The answers ranged from, “Umm… I can’t think of anything,” to an excited, “Oh my gosh, this just happened last week,” and then they poured their hearts out and did a little bragging about their integrity. Which was exactly the point. See, we based all of our interview questions on the company’s mission statement and core values, the first of which was integrity.

The Company’s Mission Statement:

“We question everything and defy the norms to make cell service work for people in every commercial building — keeping them connected, safe, having fun and getting shit done.”

We attempted to achieve that mission through our dearly held core values — our guiding principals of Integrity, Innovation, Efficiency, Pride, fostering Fun, and maintaining a Learning Mindset. Together, every member of the company brainstormed examples of what each value would look like in action. For instance:

INNOVATION MEANS …

1. There is always a solution. Always. We will either find it or make it.

2. It isn’t ‘impossible’ just because no one else has ever done it.

3. We are idea-whores and thieves — always searching for good ideas to pilfer and tweak. [e.g., #2 was stolen from The Princess Bride]

4. We brainstorm solutions collectively and encourage input from every team member.

5. We consistently strive to find a better way, for installations, for operation of the business, for ourselves.

Our mission and values statements became posters, book covers, mousepads, t-shirts, post-its, covering any and every surface of the office and the humans occupying it. We lived and breathed it. For us, mission and values weren’t just lip service; they were a daily measuring stick for every aspect of business.

When one of our installation teams in California came up against an unsolvable problem — how to get a cable through a narrow vertical chase much too complex for conventional wire-pulling techniques — they knew they couldn’t give up because of #1. They referred to #2, brainstormed together (#4), then went to a nearby Walmart, bought a fishing rod and jerry-rigged it to literally “fish” the wire through. Mission accomplished. Always.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Am I bragging about how cool Hubby’s company was? Yes. Always. But also, because now that the company has sold and we are facing Hubby’s impending retirement in a couple years (1 year, 5 months, 11 days; not that I’m counting), we’re feeling a bit … unmoored. Untethered. Unprepared. What do we focus on between now and then to prepare for all the glorious, terrifying, panic-inducing freedom? What will we do with ourselves? What if we get — God forbid — BORED?!? If only we had a Mission Statement and list of values to guide us…

And then it hit us: Well, fuckadoodlydoo, we COULD have a Rubey Family Mission Statement and List of Values to guide us, couldn’t we? I mean, we’ve got a guy for that. The guy is Andy Cindrich1, the very person who coached us through creating Hubby’s company’s mission statement all those years ago. It was four years ago. Feels like a lifetime.

Rubey, Inc.

Here’s the idea we presented to Andy: We want you to treat us like a company, like Rubey, Inc., and help us discover our personal mission statement and values. Then we will use our MS&V to guide us towards purposeful, meaningful new projects, new creative endeavors, new businesses, more friends; to give us clearer focus and direction moving forward. With a mission statement and core values, we will have something to measure all our decisions against to see whether or not they really resonate so that we don’t get distracted by every shiny idea that crosses our paths.

Since Hubby’s company sold in December, we have explored no less than 16 different future biz opportunities, from protein vodkas (already done), to social clubs centered on survivalist training (Boulder County no likey), to children’s bookstores with built-in reading therapy dogs. For Hubby, the distractions are mostly business based. For me, they are much more whatever-happens-to-cross-my-brain-screen at any given moment. Seriously, I have the attention span of a fruit fly on meth. So far, I have stopped writing this article to:

1. Read a National Geographic article on the newest superfood (bamboo shoots),

2. Order a single can of bamboo shoots from Amazon. I am not part of the problem — I’m the whole fucking problem.

3. Answer multiple emails requesting purchase reviews on Etsy

4. Train the dog stop biting her leash

5. Bathe the cat

6. Take a mini-course on how to optimize my Substack content to increase email readership

7. Post my old sofa for sale on Facebook Marketplace

8. Send my daughter links to cute sofas for her new home — after she rejected my old one.

9. Put batteries in the headlamp I wear to work on the puzzle that has been spread across our coffee table for six months. (The overhead light offends Hubby’s delicate sensibilities when he’s trying to watch TV, so I wear a headlamp).

That’s approximately 15 minutes of distraction per paragraph written. So far. And you wonder why I publish so infrequently.

Whenever a glittery, twinkling thing comes along that looks more fun or helps me avoid struggling through a complicated part of the creative process, I immediately go for the funner/easier/sparklier option. In fact, I’m writing this article now because I’m avoiding painting the leather jacket I promised myself I’d finish this week but haven’t started.

[*Side note 2: In my defense, I did stop myself from buying a kiln recently because I don’t know how to use a kiln and installing an incendiary device that heats up to 2300 degrees Fahrenheit in the basement of my house seemed like a goddamn whopper of a cautionary tale in the making. I thought I should at least learn how to use the pottery wheel I bought in 2019 before getting a kiln to fire nonexistent pottery. I’m pretty proud of that restraint.]

