Category Archives: life

Don’t feel like dancing?

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I don’t get the holiday blues.

I used to feel guilty about that, since I have known many people who do. Then one friend, who suffers from rather severe holiday depression, said that she wanted to hear about other people having a good time. “Just because I can’t enjoy it, doesn’t mean I want no one else to.”

My late husband, Ray, struggled with depression most of his life, but he couldn’t stand people who talked gloom and doom all the time. He was often a very happy person, which seems to contradict the previous sentence. He usually explained depression this way, “It’s not that I’m sad or glum all the time. It’s that, no matter how happy I am right now, no matter how well things are going, there’s this constant certainty deep inside that all of it will be taken away any second, now.” Depression is not a bad mood. Depression is not being down in the dumps. Depression is not a dread that things won’t go well. It is a certainty that bad things will happen. Because “bad things always do happen to me,” or “I don’t deserve good things,” or “I always mess things up,” and so on.

In my early teens a relative on Dad’s side of the family decided to tell me in great detail how many members of Mom’s side of the family had had nervous breakdowns. Back then, “nervous breakdown” was the term medical people would use to describe to laymen various acute mental disorders serious enough to impair a person’s day-to-day functioning, usually including the symptoms of anxiety and/or depression. It was usually assumed to be a temporary event triggered by stress. But this relative (who had almost a 19th Century attitude toward mental illness) was trying to convince me that that side of the family had a congenital mental defect. This whole thing happened as my parents’ marriage was breaking down, and I realized later it was a rather clumsy attempt to get me to tell the divorce judge I wanted to be placed in Dad’s custody.

One of the instances she cited was a great-uncle who served in the Marines in WWII (in the Pacific campaign) and who subsequently had a serious breakdown a few years after the war. Now I recognize that it was a classic instance of untreated post traumatic stress disorder, not necessarily indicative of any genetic pre-disposition.

Throughout my teens and well into my twenties, I would periodically have depressive states that I couldn’t shake for days for no apparent reason. Because of some other weird medical happenings when I was 17, and because one of my siblings was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I was evaluated. The verdict was that my issues were ordinary teen-age volatility, perhaps exacerbated by a higher-than-normal testosterone level (no one was more surprised than I at that last bit!).

Years later, when I finally came out of the closet completely, those periodic instances became much less severe. Since learning that men have hormone cycles, too (most just don’t want to admit it), I figured that those incidents had been a combination of ordinary hormones combined with all that anxiety, worry, and stress from trying to keep a big part of myself secret.

Plus, of course, I’m always deliriously (and annoyingly) bouncy and cheerful from Thanksgiving Day through New Year’s. As regular as clockwork, you could say.

After my late husband, Ray, was diagnosed with an incurable illness, as his body deteriorated before my eyes through rounds of chemotherapy and other treatments, those periodic moody periods became bad, again. And since his death, every year for a couple months—from approximately his birthday until the anniversary of his death—I’m moody and slightly more prone to feeling down.

Which is a long-winded way of saying that I understand that depression, mood disorders, or simply bad moods are neither simple nor trivial.

But I also understand that they don’t have to be the end of anyone’s story. It is often said that we can’t control how we feel. I think that’s an over simplification. We can’t completely control how we feel, but we can decide how we react to our feelings. We can find ways to channel them, to moderate them, to reinforce the ones we want to keep, and diminish the ones we don’t want.

I’m not saying it is easy. But I am saying we always have a choice. And even when the choices are between unpleasant options, there is always at least one that doesn’t involve lashing out.

So, if you don’t feel like dancing, that’s fine. Don’t dance. But also, don’t bitch at those who do.

Pipers must be paid

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I have issues with wish lists. I have said and written some stupid things about them.

Those things had more to do with my own baggage than anything else. Of course, you might ask, “How can someone have emotional baggage over the notion of wish lists?” The answer is: emotions are, by definition, non-rational. What seems trivial to you may be very painful for someone else.

