If someone is sitting in the backseat clapping, he’s probably just waiting to kill the first person who turns around.”

We both thought about this for awhile.  This seemed perfectly reasonable to us.

“Well,” Ellen said. “I can’t turn around and check.”  Even I had to admit, she had a point.  So I steeled myself, took a deep breath, whirled around and…

Nothing.

“There’s nothing in the backseat, El.”

“Hmmm.”

We pulled into my driveway.  My parents had forgotten to leave on the front light.  The yard was heavily wooded, and the wooden steps had slats in them, perfect for someone lurking beneath to reach out and grab your ankle if you weren’t fast enough.  Once the sun went down my feet never touched a single step, I could leap straight onto the porch from the front path without even thinking about it.

As I opened the car door, I said, “El, you might want to check the trunk before you leave.”  I jumped out of the car and made for the house.

“Get back here right now! You have to help me check.”  She was right.  I slouched back to the car.

In order to have some light, we wedged Ellen’s car door open with a tin can that sounded like a cow when you turned it over.  We both stood next to the trunk.

“On three: one, two, three!”  We threw the hatch open, the car lurched forward, the door slammed, the light went out.  Something let out a terrible cry:

MoooOOOOOoooooOOO!

We screamed, teleported through the front door and had multiple mental meltdowns in the living room.  Once my father confirmed that there was no rabid, clapping cow in the trunk of Ellen’s car, she shakily left for home.  I was grounded on general principle.

I don’t read nearly as many scary books anymore, although I’m still a fan of Stephen King.  My fascination with horror films ended rather abruptly when I started itching with a bad case of poison ivy during a movie about a flesh eating virus. I spent the next week convinced I was a goner.

Maybe there is enough scariness in the world without seeking it in books and movies. Perhaps there are times and places for a vivid imagination.  It could be that I’ve run out of elaborate trap ideas, or that I’m afraid of turning around one day only to be confronted by the rabid, clapping cow.

Or maybe I just enjoy a good night’s sleep.

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Photo credits: Headless Horseman: Some rights reserved by ErinSlick1; Bathroom: Some rights reserved by NJ Tech Teacher; Scary cow:  Some rights reserved by Stuart Chalmers

Increasing the Volume

I’m going to be a bridesmaid in my cousin’s wedding.

I’m pretty excited, as you can imagine.  She picked out gorgeous bridesmaid dresses, in direct defiance of tradition.  The fabric doesn’t look like upholstery.  It’s not electric blue.  It doesn’t lace up on the outside like Wonder Woman’s bustier.  It’s fluttery, flattering, a lovely color, and firmly in the “will wear again” category.

And it’s strapless.

There are many phrases that describe me, some of which could even be said in polite company, but the phrase “amply-endowed” is not one of them.  In light of this, I’ve never been a huge fan of strapless anythings, mainly because I am not a huge fan of flashing friends, family, and total strangers as a result of simply exhaling.

Last week I went for my alteration fitting.  I changed and went out to stand next to a bride, who was also getting fitted.  She was covered in swaths of fabric and looked lovely.  I looked like a stick insect in a handkerchief.  The seamstress came out, eyeballed me critically from all angles, put pins up both sides and said, “Okay?”

“I just don’t want it falling off.” I explained.

“Falling off?”

“You know.” I mimed jumping up and down. “It’s not like I have a lot holding things up.  I was hoping maybe we could just staple it to my body for the ceremony.  Do you think that would work?”

“You’ll be fine.”  She patted my shoulder and left.

The bride had a friend there for moral support.  When I went to schedule the appointment to pick up my dress, she followed me out.

“Excuse me,” she said. “You know, if you’re really worried about it, there are ways for you to… increase the volume.”  She made a spinning motion next to her chest.

“Increase the volume?” I echoed stupidly.

“Yes,” she says, “increase the volume. Victoria’s Secret sells these bras with gel inserts.”

“Oh!”

Now I’m not a big fan of Victoria’s Secret, ever since they changed from chamber music, mahogany and brass to neon, excessive pink and club music.  Neon is no one’s friend in a dressing room.

“I appreciate it, but I’d be worried that it wouldn’t work.”  She looked skeptical.  “You know,” I explained, “the dress would still fall down only now I’d have my… increased volume flailing all over the place.”  I made an energetic spinning motion with both arms in front of my chest. “Thanks, though!”

Anyway, here’s hoping I don’t embarrass my cousin at her wedding, ample cleavage or not.

And that the ceremony doesn’t include jumping jacks.  Or excessive gravity.

Photo credits:  Some rights reserved By forgetfullo

One of the Lucky Ones

It had been a long week. I returned to my on-campus apartment after work and stretched out on the bed for a nap. I woke up at sunset to long bars of golden light streaming through the blinds, and to the feeling that I wasn’t alone.

He was sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me sleep. He smiled when I woke up, like I’d be delighted that he’d been clever enough to trick a janitor into letting him into my apartment. To this day I think that the flood of outrage and betrayal I felt are what saved me from anything worse. If I’d shown fear, there’s no telling what might have happened.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I said in my coldest voice, jumping up from the bed. He stood up, and I advanced, backing him towards the door. “Get out of here. Now!” I gestured impatiently towards the front of the apartment, raised my voice to a command. He stammered an apology, an explanation, but retreated all the same.