Adulthood with a little help from my friends

What I’m saying is that I clearly need adult supervision and I have a growing suspicion that I may have to be that adult. But I needed some help. Thinking of myself and my Hubby as business leaders who must do the hard work of discovering “Rubey, Inc.’s” mission and values feels like a more accessible approach. Because with Coach Andy’s help, we’ve done it before. Besides, we all know that business leaders are not real adults, they’re just adult-shaped. I can be that.

If you enjoyed this, show me some love with a one-time appreciation tip or leave a comment — or both! Thanks!!

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BONUS: Wanna answer some of my old interview questions?

• Tell me about a time you had a moral decision to make, and you chose to do the right thing, even though it was hard. Doesn’t have to be work-related.

• What makes you excited to get up and go to work each day?

• What has been your biggest accomplishment in life? What has been your biggest regret in life? What did you learn from both of these?

• What three things will you be remembered for at your funeral?

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“Remember how cute Boulder was when we drove through it last summer? Let’s move there.”

So we did. Just like that. We pretended to do some research first, checked out the demographics to see if Boulder was a good match for the home theater business Hubby wanted to start and it ticked all the right capitalistic boxes. Really, I think we would have talked ourselves into moving here regardless of the demographics. It had such a funky and artsy and cool vibe with Pearl Street mall and the University and its progressive, hippy-town Naropa history.

Who could have known that such a diverse group of white people (96% caucasian) with oodles of mostly inherited, Trustafarian-style money would evolve into an enclave of self-righteous entitled douchebags so extraordinarily narcissistic that the Sundance Film festival — the world’s most pretentious celebration of film — would move here 30 years later?

Everyone but us saw it coming. I mean, there were signs. While college students worldwide were protesting apartheid and human rights violations, 1,500 CU students rioted — overturned cars, lit patio furniture and trash dumpsters afire, then rolled them down Uni Hill at law enforcement — to protest the fact that they were no longer allowed to have alcohol in campus housing.

CU administrators believed students might not be mature enough to limit their booze consumption to just the 21-year-olds on campus and they were proven 100% correct in that assessment. Soon afterwards, the city of Boulder enacted a “no upholstered furniture on your patio or front porch” law to prevent the tragic Porch Sofa Massacre of 1997 from repeating itself. I’m not making this up.

Other signs of the overindulged jagoff evolution? The cost of living in Boulder is 67% higher than the US norm. Housing costs are double the national average. You want to rent a 1-bedroom apartment? That’ll be $2500 a month or more, depending on location. You want a 3-bedroom home with a yard for the kids and the compulsory Golden Retriever? You can buy a fixer-upper in a sketchy ‘hood for a just shy of a million bucks or you could rent a home — if you’re willing to have all your kids share your bedroom (to make room for the additional renters living in theirs) and make regular donations of bodily fluids for cash. Totally doable and well worth the sacrifice to be living in such a beautiful, healthy, happy, enlightened community.

So, yeah. I was aware that Boulder long ago parted ways with its hippy heritage and was morphing into an unrecognizable tribe of what sociologists call, “BoBos,” which is short for Bourgeois Bohemians. I knew this. I accepted this because I knew that deep down, beneath the bougie, most of us were good, decent people.

But today I encountered a revelation about my adopted hometown so disturbing that I had to scream into a pillow and am now screaming helplessly into the void of the etherwebs.

As previously mentioned, Boulder recently fought for and won the privilege of being the next home to the Sundance Film Festival. As Park City, Utah wrapped up their final Sundance last week, Boulderites realized we have less than a year to prepare for the oncoming onslaught of celebs, their wranglers and caretakers, the paparazzi, tourists and looky-loos arriving next January. Members of a group called the Community Editorial Board took to the local newspaper through the MyTown platform to share their thoughts on ways Boulder can improve infrastructure, upgrade services and basically put our best foot forward while the whole world watches.

Two of the biggest concerns? First, making sure our power grid can support all those extra people during the coldest part of the year and second … hiding the homeless. Because, “Yes, homelessness is tragic for the homeless but it’s also unsightly and Boulder will be on display so we want to look our best.”

This person’s proposed solution is to create additional shelters JUST FOR THE MONTH OF JANUARY while Sundance is happening. Because apparently it’s okay to be subjected to freezing conditions in November, December February and March when no one is looking. Apparently, we have the goddamn resources to provide more shelters but haven’t done it because NO ONE FAMOUS WAS WATCHING US. The best part of this January-only plan is that it will be met with less resistance than previous plans to add shelters because “it’s only one month.” I mean, obviously we can’t expect anyone to live or own a business near a shelter for the entire brutal, deadly winter, but for one month while we rake in millions of tourist dollars? Surely we can pretend to be caring and gracious toward fellow human beings (despite their conspicuous and distasteful flaunting of their lack of affluence in broad daylight) for 30 short days, can’t we?

Christ-in-a-fucking-Tesla, are we actually THIS SHITTY, Boulder????

To be fair, this suggestion came from one individual citizen on some editorial committee in the newspaper, it is not (yet) an actual proposal from our local government.

But the mere fact that this person felt enabled, authorized, licensed, empowered to publicly, openly, brazenly make such a reprehensible suggestion says more about the character of our town as a whole than it does about the individual.

SHAME. Fucking SHAME on us, Boulder. Let’s be better.