My issues with wish lists are not that serious. I have this very unrealistic notion that if I care about someone enough to want to buy them a present, that I ought to know them well enough to pick something on my own. Never mind all the times I found myself at a loss for a good gift for my mom. Or something great for my husband. I know that the notion is unrealistic. I know that some of us are very hard to shop for. But whenever I go to browse someone else’s wish list, I feel guilty that I couldn’t come up with something on my own.

Other people have far more serious issues with things that many of us find innocuous. I’ve seen people driven into an uncontrollable rage—face red, unable to sit still, hands shaking with fury—over a particular novelty song, because it triggers memories of bad situations they were in where they felt endangered by another person. Or more accurately, because the song is making a joke out of a not uncommon situation where (sometimes) people suffer real harm.

Telling someone to “get over it” or “get a sense of humor” doesn’t solve anything. When we survive a bad situation, it leaves an impression. Stress causes physical changes in one’s brain which persist long after the stressor is removed. The more severe the situation, the greater the effect. When later situations trigger the memory—whether we are simply reminded of it or believe we may be in an identical situation—the brain reacts. Neurochemicals and hormones are released, and our bodies react.

You might as well tell a person going into anaphylactic shock due to a severe food allergy to “get over it.”

This isn’t to say we can’t undo any of the changes the stress has caused. Good experiences also make changes to the brain, and the right kind of reinforcement can help someone who has a severe reaction to certain triggers moderate the reaction. But it takes time and understanding.

As I said, not all issues are equal. My pointless wish list guilt isn’t debilitating, just annoying. I don’t know what causes it, precisely. I wouldn’t be surprised if, as a child, I had a bad experience picking out a gift for one of the more abusive/vindictive adults in my life back then. I don’t remember, all that remains is the feeling. If I have to resort to consulting someone’s wish list, I feel very guilty, with a vague sense of failure or inadequacy.

The crazy part is, when I am drawing a complete blank on someone, and then I discover that they have a wish list, I feel a great sense of relief. Reading such a list, I always discover things the person is interested in that I didn’t know before. And often it gives me ideas of things to get them in the future. So it’s a win all around!

Abuse, whether physical, emotional, verbal, or otherwise, always has consequences. Someone must pay the piper, as the old saying goes. Unfortunately, in these cases, the person who has to pay the piper isn’t the person who called the tune.

Get me to the church on time, part 2

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We got hitched.

C.D. administering the vows.
C.D. administering the vows.

I’ve been calling it “the Elopement,” in part because we were doing this quickly for legal purposes, and planning a more traditional ceremony and reception in the late spring/early summer when more of the people who wanted to attend could. And so we could do it properly.

Which is why, when we were thinking of a cake for the elopement, and Michael said that the ones we were looking at looked too much like birthday cakes, I had said that wasn’t a problem. In fact, I opined that for the proper elopement vibe the cake ought to say something like, “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Kevin.”

Then Michael said it was the wrong time of year, because if that was the aesthetic I wanted, then the bouquet needed to be flowers stolen from someone’s garden. And maybe looking a little bedraggled. Which made me say something about how I hadn’t decided if I should be holding flowers, to which he replied, “Are you saying I can’t hold flowers?”

“We can both hold flowers!”

I knew, because of some of the friends involved, that there would be more than a slight festive look to the house when we arrived. and there had been hints that the super simple ceremony we had told C.D. we would be happy with might not cut it with one of our witnesses. There had also been whispered conversations I almost overheard, where some friends immediately denied they had been talking about anything, so I knew people were planning some additions. I just didn’t correctly anticipate how many.

A kiss after the toast/
A kiss after the toast/

When we arrived at the home of the friends hosting, and walked in the door with the hat boxes and such, a cello and violin began playing “Here Comes the Bride.” My godson was playing the violin, and our friend Jeri Lynn was on the cello. I should have realized there would be a surprise string section. It is entirely in character for our friends. But it did surprise me, and I started crying.