Once the door closed behind him I locked it and collapsed against it in tears. It wasn’t until a month later, when he banged on my door on and off for an hour and then sat there waiting for me to come out, that I was able to call the police, file a report and request a restraining order.

###

A different apartment, a couple of years later. It’s nighttime. My phone rings. It’s him. “Come to the window,” he says. I don’t want to, but oh-so-quietly I glide across the living room and peek through the blinds. He’s standing outside, backlit by the single flickering light in the alley, peering in. I call the police, but he leaves before they arrive. This escalating behavior along with the incredibly insane messages he’s left on my then-boyfriend’s phone are enough to warrant police action, but he leaves town before anything happens.

###

Ten years later. The phone rings. I pick it up – nothing. Just like the countless other times – morning, afternoon, middle of the night – that I’ve picked up the receiver to the deceptively simple sound of silence. We can’t change our number – an elderly relative will get confused if we get a new number. We’ve reported it to the police twice, and they dismissed it, so it’s pointless to try again. So I go outside with the dog in our isolated yard, wondering if someone is watching from the trees, wondering if she’s safe, if we’re safe, if I’m safe. Fortunately for me, he was doing the same thing to a woman in a different state. She was able to get a detective assigned to her case. When they finally caught him, they contacted me because my number showed up over and over again in his call records.

###

Three different men. I knew them all. The first had been a boyfriend, the second a friend’s ex-boyfriend, the third an acquaintance.

Stalking is no joke. It’s not flattering, or funny. It doesn’t show you care. It’s not romantic. It has nothing to do with love.

Stalking is about power, and fear, and intimidation. It’s about isolation, and hopelessness. It’s ugly, and sad, and pathetic.

There are times when I feel ashamed that I’ve been stalked three times, like there’s something that I’ve done to make it happen so often. Like it’s my fault. It’s certainly made me more cautious in my friendships – far more skittish and reluctant to trust. There are other times when I get angry – why me? Will it happen again?

And I’m one of the lucky ones.

This is why the 12for12k charity this month – Jodi’s Voice  – resonated so deeply with me. Jodi’s Voice is an organization dedicated to increasing awareness surrounding the crime of stalking and providing services for an estimated 3.4 million victims each year.

I wanted to share my story not to elicit pity, but rather to inspire others to action. If you or someone you know is in a situation like this, it’s not okay. Document everything. Report what you can. Be strong. Don’t be intimidated into silence.

I’ve shared the smallest taste of what it was like: the way your heart jumps when the phone rings or there’s a knock on the door, the horrible feeling of wondering if someone is watching, the helplessness and frustration of knowing that most of the time you have to wait for something truly bad to happen (to you or to someone you love) before anyone takes you seriously.

How can you help?

You can donate, write a blog post, share this blog post, raise awareness and help spread the call to action. More information is here: http://12for12k.org/jodisvoice/. Thank you.

Photo credits:
Some rights reserved by pangalactic gargleblaster and the heart of gold
Some rights reserved by massdistraction

Driving Music

A couple of weeks ago I was driving home from an evening event: windows down, cool breeze alternating with pockets of warm air left over from the summer-like day, heady scent of just-bloomed honeysuckle wafting in and out of the car.

Suddenly a song starts playing and I’m transported back to a summer during college, driving these same roads, and it’s like no time passed at all.

I take music pretty seriously.  Certain songs are more powerful even than scents in placing me inside a memory – a certain day, a certain place – it’s like I’m there.

I started considering driving music – what is it? How is it defined?  It’s not just a favorite song – I have plenty of favorite songs that I don’t consider to be “driving music”.  It’s not necessarily upbeat, or slow, or in-between.  Some are songs I know all the words to, the kind that beg me to sing-along.  Others call for reflective listening.  They vary based on mood: some evoke joy, some sadness, some nostalgia.  But I’ve noticed that there are certain songs in my music library that automatically call for windows down, arm outside, hand snaking up and down in the air currents no matter when I hear them.

Here they are, in no particular order:

Cuts You Up – Peter Murphy
Susquehanna Hat Company - Too Much Joy
Until I Fall Away – Gin Blossoms
Trail of Tears – Guadalcanal Diary
Bittersweet – Hoodoo Gurus
Take Back Everything – Salt Chunk Mary
ZZQ – Blue Mountain
In the Blood – Better Than Ezra
When You Were Young – The Killers
Recurring Dream – Crowded House
Thomastown – Not Drowning, Waving
Windfall – Sonvolt
Witchdoctor – Sidewinders
Wolf Like Me – TV on the Radio
Yesterday Girl – Smithereens
Wolves, Lower – REM
Girlfriend - Matthew Sweet
Solsbury Hill – Peter Gabriel
Windmills – Toad the Wet Sprocket
Wagon Wheel – Old Crow Medicine Show
Bedlam Bridge – Midnight Oil
Achin’ To Be – The Replacements
Dead Heart (alternate) – Midnight Oil
I’d Run Away – The Jayhawks
Love in a Trashcan – The Raveonettes
Cannonball – The Breeders
Darker Days – The Connells
Marker in the Sand – Pearl Jam
Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters – Elton John
Singing in My Sleep – Semisonic
Sun Gone Down – House of Freaks
Ain’t It Strange – Driving’ N Cryin’
Santa Maria Street – Sand Rubies
Nosebleed Section – Hilltop Hoods
Mighty KC – For Squirrels
I’m Not Over – Carolina Liar
Lone Star Song – Grant Lee Buffalo

Please feel free to add yours in the comments below. Thanks, and happy listening!