If you appreciate this story, make a donation to one of Boulder’s existing homeless shelters who are contributing much more than performative compassion:

Primary Homeless Shelters & Services in Boulder

• All Roads Shelter (Boulder Shelter for the Homeless): Located at 4869 N. Broadway, this is the main, year-round, 160+ bed overnight shelter for adults.

• Haven Ridge (formerly Mother House/The Lodge): Provides emergency shelter for women, transgender, and nonbinary individuals, including specialized housing for pregnant mothers.

• TGTHR (formerly Attention Homes): Offers emergency shelter, housing, and services for youth aged 12-24.

• Bridge House: Provides transitional housing, day services, and the “Ready to Work” program.

• Safehouse Progressive Alliance for Nonviolence (SPAN): Shelter and services for those affected by domestic violence.

• Emergency Family Assistance Association (EFAA): Provides temporary housing and assistance specifically for families.

• HOPE Longmont: While located in nearby Longmont, it provides essential services to the broader Boulder County area.

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I’ve started approximately 322,016 stories for you since the last time I wrote a newsletter two and a half months ago, and I have published exactly zero of them — just slightly below my goal of once a week (or once a month, whichever seemed feasible at the moment). As you can see, I set impossibly high standards for myself; I am a virtual paragon of self-discipline.

Alas, I have not achieved my lofty “whenever I fucking feel like it” writing goals as of late. Instead of apologies, I offer here the solid rationales, reasons, justifications and explanations for my literary shortcomings; most of which are wrapped in a thin veneer of creative fabrications, aka bullshit. After each segment you will have a chance to vote on whether or not I was right to keep that shit-piffle to myself.

Some of the Things I Started to Write About But Then Didn’t

1. My Dad died.

I started writing about Dad’s death way before it actually happened because it’s been happening since October 2020 in a looooong, nerve-racking, bone-chilling, plunge into the vile and undignified abyss of dementia. For five grueling years we lost him over and over again, every time the dementia demon took another little bite out of who he was. I chose not to share my stories of the relentless and baffling obstacles involved in maneuvering through Medicaid, how I tried repeatedly to navigate The System to ensure I had set up his medical trust accounts to be funded properly (I had not), or how we helplessly watched him get kicked out of one memory facility after another for behaving exactly the way that people with dementia always behave.

Why didn’t I write about it?

Good Lord, how can you ask that after reading the previous horrifying paragraph? My Substack category is HUMOR, not nightmarish stories of grim mental declines that could befall any one of us in the future. How was I supposed to make that shit funny? My buddy Kristen (you remember Kristen from the “she and her son and her pets and her house washed away in the Kerrville flood” saga) is going through a similarly hellish journey with a loved one. Together, we can occasionally find a bit of gallows humor in our exasperating experiences but I didn’t think stories titled, “He Pooped in His Roommate’s Shoes,” or “He Punched a Woman in the Face Because She Wouldn’t Let Him Steal her Pudding Cup,” would resonate with many of you. At least I fucking hope not.

2. What I have learned in my medical training from the esteemed University of YouTube.

As part of renovating myself into the very manifestation of a strong and healthy Goddess form, I have devoted a great deal of time and energy to learning everything I can about increasing longevity and healthspan. (Healthspan is the buzzy new idea that we don’t just want a long lifespan, we want to live healthy, productive, active lives right up until the day we drop dead while completing our very last Bucket List item at the age of 102). Naturally, in my quest for a Master’s or Doctorate level education, I have turned to the finest institution of higher learning on the planet today, namely, YouTube. Just this week, I learned that every single spike in insulin levels (most of us have multiple spikes per day), chips away at our life expectancy and brain health, BUT there are four easy hacks that will allow you to balance your insulin levels without making drastic dietary changes. I also learned that new 2025 research data indicates flossing your teeth daily cuts your chances of dementia by HALF due to controlling bacteria and improving gut health. Those are real things; click the links to learn more.

Why I haven’t written more about this?

Much of the reason I’ve been doing these deep dives into the YouTube University pool is because they are seemingly worthwhile and pious but are actually distractions from doing the writing I resolved to do when I re-retired a year ago. When I share unsolicited Vital Health and Wellness info with you, I get all amped up and feel evangelical — like I’m being very productive and helpful when in reality, I’m just perpetuating my colossal avoidance tendencies. Just this week, I avoided writing a single word of my alleged book, And Yet I Married Him Anyway - the Memoir of a Magically Flawed Marriage, while listening to roughly 112 hours of YouTube podcasts. Because procrastination is a full time job and I take it very seriously.

3. Current Events

As a sentient being, you may have noticed that the world, and especially the American portion of the world, is a complete and utter shitastrophe right now. As a sentient being with a Substack platform, albeit a teeny-tiny one, I feel like I should speak up/speak out against the human rights atrocities that are being perpetrated by the orange, diapered, fuckwit in our gold-plated White House and his merry band of felons and fascists across every strata of government. On a daily basis, I start posts railing against ICE, the so-called Supreme Court, Pete Kegsbreath, Kristi Gnome, Stephen “Goebbels the House Elf” Miller and the other ilk doing their best to turn the US into 1930’s Germany, only to abandon the story mid-rant.