Then, of course, I saw the flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. Red roses. Big lilies. White mums. White poinsettias. And more. A big altar of flowers.

Two rows of chairs were set up facing the flowers. Four very pretty wedding-cake-shaped candies were under a beautiful glass dome. Gorgeous cut crystal champaign flutes were lined up. I could go on. But even typing this is making me get misty-eyed.

I cried a lot.

So after hugging, expressing astonishment, setting up the cakes, and getting our bouquets in water, we went off to get dressed. More friends arrived. More decorations appeared. The musicians kept playing incidental music until we were all ready to begin.

I cried more. I couldn’t actually look at Michael while I was repeating my vows, because when I did, I would cry harder and wasn’t able to talk.

I must say, a small wedding like this is especially fun because instead of a receiving line, we just turned into a hugging mob. Which was perfect.

We fed each other the wedding cake candies. We cut the cakes. There was a toast (with amendments). There was a lot more hugging.

And then we changed, rearranged the room, and sat down to play a game.

Thank you to Ieva, Kristin, Jeri Lynne, David, C.D., Valentine, Sky, Judy, Matt, Jeff, and Darrell, for being there for the happiest day of the year–and quite possibly my whole life.

Most of all, thank you, Michael, for becoming my husband.

I love you all!

The service made me cry a lot.
The service made me cry a lot.
Indulged in the felicity,
Of unbounded domesticity.
Quickly parsonified,
Conjugally matrimonified,
A first-rate opportunity,
To get married with impunity!

(Apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan for re-arranging their lyrics!)

I’ve got my love to keep me warm

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Our good friend, C.D. Woodbury, who happens to be the man officiating our elopement today, had a gig with his band last night, which we’d already been planning to attend with friends. When I realized earlier in the week that it would be the night before the elopement, I started referring to the planned excursion as our bachelor party.

C.D. Woodbury Band performing at Grinders Hot Sands.
C.D. Woodbury Band performing at Grinders Hot Sands.

The band has recently been recording an album of all original songs, and this was their first gig after laying all the principal tracks. So they premiered several of their original songs. It was a fun evening with friends, great music, great food, and great beer at Grinders Hot Sands in north Seattle.

I’d heard from several people that the bread pudding at Grinders was a religious experience. Bread pudding is not on my diet, so I didn’t order it the last time we’d been there (to hear the same band play some months back). Of course, the meatball sandwich isn’t really on my diet, either, but…

Michael ordered the bread pudding, and told me to have at least a bite. I ended up eating most of it because the whisky sauce was stronger than he had expected. He’s never been fond of the taste of alcohol. For the record: the bread pudding is like a religious experience. It is awesome.

Listening to a blues band (a great blues band, and I’m not just saying that because they’re friends) with a bunch of friends is more my kind of bachelor party than any of the stereotypical activities.

As long as you hold me tight

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I’ve been grinning like a loon much of the day.

I have also been crying a lot—tears of joy (and astonishment).

Today the law allowing same sex couples to marry went into effect in our state (having been passed by the legislature, signed by the governor, and finally approved by a 54% majority of voters {in a year where the state at 81% voter turnout, I might add}).

Picture taken by Chelsea Kellogg, reporter for the Stranger.
Michael and I.

For various reasons, we didn’t go to wait in line for the office opening at one minute after midnight. We each took the day off from work and headed downtown after the sun was up and we’d had some breakfast. Since one of the reasons we didn’t want to be standing around outside on a nearly-winter night with rain in the forecast was that Michael still has the cough from our recent bouts with the flu, I let him sleep in. So we got to the county admin building at nearly noon.

I spent the morning reading news blogs and looking at the pictures of couples who had been the first in line at our county and a few others that opened early. They selected some couples to go first in line, such as a sweet pair of ladies who are in their late 70s-early 80s and had been together for over 35 years. Or the two men that age who have been together more than 40. Seeing the picture of one guy pushing his husband-to-be in his wheelchair up to the counter made me cry. There were a lot of pictures like that being posted by the various news outlets.

