The dog’s full name is Dr. Walter Quincy. He came with the Dr. Quincy bit (a little ha ha by the animal shelter; his brother was Dr. Doolittle) but I added the first name of Walter in memory of my old fishing buddy, Walt Nicholson. I miss Walt… not every day and not usually with tears. He’s been gone, what, 3 years? 4 years? I hadn’t seen him in probably 12 years, but I guess I still expect to hear from him at some point. I haven’t totally given up on him showing his face, particularly in the fall.

I met Walt through work at the animal shelter. He was probably 55 or so at the time, I was in my late 20′s. We gravitated towards each other and it wasn’t long before we were flipping each other crap, punching the other when we walked by and slipping out back for Walt’s cigarettes at breaks. He was a solitary type of creature. Social when he needed to be but he much preferred to be alone. He liked his koi pond, his garage with his half-finished hot rod but most especially he loved to be camped out at Sun Lakes in Eastern Washington, with his fishing pole and beer. Being an Alaskan girl, I loved to fish too, so I begged. I pleaded. I wheedled to be taken along. For the longest time, he held out and refused to let me go, but finally I got so annoying that he relented and took me on a “test run” to the Icicle Creek for a day trip. We fished and smoked and when I beat him (first, most and biggest) he decided he would let me try a run at Sun Lakes.

One morning at 5 am, Walt picked me up in the Bronco with the pop up camper behind it and we drove 4 hours to Sun Lakes. We set up camp under a locust tree in full bloom with the sweetest smelling chains of flowers hanging off of it. That weekend was the first of many. It was a descent into freedom and vice. We’d get up early in the morning, drink coffee, smoke and eat donuts before breakfast. Eggs, toast, more donuts, more coffee and then we were off to the lakes to fish. Sometimes we’d take the little boat, sometimes we’d go out in float tubes in waders. Lunch involved easy cheese,  chips and beer. More fishing until dinner and then laying about on the volcanic rock drinking hot buttered rum and looking at stars.

To be clear, Walt was always just a friend. I’m pretty sure he would have been happy to make it something more, but not me. So we fished and camped, watched videos of our fishing and camping when we couldn’t escape to do the real thing and in our spare time, I helped him do man things: work on the koi pond and roof his house. Most of our time was spent in companionable silence. I’d listen to the ticking of our reels and the ever-present wind whistling in my ears. Fishing with Walt was like a chance to slip back into the freedom I felt as a kid when summer would arrive.

Walking through the dog park this morning, there was a chill in the air, the sun occasionally breaking through. Dry, yellow winter grass around the field and the smoke from other dog walkers on the breeze. I listened to the wind whistling in my ears and called my dog, Dr. Walter Quincy and we headed back home.

Me, stumbling out of the bedroom half-asleep: “Did anyone feed the dog?”
Ari: “No, but I ate toast.”

Clearly equal accomplishments in his world. Sidebar: as I went to the garage to get the dog food, Ari added, “I put the butter on my own self.”

Flexall is so amazing, it should be contraband. I spent all day humping stones up the hill to a friend’s house and was aching by bedtime. Cliff introduces Flexall and I swear on my life: Unicorns and Butterflies. Get the maximum strength.

As I type, the kids are watching a horrific “live-action” version of the Doodlebops. It’s a Doodlebops concert and as the camera pans to the crowd, kids of all ages are dancing and waving their arms. That part is lovely, truly, I love to see kids enthralled in something because they are fully in it. The part that reminds me that I’m not alone: two grandparents are sitting behind two dancing little girls and the look they shoot each other is priceless. “What the hell is this?” “Hell if I know, but the kids seem to like it.” “How much longer does this hell go on?” “Honey, we’re here for the kids, just pretend you’re deaf.”

And finally, on the note of parenthood and its wonders and trials, I stumbled on a video yesterday on Facebook. Samuel L. Jackson reading what is sure to be the next, best book on parenting. “Go The F*&^ To Sleep” by Adam Mansbach. A classic in the making.

Enjoy your Saturday weirdness, it’s priceless.

G’ma picked her up at 6:45 and off they went. I had my cell phone on, just in case there was a meltdown, but didn’t get a call. Whew. While they were out on the town, I took The Boy to Ashland where we ate huge ice cream cones and played in the park until the sun went down.

I wasn’t able to stay awake long enough for The Girl to get home, so it was Manny who got to see her beaming with pleasure and pride when her chariot brought her home. The musical was such a success that she and G’ma celebrated with Yogurt Hut afterward, even bringing home a bucket of treats for The Boy since he missed out.

I’m proud of my little gal… I really wasn’t sure how she would do, but she was a wonderful patron of the arts. Curtains up!

I feel like I need a deeper connection to the community I work with, or at least to what life looks at a different level of less so I’m starting my own education project. So far, I’ve started mainly by reading. I just finished “The Myth of the Welfare Queen” by David Zucchino. It was riveting. I could barely put it down, it followed the lives of two women in Philadelphia in 1995, the year before Clinton signed the Welfare to Work Act in 1996. One woman is an activist with unconventional methods, the other a great-grandmother raising several generations of her family with welfare.

I’m also working on “A Framework for Understanding Poverty” by Ruby Payne. This book is also eye-opening and changing my awareness of what money means to choice, convenience, culture and self.