Why don’t I write about dreadful current events?

My stated mission with Stuff and Thangs is to share “Mostly funny stuff about my quest for happiness through stories, art, friendship, Great Danes, one naked weirdo alien cat and plenty of indiscriminate swearing,” and while I could definitely go heavy on the indiscriminate swearing whilst discussing current events, it would decidedly NOT be ‘mostly funny.’ Many talented writers, comedians, and pundits are managing to turn the day’s events into hilariously scathing and informative stories and I don’t feel like I’d be adding value to the discourse that they have already so eloquently covered. I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring the collapse of democracy around us — I’m fully and loudly protesting the fuckery, I’m just not doing it here because you might want to come here for an escape from that sewage.

4. Whether wanting to move to Canada makes me a visionary or a chickenshit

Based on what I just said about current events and given the fact that I see the Pacific Northwest as one of God’s most brilliant natural creations, it didn’t take a big leap for me to consider a move toward the greener, cooler, more level-headed, human-rights-abiding pastures of Canada. But I’m conflicted.

On the one hand, leaving would demonstrate to our daughter how it’s possible to bravely forge a whole new life when much of your current life is toxic and dangerous. I would want her to leave an abusive relationship and that is what life in the US has become.

On the other hand, abandoning friends, loved ones and our whole country, leaving them to deal with the utter collapse of society while we go live a dream life on an island in BC has a pretty cowardly vibe. Like, the dodging Vietnam because of “bone spurs” kind of cowardly vibe.

Why didn’t I write about wanting to move to Canada?

Because Oh-my-God-the-Caucacity-of-it-all. The vast majority of people in ‘Merica don’t have the ability/privilege to even contemplate this choice, so I shouldn’t be whining about how hard the decision is. Oh, and also: not funny. But definitely would qualify as part of my quest for happiness.

The Really Real Reason for Not Writing About These Things

The gut-wrenching truth of why I haven’t written about any/all of these topics is self-doubt. I doubt I can make serious topics funny. I doubt readers will relate to my world. I doubt anyone will want to read about my life — seriously, a book about my marriage for fuck’s sake? I doubt my capacity to show up as my authentic self without censoring the shitty parts. (Contrary to what my husband insists, I actually DO possess both a filter and an innate sense of self-preservation in how I present myself to the world).

And lastly, I doubt that I am a good enough writer. That’s not false modesty or a thirst trap in search of praise — I know I’m good — but what if I’m not good enough, what if I’m not … Great? For me, that’s the truly paralyzing, writer’s-blocking fear.

If I admit that to you here, will that make it go away? I doubt it.

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In 2008, Sashabelle was featured in our annual Christmas letter. I have posted it in its entirety here. Enjoy.

Stumbling upon Sashabelle’s diary was a complete accident. Until recently, it was safely hidden in our deserted exercise room, behind the dust-encrusted treadmill. Then Alijah created her Christmas wish list. She asked Santa for (1) a new computer and (2) could he please make her parents live forever? So our gift to her this year is a written contract promising to exercise more, eat less and generally take better care of ourselves in an attempt to increase our longevity. Which led to our prying open the rusty door to the exercise room and the discovery of Sashabelle’s journal. We thought it would be more interesting for you to read about our year through Sasha’s deeply neurotic eyes. Here are a few entries...

Sept. 28, 2007: Today I convinced the Alijah Girl to liberate me from my monstrous siblings. They were incessantly cute, playing with her shoelaces, pouncing at her from behind curtains -- sickening. But she chose me instead. I shall be forever devoted to The Girl for my rescue and she alone will be spared when my Plan to Rule The World is realized.

March 24, 2008: My Girl and her elders have gone somewhere called Illin’Oy to visit her grandparents. I have been abandoned to the care of an elf named Tabatha and her giant associate, Stehlin. Elf and Giant have swarms of wretched cats who taunt me from the other side of my prison door. Elvis is sequestered with me but being a hapless simpleton, he is perfectly content here. I tried to disembowel my captors but only succeeded in carving my initials in the tall one’s thigh.

March 30, 2008: Hosannah! My Girl has returned! I’m embarrassed to say I was so relieved to see her that I rushed into her arms. The Elf and Giant instantly leapt forward, screaming, “Oh God No!! Look Out!” Then they revealed my efforts to exterminate them, saying I was “the meanest cat they’d ever seen” and mumbling something about “hell-spawn.” The truth of my diabolical disposition has been discovered. I must hasten my efforts to Rule The World while they still remain oblivious to my Plan.

May 5, 2008: My Girl now dresses me in the Tiny Dog’s ridiculous clothes and pearls. She says I am “modeling” like she did today for the MyTwinn Doll catalog. My humiliation is unbearable. The Girl’s parents mock my shame. I shall shred their horrid pink, hairless skin at the first opportunity. In fact, I will make all humankind pay for this horror when I Rule The World. I will be avenged!