When we arrived, there wasn’t a big line. We were pointed in the right direction by people at several points, and getting congratulated by all these people. While there wasn’t a line, every workstation was busy with couples getting their licenses. And just as we and another couple were leaving… two more couples came in. So it was at the steady stream point by then.

A reporter from The Stranger asked if she could take our picture and ask a few questions. Since I read their blog every day, of course I was willing to answer questions. The first picture in this post is the one she took.

Us again. Why do I always stand on his right?
Us again. Why do I always stand on his right?

In addition to the regular paperwork, we were given a copy of the proclamation signed by the county executive, and various other commemorative items. We were directed out a different door than the way we’d come in, and some more volunteers were there, handing out roses and taking pictures in front of a sign commemorating the first day that marriage equality was the law. They took a few of these with my camera, then one of the others asked if we wanted one of us kissing.

For whatever reason, that was when I started crying for us. All of my tearing up, getting misty-eyed, and full-fledged crying earlier in the day had been for other people. This was the one where it finally hit me in the gut: the most wonderful man in the world has not only been living with me and putting up with me for nearly 15 years, but finally we’re going to be married. Not civilly united, or domestically partnered, or any of those other names, but married. Part of my astonishment is the simple fact that this wonderful guy actually wants to be saddled with me. I mean, yes, we’ve been together nearly 15 years (it will be 15 in February), and he’s had ample opportunity to run for the hills and hasn’t. But you have to understand, I don’t completely get why he puts up with me. Seriously, there are times I can’t stand to be around me, so I know for a fact I am not easy to live with!

Fortunately, Micheal's hat is hiding my tears.
Fortunately, Micheal’s hat is hiding my tears.

And there were more people waiting outside. We were offered donuts. There were also people handing out business cards and promotional fliers for wedding-related services. That’s to be expected, obviously. And I’m not complaining. Thanks to the fliers I’ve found several possible places to rent for our reception that I didn’t even know existed.

There were no protestors, though. I had kind of expected some. There are always a few of those people with the old testament signs and such at events like the Pride parade, so I just figured they’d turn out for this. Then when we saw that the line was shrunk to the trickle, I thought that protestors had left. I didn’t find out until we were back home that the reporter was there taking more pictures, after the big lines were through, because there had been a rumor that a group was coming to protest. Apparently they never showed up.

While we were walking back to the bus stop, a random woman on the sidewalk saw the roses, looked at us, grinned, and said, “Congratulations!”

I’ve violated one of my rules and dived into the comments sections of some of those news sites posting the pictures. And the amazing thing is how very few haters are commenting there. In the ones I looked at, if there were negative comments at all, for every 1 negative comment there were easily 20 comments from people saying how happy the pictures make them feel, with lots of mentions of people needing to grab a tissue. And a number of people going out of their way to say things like, “I want to say for the record, that I don’t believe any of these couples has in any way diminished my heterosexual marriage.”

I thought I was emotionally overwhelmed when the Referendum passed, and when I thought about all those straight people who voted for it. But it feels more overwhelming now. I guess going in and getting the license finally is making it feel real.

We have a three-day waiting period. We’re going to have a simple ceremony with friends this Sunday. We’re calling this the Elopement. I want to get the legal stuff handled as quickly as possible, if for no other reason than that I can finally add Michael to the much better medical and dental at my work. So this is the legal thing. And I know some of our friends will be there, and it will be fun and happy.

But the real purpose of a wedding is to allow your extended community of friends and family in on it. I don’t just mean the celebration. I believe that what makes marriage sacred is not that two people have made a pledge before some deity, it is because a group of people have committed to support two people in their love. When I attend someone’s wedding, I’m entering into a covenant with them and the other attendees, affirming a particular loving relationship, but also affirming the power of love itself. It’s a commitment to the extended ties that bind all of us together in circles of mutual affection and respect.