Photo credit:  Some rights reserved by mallix

Book Review: The Future of Nonprofits

Book Review:  The Future of Nonprofits:  Innovate and Thrive in the Digital Age by David J. Neff and Randal C. Moss

When I was asked to review The Future of Nonprofits, I’ll admit that I was a little reluctant. I typically prefer to read and review fiction.  The information I use to stay current on nonprofit and volunteer trends comes from blogs, webinars, articles, workshops, podcasts, and a variety of sources and generally doesn’t include books.

I’ve worked in the nonprofit sector for years, though, both as a leader of small nonprofits and as a resource to nonprofits of all sizes.  I’ve observed recent trends in the sector and struggled to adapt, and I’ve watched others do the same.

As I started reading The Future of Nonprofits, a funny thing happened. I’d find myself referring to it in conversations, or working key points into discussions and presentations.  In fact, I’ve been recommending it to board members, community leaders, and local nonprofit staff, saying, “It’ll be available soon, you should definitely consider picking up a copy.”

What makes this book different from the gazillions of others written for nonprofits? It’s timely, it’s relevant.  It provides genuinely insightful and helpful advice, observations and strategies, scaled for nonprofits ranging from large to small.

• It explains the differences between strategic planning and “futuring”, and why future scanning is so crucial for nonprofit success.  For smaller organizations that might not have the resources to future scan, the authors suggest ways to create a nimble and flexible organization poised to quickly make the most of new trends.

• It scrutinizes business management strategies that nonprofits are beginning to use (Lean, Six Sigma and TQM) and it carefully considers which aspects could work for nonprofits and explains why others won’t.

• It offers case studies and interviews – many rooted in social media – as a means to gain a deeper understanding of the successful transition from idea to reality.

• It suggests people and organizations to watch and follow – sector leaders across a variety of platforms that will enable the reader to stay connected long after the book is finished.

• It provides concrete suggestions for embracing innovation from start to finish and removing barriers to implementation (favorites include sample job descriptions and interview questions targeting innovative qualities for staff members).

• It predicts trends for both nonprofit fundraising and communications. (Seriously worth the read for these alone.)

What doesn’t this book do?  It doesn’t bombard you with lofty ideas and leave you flailing around as you try to implement them (or, more likely, as you immediately get frustrated and give up).

The authors understand that one of the most difficult aspects of change is actually DOING IT. Neff and Moss acknowledge that creativity is important (and many nonprofits have developed successful systems for generating new ideas), “But the real leverage is in the back end: the ability to execute ideas. Ideas will only get you so far.”  (from The Future of Nonprofits).

There are only a couple of downsides to this book that I could find.  The first is that, while the authors intentionally tried to scale to a range of nonprofit sizes (and they did a great job), the process may seem overwhelming to smaller agencies.  I’d encourage smaller nonprofits to give it a chance, and to consider the fact that their very size may make them more nimble and better positioned to put some of the ideas into practice quickly and with a minimum of fuss.

The second is that some folks who could truly benefit from the book may not read it, or may dismiss it because much of The Future of Nonprofits challenges the, “This is the way we’ve always done things.” mentality.

“…as long as we hold onto our preconceived notions of what our constituents want and how they use our products and services, we will be forever tied to our existing offerings.”  (from The Future of Nonprofits)

As nonprofits, we need to embrace feedback.  Even better, we need to listen and learn where the gaps are and objectively think about ways to better serve our constituents.  We need to embrace change (or at least learn not to fear it).  And we can do this by trying our best to keep up, or we can choose to approach it strategically through some of the lessons shared in this book.

Is now the right time for innovation?  During a prolonged economic crisis?  Shouldn’t we hang on to our limited resources with both hands, and focus exclusively on providing core services?  According to Neff and Moss, this is exactly the wrong approach to take – first of all, what better time to embrace managed creativity than during challenging times? Second, it’s almost impossible to regain an environment that embraces innovation once it’s been stifled, even with the best of intentions.

In the words of the authors:

“The bottom line is this book is going to help your organization do more relevant things faster, less expensively, and drive key business metrics.” (from The Future of Nonprofits).

I couldn’t agree more.

More information on the book is here:  http://www.thefutureofnonprofits.com/

Quotes from the book used with permission for the purposes of this review.  Book cover image from Flickr, some rights reserved under Creative Commons.