June 14, 2008: Summer. My Girl is home all day every day. She had something called a Tenth Birthday. It requires much planning and causes chaos for weeks. There were three cakes stacked on some sort of altar. I tried to understand the religious significance; perhaps they were items of worship offered to the Girl? My Girl tells me that she and her friends rode bicycles along three miles of Boulder Creek Path. Is a Birthday some sort of military parade in which to display one’s strength? She also tells me her friends gave her money for the Humane Society - over $320! I must have a Birthday of my own! Surely $320 is enough money to Rule The World!

July 15, 2008: Elvis spoke with an animal communicator and demanded to be called “The King” from now on. Diva. Then that mama’s boy, Ferdinand, started yammering on about how he loves everyone and couldn’t we all just get along? They vex me so. I shall remove their entrails in their sleep.

July 21, 2008: My girl says tomorrow is my Birthday! At last, my chance to demonstrate my devastating powers! I shall parade before thousands of humans and perform feats of previously unimagined villainy, then dispatch them all while they stare in slack-jawed awe. I am dizzy with the prospect of my destiny coming to fruition.

July 22, 2008: What the F***? Today was my Birthday. No military parade. No thousands of dimwitted victims giving me money. Instead, my Girl gave me a cake made from liver with a lighted fuse in the middle. The humans howled some cacophony at me then the Girl blew out the fuse and the cake was dispersed to me AND Elvis, and BOTH the idiot dogs. My Girl gave me a whole baggy of something called Meowy Wowi Catnip which smelled delightful but caused everything to go hazy for the next six hours. I woke up with liver in my fur and dog hair on my tongue. This was not the Birthday I had envisioned.

Sept. 23, 2008: My girl has decided she will be a chef when she grows up. She makes all sorts of delicious meals for the family and lets me sample them. Soon I will be as fat as Elvis, who is showing a remarkable resemblance to the Hindenberg. With a tail.

Oct. 31, 2008: In yet another demonstration of my extraordinarily devious intellect, I have taught myself how to open the pantry door, whereupon I am free to plunder the shelves. Today I partook of bag after delicious bag of Pirate Booty Popcorn. And I particularly like bags of Top Ramen noodles. Tomorrow I will pillage the Girl’s Halloween candy.

Nov. 4, 2008: Tonight someone named Barack has been elected to my job of Ruling The World. Everyone here is ecstatic but I hear he’s taking a DOG to the White House for his daughters! An idiot DOG!! The success of my Plan is more crucial than ever now - I must not give up.

Nov. 27, 2008: It is Thanksgiving today. My Girl and her elders are having a lavish meal at the home of Elf and Giant, who have recently added three ferrets to their swarm of cats and four colossal fishtanks. Sounds like my own personal Disneyland but I wouldn’t know because I’ve been left behind with the insufferable dogs and Elvis. I would kill for a chance to kill ferrets. Perhaps I will kill something anyway. For grins. Fiona is quite ferret-like.

Dec. 2, 2008: My Girl saved her slave wages for many weeks to buy me my very own outdoor conveyance. My carriage is purple and called a “cat stroller” although there’s no room for me to stroll inside it. I just sit in it while the girl pushes me around the neighborhood visiting her friends who each insist on touching me. I shall eviscerate them at the first opportunity. Perhaps when they come to my home for Christmas...

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It began when our daughter, Alijah, was nine years old and she adopted a sweet, floofy, blue-grey, 3-week-old kitten. At least, she looked sweet. Little did we know, we had welcomed Satan incarnate into our lives for what would turn out to be an eighteen-year long reign of terror.

We had been fostering kittens for the Humane Society for quite a while, raising a steady stream of tiny fluffballs until they were mature enough and healthy enough to be adopted. By the time Sasha and her brothers, Winston and Pistachio, showed up, we had already fostered somewhere in the neighborhood of 32 kitties and had always been quite successful at returning them to the Humane Society. But when it came time to return Sasha to the shelter, Alijah was utterly devastated. She cried, she begged, she offered preposterously unsustainable promises of flawless care and feeding, she pledged perfect attendance and devotion to her schoolwork but I wasn’t having it.

We dropped those three kittens at the shelter on the way to school and I had never seen my daughter so sad. For the rest of the day, my stomach churned and burned until I finally caved and went back to the Humane Society. When I picked the Kid up from school that day, the little gray Hell spawn who would become her dearest companion for nearly two decades greeted her from a box in the front seat. I had never seen my daughter so happy.

Sasha had seemed pretty normal while we fostered her with her brothers, but without them she … changed. Only Alijah was able to touch her, feed her or make eye contact with her. All others were met with growling snarls if you were lucky, or outright savage, indiscriminate carnage if you were not. Sashabelle was wholly unfamiliar with the concept of “don’t bite the hand that feeds you.” In fact, she quite relished biting, scratching, thrashing and pummeling hands — especially when they were feeding her because that added the element of surprise. Meanwhile, Alijah could dress her up in doll clothes and take her for long walks in her kitty stroller, followed by a warm bath or shower and suffer zero repercussions. The rest of us lived in fear.