Which is why, yes, we’re planning something bigger and a bit more formal later next year.

And there will most definitely be a party.

That Jingle Java Jive

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My late husband and I had been dating not quite three months, when one night he said he was going to make some coffee, then he turned and gave me the goofiest grin, “I got Jingle Java!”

It was early in my coffee evolution. I’d been raised in households that depended on cans of Folgers ground coffee, with jars of Taster’s Choice instant as a backup for those times when you didn’t want to percolate an entire pot. I had been introduced to Starbucks just a couple years earlier, since my place of employment was only a couple of blocks from the location of the original Starbucks store, and had quickly become addicted.

The Jingle Java blend he had picked up was a store brand of whole bean coffee, and it wasn’t bad. So the next time I saw Ray, I brought a bag of Starbuck’s holiday blend as a present. Unfortunately, it turned out Ray thought all but the very lightest Starbuck’s coffees were too darkly roasted, and didn’t much care for the holiday blend.

By the next Christmas season we were living together, and I wound up buying a small amount of Starbuck’s holiday blend for me, and a large bag of Jingle Java for Ray. Since I’d done that, Ray found another coffee company’s holiday blend for us to try (I don’t remember if it was SBC, Tulley’s, Peet’s, or someone else). I’ve never liked the notion of flavored coffee beans, so we stuck to the blends.

So a tradition started in which every December we’d get several different holiday blends of coffee and rotate through them throughout the month (and usually well into January). Which I kept doing after Ray died. Michael hates coffee, so it’s just me drinking it, now. Which means I’m often not finishing them up until mid-February.

Except this year, I’ve been having a hard time finding many varieties. Over the last couple of years, the variety of whole been coffees available in grocery stores has significantly decreased. I don’t know if it’s because after two decades the grind-your-own coffee craze is finally dying out, so only us hard cases are doing it, or if the economy just has people buying as cheaply as they can, or what. At most of the grocery stores I’ve been to, the only thing I’ve found is Peet’s Holiday Blend, already ground. Coffee starts oxidizing as soon as you grind it, which changes the taste, so I don’t like pre-ground coffee.

And the store brand Jingle Java we used to buy—nowhere in sight.

There are flavored coffees, but those usually just taste like someone poured nail polish remover into my cup. At least to me.

At one upscale market (that’s within walking distance of my house), I happened to find a display of one of the brands of coffee that I never see anywhere else, and they had a Holiday Blend, so I have two this year. I like both, there’s no reason that I need more than two to choose from–I don’t need any, obviously. But it’s something I liked doing. A silly tradition. An excuse to think about Ray and the many fun and silly things we’d do together every Christmas season.

I love new things. I just wish the universe would give me veto power over some changes, you know?

To absent friends…

life,

Today is World AIDS Day. Each year, I spend part of the day remembering people I have known who left this world too soon because of that disease.

So: Frank, Mike, Tim, David, Todd, Chet, Jim, Steve, Brian, Rick, Stacy, Phil, Mark, Michael, Jerry, Walt, Charles, Thomas, Mike, Richard, Bob, Mikey, James, Lisa, Todd, Kerry, Glen, and Jack. Some of you I didn’t know for very long. One of you was a relative. One of you was one of my best friends in high school—and beyond.

I miss you all. It was a privilege to know you.

Slow days

life,

Colds suck. I hate the sinus headaches, the sneezing, the itchy eyes, and especially that “I can’t breathe” feeling.

Chest colds suck worse. There’s something especially disheartening about the soreness that develops in your chest after coughing. And coughing. The only upside is that getting the mucous in your lungs reminds you that the “I can’t breathe” feeling from a head cold is actually not that bad. You could breathe with the head cold, it’s just that breathing through your mouth constantly for several days feels awkward. But actually having mucous build up in your lungs forcing you to cough and cough sometimes before you can take a breath? That’s awful.