The most visceral activity I’ve been doing is donating plasma. I admit, the cash that comes from my hour hooked to a machine is welcome. I have some bills to pay and this will certainly speed the duration. However, my primary motivation is to understand what it means for people whose income is only food stamps and plasma cash.

I’ve always had a disdain for the plasma bank. I know that the cells they collect go on to be lifesaving drugs and treatments but somehow, right or wrong, I felt that donating is the rockiest bottom. Even when things were super tight at my house, I believed in my heart of hearts that I would never get to the point where I’m donating plasma for money.

So what does that say about me?

I’m still not sure. I’ve made two donations so far and I feel like my mind changes and my thoughts shift before I can even put them on paper. The first donation was altering. I walked into the plasma center with a sense of guilt, shame and embarrassment. I was mortified to be there. What if someone I know sees me? What will they think? What if my parents find out? The employees at the center were certainly nice, but the entire place felt seedy. White gowns on the office staff were stained and ragged. The lobby chairs had cracks. No one greeted me or offered to explain the process. Even now, I’m not entirely sure what to do when I show up there. Which line? Where do I wait? How long?

This experience is far, far outside my comfort zone. I feel tagged and identifiable when I leave the center with my gauze-bandaged arm. The debit card they gave me to access my compensation says the plasma bank’s name where mine should go. With the money from my first donation, I bought a hammock. I bought it because I’ve been wanting one and I felt like the money gained by my blood should be a victory. It should go to something solely for me, a prize for making it through the experience. Nearly everyone else in the room full of beds, hooked to machines, uses the money for their daily lives and probably no one buys a frivolous gift to themselves.

From here on out, the money goes to pay my credit card. I’m grateful and relieved that the money I’m making isn’t my only income. The first donation, I felt like I should honor myself for taking this large step into the unknown, but today I feel that my donation should honor the people for whom frivolity is not a choice.

This education is going to be a process. There will be things to read and people to talk to, ideas to share and feelings to deal with. For anyone who reads my little blog, if you have ideas on other things to increase my awareness, please feel free to send me them. In the meantime, hop aboard and let’s see what I find out.

I realize that at the end of the day, I don’t have much influence on what they love and hate… but I hope that the current faves are just a glimmer of the fantastic things to come.

As dusk fell, my sister and I would get into our pajamas and run around the yard in glee, too ramped up to sleep. My parents would holler, “Go to bed! Get in your tent!” and we would run in and out of the house, collecting more things and eating last snacks.

Eventually, we’d make it into the tent and get zippered in to our bags. The cats never would sleep in there with us, much to my great chagrin, so we were always Lone Girls in the Wilderness, without protection from the beasts about.

Some nights, we’d manage to fall asleep and be outside until the morning… but generally one or the other of us would be laying awake while her sister slept. Inevitably, someone would sneak back into her bed and leave the other quietly sawing logs. There was a certain pride to being the One Who Made It Through The Night, so desertion wasn’t frowned on.

Tonight, my children will run around my yard and Manny and I will shout from the couch, “Get in your tent! Go to sleep!” We’ll leave the door unlocked and keep our ears open for someone sneaking back into the house.

Slipping into my childrens’ bedrooms when they’re asleep, especially after one of them has a crab-ass meltdown before bed, and carefully arranging the blankets back over them.

Maya usually stirs a little when I slide her glasses off. Ari snores gently and doesn’t move.

No matter what has happened during the day, how I felt about myself, my job, my body, my life… as soon as I ease into the darkened rooms of my children, I find purpose and reason. My only job is to make sure they’re covered and snug for the night.

It’s something I do well.

Maggie, Baggie, Bird Girl, Bill, Birdie, Pretty Girl.... I could go on

The only person Maggie loves is me. Oh, she likes Manny alright. She tolerates the huge, brown cat, Jim, but it’s me she loves. And I love her… unconditionally. Even when she bloodies my friends and shows her displeasure with Cat Stench in inappropriate places.

I worked for 4 years at an animal shelter and as an HSP, it was about the most self-destructive work I could have done. I suppose child welfare or police work could be worse, but this was as bad as I want to get. I did all the icky stuff. Everything you can come up with for “animal shelter” and “work duties” I did.

Maggie entered the shelter when she was 4 weeks old. She was too young to be away from her litter and was wandering around South Tacoma in a flea collar. Normally, a single kitten that young wouldn’t have been adopted. (Translate that for yourself.) But for some reason, that little, nasty, ball of fluff was mine the minute I laid eyes on her. I had to move to a cat-friendly apartment to take her home and it took literally, years of therapy to get past all the work I was doing when I met her.

But… Maggie is the best that it gets. She’s my little shadow and she trusts me. She is the consummate cat: aloof, elegant, cuddly, obstinate, and non-nonchalantly devoted. Building a relationship with her makes up for all the animals I couldn’t bring home or love. She is the flip side to the horrible things I did to find her.

March is her birthday…. happy 11th birthday Bird Girl!

Before the month let me go entirely, I got a cold while the Boy got the flu.

But now it’s March… bring on the lions.

It fits nicely. It’s been a few weeks now and the screech of pain from cold water and candy is starting to subside.

What isn’t going away is the knowledge that part of me is fake. It’s the first foreign piece to be adhered to/implanted in me and my first trophy of age. It’s odd to feel like I’m finally aging. My body is starting its slow decline and the replacement cycle has begun. At some point, whatever I am will be a mish-mash of extra parts and antique bits cobbled together by people the same age as my children.