One of Sashabelle’s favorite games was to perch atop an open door, waiting untold hours for her unsuspecting prey (aka me or Adam) to walk through the doorway so that she could pounce down onto our heads, sinking every last claw into our scalps and hiss-laughing (I shit you not) while we screamed and tried to swat her off with any available defensive implement — you didn’t want to use your hands for this assignment, it just led to further injuries.

Every vet visit with Sasha began with us delivering an ominous warning about how evil and dangerous she was. Every vet responded with something chirpy like, “Oh, you guys are so funny. I have a mean cat too, it’ll be fine.” Then two minutes later, bloodied and bewildered, they would leave the room to get reinforcements, muttering in astonishment, “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Once, after completing this entire ritual, (which this time left multiple vet techs cowering in various corners of the room, tending to their wounds and refusing to assist unless they were allowed to use a spiked truncheon), the vet foolishly thought she could administer the eye exam on her own. Standing several feet away, she picked up the exam flashlight and we quickly stopped her.

“You should move back. She can still reach you from there,” we warned. The vet glanced at us with a patronizing smile and started to say, “I don’t think…” just as the Kitty from Hell whipped her elasticized lightning bolt of an arm out of the bag and opened up a gash across the vet’s face before she could finish her sentence. Professional veterinary diagnosis: Demon Elasticat. That one went in Sasha’s permanent record. Left a permanent scar on the vet too.

During Sashabelle’s last moments, we gathered around her in Alijah’s living room to say goodbye. We thanked her for her dedication to Alijah and for keeping my daughter alive during the worst struggles of her adolescence and early adulthood.

The in-home vet administered what should have been a lethal dose of the euthanasia drug for such a frail kitty, followed by another dose a few minutes later, but tiny, fragile Sasha just kept hanging on. It suddenly occurred to me that she would never, under any circumstances, leave Alijah without knowing her girl would be okay. I whispered to Alijah that Sasha probably needed permission to go. Alijah somehow summoned the strength to tell her beloved beast that she would be okay without her and we all promised Sasha that we would look after Alijah when she was gone. She peacefully let go a few seconds later, and presumably went back to her post at Satan’s side.

I never liked Sasha; she never liked me. Or Adam. She eventually liked Alijah’s boyfriend Sam once she had been living with him for three years — everyone else remained a useless waste of flesh to her. But oh, dear Lord did Alijah and that wretched fucking cat love each other.

BONUS:

In 2008, Sashabelle wrote our annual Christmas letter. I have posted it in its entirety here: Excerpts from a Criminally Insane Housecat

If you relate to this story, make a donation to the American Humane Society or leave us a comment — or both! Thanks!!

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Never heard that one? Perhaps I made it up. Regardless of its origins, it’s stone cold fact. You don’t become a better, more empathetic human until you’ve personally survived enough shitastrophes to understand another’s pain. You don’t become more comfortable in your own skin until you’ve tried to crawl out of it and run screaming into the night. I’ve been a lifelong believer in the ‘life lessons suck donkey balls’ philosophy — until last week.

Last week I went on a four-day trip to Santa Fe with a small group of total strangers arranged by a women’s-only travel organization called NextTribe. That sentence is full of things that would normally make me hide under a blanket fort with a pint of soothing Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food and a nice distracting book. Let’s dissect it:

1. It starts with “I” instead of “we.” No support Hubby, not even at my destination after a solo flight, on a teeny plane. That’s a first for me; I have only ever flown alone in order to meet up with him wherever he is working.

2. “Four days.” Waaaay too long to successfully fake having my shit together.

3. It includes the words “Santa Fe” — an agoraphobic’s worst wide open desert nightmare.

4. In concludes with “a group of total strangers — all women.” If you need further explanation for that one, I’m guessing you’re new here.

But here’s the thing: Not only did it not suck donkey balls, it was actually wonderful. Yes, I had to do some EFT tapping on the plane, along with a few breathing exercises, and more than once I had to shut my eyes against the alleged ‘gorgeous’ desert landscape stretching out endlessly around us as we drove through it. (Deathly dry and vegetation-free is not gorgeous to me). But these fearful moments were brief and my coping mechanisms coped. Somewhere along the way, I realized I didn’t need to fake having my shit together at all, let alone four consecutive days, and best of all, the strangers didn’t stay strangers for very long.

It was a trip full to the brim with fun and learning. I was learning about my fellow travelers, about Santa Fe history, about pueblos and traditions of native peoples, about Georgia O’Keeffe and other local artists, and surprisingly, I found that taking in new information sparks curiosity, And curiosity calms me the fuck down because it leaves no room in my brain for judgement or criticism — not even of myself. It’s like Ted Lasso taught us, you can’t be curious and judgmental at the same time. Okay, he stole it from Walt Whitman but I heard it from Ted first.

That’s a pretty helpful life lesson to learn with virtually no sucking of donkey balls.

What I Learned About Santa Fe and My New Friends

That was really the end of this post but if you’re curious about what I learned in Santa Fe, keep reading.

We were a very diverse group of white women out there in the desert — all over 45, all from different backgrounds, occupations, home states and economic means, with wildly different life stories and aspirations for our next chapters.