An actual bout of influenza sucks much, much worse. There’s the coughing, of course, but also the all-over body aches, and those days of fever where you alternate between feeling as if you will never be warm again, or sweating so bad that you just want to lay down in one of those giant walk-in freezers. I’ve only had the actual flu a few times in my life, and each time, I remember how much worse it is than the worst colds I’ve ever had. Those memories are one of the reasons I have been getting flu shots consistently for 20-some years.

Unfortunately, flu viruses come in many, many varieties thanks to constant mutation, and so annual vaccine can never inoculate you against every possible variant. Or, sometimes the variant you run into is close enough to the one you’ve either encountered before or that was in one of the shots, and so you catch it, but it doesn’t last as long as it might have.

This year I have gotten to be the proof that sometimes that shot isn’t enough.

I had the extra joy of getting an opportunistic infection on top of the flu: bronchitis.

I’m at that annoying stage nine days past the end of the fever, where most of the symptoms are gone, but I still have a bit of the cough, echoes of the body aches, and no stamina at all. Even with a convenient four-day holiday weekend where I got to sleep in and lay about as much as I wanted, I still feel exhausted after being up and about for only a few hours.

So I’m getting through my work days, being fairly productive. But then I’m like a zombie for the rest of the night.

I’m tired of being tired.

Sweet and savory

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I love munching on olives while waiting for the big holiday dinner to finish. When I was a kid, there were always at least two kinds of olives out, usually away from the kitchen, often laid out with candy and nuts and some little napkins and tiny plates. It was part of “this food is to distract you and keep you out of the kitchen until the main event” table.

Depending on which branches of the extended family were present, the setting was referred to as either “the olives and pickles” or “the relish tray.” It was called a relish “tray” regardless of whether there was an actual tray. A real relish tray is a bit of glassware meant for a buffet table in a formal dining setting, which has separated compartments.

Sweet and Savory!
Relish Tray, Gene & Michael’s, Thanksgiving 2012

The relish tray’s heyday was before the 20th Century, when the only foods available during the winter months were those which had been canned, pickled, or otherwise preserved during the growing seasons. Home canned foods often are very bland, so pickled foods added bursts of vinegary or briny or sweet delight.

I didn’t know that as a kid. There just were always at least two kinds of olive, and usually sweet pickled beets and at least two kinds of pickles. And if this was the right branch of the family, most of the pickles were home-pickled produce. Grandma B. liked an even mix of savory and sweet choices. Grandma P. always had a lot of very spicy pickled vegetables. If Great-grandma S.J.’s pickled squash was in the mix, it was a very special relish tray, for instance. One year, Great-aunt Pearl (though now that I think about it, she was my Grandma’s aunt, so she was technically my great-great-aunt) had sent a jar or two of homemade pickled watermelon rind, and that may have been the best relish tray, ever.

It just doesn’t feel like a real holiday dinner, to me, if there isn’t a relish tray. If given half a chance, I’ll set out a spread of dozens of different kinds of olives alone. Even if it’s going to be a small group. Each vinegary, briny, and sweet morsel is a little bit of my childhood, coming back for a visit.

Soup to nuts

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One of the first times I ever heard the phrase, “soup to nuts” my incorrigible Great-grandpa I. tried to convince me it meant that crazy people would think dishwater was soup. None of the kids in my generation ever called Great-grandpa I. “great grandpa.” He insisted we call him “Shorty.” No matter how hard my mom and her siblings and cousins tried to get us to call him anything else, we all called him “Shorty.” ‘Cause he told us to.

When Great-grandma heard him tell me the wrong definition of “soup to nuts,” she explained it referred to a fancy banquet-style meal, where you would be served soup first, then a meat dish, then a fish, and so on, until dessert and finally nuts. Shorty interrupted at that point to say he still thought crazy people were involved somehow. Otherwise, why would you need such a big meal?

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