We consisted of Marcy — a former art teacher turned professional nomad; Lisa — a middle school teacher who actually loves middle school humans; Teresa — an award-winning writer/writing teacher; Vicki — a payroll specialist; Irene — a woman with six graduate degrees (including a recent law degree) who is “just trying to stay useful and employed” at Apple, where she spearheaded Apple Wallet and all of its security/privacy innovations; and Martha — a retired landscape architect and our positivity champion who refused to let us sink into dark places when politics or the complications of today’s society came up. Incidentally, her name is considered a curse word in our home because it was Hubby’s wretched mother’s name and we do not speak it aloud. I had a hard time calling my new friend “Martha” because it felt like I was spitting on her.

Pueblos and Hornos

Led by Marcy, who served as our NextTribe travel coordinator, we visited a pueblo where we were welcomed by Norma and her family into their home for a cooking class. We sat around her huge dining table making empanadas and tamales, which were baked in one of the two traditional hornos that were built and operated by her husband and nephew. We met her sister, Toma, who was the relentless driving force behind restoring the Ohkay Owinge pueblo. As head of the Ohkay Owinge Housing Authority, she raised over $16 million to focus on the restoration of traditional housing, the rejuvenation of the community and cultural preservation efforts. We got to watch SEEDoc’s impressive, 15-minute mini-documentary about the project in the family’s living room as we drank tea and heard the behind-the-scenes tea.

Georgia O’Keeffe was more than giant coochie flowers

From there we moved on to a deep dive of Georgia O’Keeffe who it turns out, was a complete badass, starting her life over in the desert at age 61. All I knew prior to this was the coochie flowers that she swears were not coochies. But those were her early works. The bulk of her art was New Mexico landscapes at Ghost Ranch and surrounding areas. We stood at her most famous painting sites on Ghost Ranch, comparing prints of her work with the real-life landscape before us. We toured her home in Abiquiú — it took her 10 years to convince the Catholic church to let her buy the hacienda ruins from them, then another three years to have it painstakingly restored by another badass woman, Maria Chabot. Marie Chabot was a time traveler - simultaneously ahead of her time, deeply linked to the traditions of the past and yet still grounded in the present. Restoring the home meant simultaneously restoring the entire community of Abiquiú but it was a passion project for O’Keeffe because she wanted to grow her own food — to know exactly where all her food was coming from and have control of the the quality of the soil as recommended by nutritionist Adelle Davis, yet another badass woman far ahead of her time.

My spirit artist

Later, we toured another artist’s studio, a living artist this time — Alexandra Eldridge. Coincidentally, I had been blown away by her work when I saw it a week earlier at Boulder’s Smith Klein gallery — she had just begun exhibiting there two weeks prior. She told us stories of her magical life and how her art came to be and I absolutely fell in love. I love her art and I love the way she sees and thinks about the world and I want to be her when/if I grow up. As I left, I gave her my card and told her to call me next time she’s in Boulder because, as I vehemently insisted, “we are going to be friends.” I declared that in a tone that may have come off a little stalkery, but she said she would come find me. I hope she does.

The Miraculous Stairway

Say what you want about religion, the Catholics have fucking STYLE. I mean, look at the robes, the sculptures and stained glass, the architecture. Some of the most beautiful works of art on the planet were created for churches, especially the Catholic ones. In Santa Fe, there is an exquisite little example of this called the Loretto Chapel, and in the heart of the chapel is a spiral staircase surrounded by mystery.

The legend goes like this: Seven nuns from the Sisters of Loretto answered the call sent out by Santa Fe’s first bishop, Jean Baptiste Lamy, to found a local school for girls. First, the sisters had to learn to speak Spanish and then endure a treacherous journey from Kentucky, during which their Mother Superior died. They finally arrived in Santa Fe and opened their school in 1853. A few years later, they were able to begin construction of their chapel. Unfortunately, the architect died before building an access to the choir loft. The loft was too high and the chapel too small to accommodate a normal staircase — it would have taken up too much floor space, and severely reduced the seating capacity. What to do? Why, pray on it of course.

The sisters petitioned a novena (a nine-day prayer) to St. Joseph, the Patron Saint of Carpenters, for a solution. On the ninth and final day of the novena, a man arrived on a donkey, carrying basic carpentry tools and asked if he could help them. Umm… yes.

What he proceeded to create was more art than architecture. It is a 20-foot spiral staircase with two complete 360-degree turns and no central support system. No nails or glue were used; it is held together solely by wood. The carpenter only used very simple hand tools and a bowl of hot water for bending the wood. It defied all conventional architectural practices. Architects marvel at this structure and claim it would be a difficult feat to create, even today with modern tools and resources.

When the staircase was completed, the carpenter just disappeared, without receiving payment or claiming any credit for his work. The sisters and local townspeople searched for years because they wanted to thank him, but he was never seen or heard from again. The wood that was used in the stairway was spruce — a tree not native to New Mexico. In fact, the particular variety of spruce that was used has not been scientifically identified anywhere else in the world. Did you just get chills?

And this concludes the “What Xan Learned" portion of the Santa Fe tour.

Now, please enjoy this delightful slide show of a couple (dozen) more paintings and sculptures and architecture that caught my eye:

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Me: Maybe? At Gilly’s? But it’s a very squishy memory and I don’t know if I’m the one on the bull or if I’m watching someone else.

Many of my memories are squishy, which makes it hard to write a memoir. There will definitely have to be a disclaimer about everything being true to the best of my recollection and my recollection could include memories from movies, television, other people’s stories and outright falsehoods.

Other squishy memories from the ‘80’s:

I may have proposed to Charlie Sexton after his show in a dingy 6th Street dive bar in mid-80’s Austin? My friend Cathleen is buddies with Charlie now, and I’ve thought about asking her to verify this with him, but chances are, I was his thirteenth proposal that week, so the memory would be squishy for him too, if it exists at all.

I may have been arrested with a group of friends for breaking into an abandoned mansion on Fry Street in Denton, Texas. In our defense, it was raining and we needed a quiet, dry place to smoke. Were we arrested or were we just detained there and given a stern talking to? Somebody got handcuffed for sure, but I don’t think it was me? I’m pretty sure my first time in cuffs was at the Denver International Airport.

Hubby and I may have zigzagged through every aisle of the Kerrville HEB at 2:00 a.m., laughing hysterically and launching eggs at each other — like, dozens and dozens of eggs — until we were both so slimy we couldn’t stand and our security escort basically slid us out of the building. Why? Dunno. It’s squishy. I hope this one is a false memory because it seems really disrespectful to the legendary Texas institution that is HEB. Maybe it actually happened down the street at Super S? That’s acceptable. The good thing about squishy memories is that they are malleable.

I may have convinced some of my fellow counselors at the Texas Lions Camp to borrow some tables out of the dining hall in the wee hours of the morning, carefully place (throw) said tables in the swimming pool, climb atop the invisible tables so that it looked like we were standing on the water, and pose for what we hoped would be our group Christmas card. It didn’t work, of course. It was too dark and we were all drenched because there’s no good way to climb onto a table that has been carefully placed (thrown) in the middle of a swimming pool without getting wet, so it was decided that we should re-enact it in the daytime once the pool had been drained for the summer. But whose idea was it for all of us to wear tuxedos? And where did we even GET all those tuxedos?? Seriously, that took a level of coordination and logistical planning that I could not have pulled off. Or could I? Nah, it was probably Karen. Damn, I wish this one wasn’t squishy. I bet it was a great story.

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• Day One: cried during class.

• Day Two: cried at end of class but still in the gym.

• Day Three: cried after class as I walked to the car

• Day Four: cried while sitting in the car in the parking lot

• Day Five: cried in the car as I drove home

• Day Six: cried to the dog and cat once I got home

• Day Seven: didn’t cry.

• Day Eight and every proceeding day: Grunt and curse and whimper through class but there’s no more crying in CrossFit.

What’s all the crying about, you ask? Are you familiar with kinesiophobia? It’s basically a fear of exercise and it can stem from a variety of causes, from simple ‘gymtimidation’ — the intimidation caused by a gym full of bodies that are so monumentally more toned and fit than mine as to create an unnerving sensation that they might actually be a different, far superior, species — to triggering trauma from previous pain or anxiety about possible re-injury.

For me, it’s a subset of kinesiophobia called dyspnea — the fear of being out of breath. This may be a radical opinion but I’m just gonna go out on a limb and say it: I firmly believe that breathing is important; and as such, I firmly believe it should be fairly easy for me to achieve at all times. I feel that without even thinking about it, I ought to be able to inhale and exhale consistently and fluently, in a natural, unbroken and graceful rhythm; not the shaking, spasmodic gasps of maximum effort oxygen intake that my lungs are forced to perform when I compel my body to endure a grueling workout such as walking up a single flight of stairs, vacuuming the living room, or leisurely watering the outdoor plants.

Being winded, especially when combined with an elevated heart rate, feels exactly a panic attack to me and therefore, in my mind, exertion must be avoided at all costs. Ironically, “all costs” includes a worsening capacity to breathe.

About a year and a half ago I decided my deteriorating ability to inhale was becoming unacceptable. As a retired person and Fuckabout, I have many travels and adventures in my future and being able to walk from one escapade to the next is vital. So I found a personal trainer. For 18 months she pushed and stretched and therapied me (physically and mentally) into relearning to walk and stand and take a deep breath. Considering that I hadn’t comfortably taken a deep breath since about 1972, those 18 months felt like a pretty big challenge for both of us.

Then I went on Zepbound, one of the weight loss GLP-1s, and my primary care doc said I absolutely, positively HAD to eat at least 100 grams of protein daily and do real strength training while on these meds. Lots of protein? Can do. Strength training? Nnnnnnnn … don’t wanna. But then she said a magical thing: “Why don’t you join me in the twice weekly CrossFit strength training class I go to?”

Hmmm. “So my personal physician is going to be there with me if I have a stroke or heart attack or pass out from hyperventilating?” “Yes, Xan, I will be there with you when none of those things happen. And the Coach is doctor of physical therapy too.”

I tried it and discovered that the emotional release of taking 53 years worth of deep breaths all at once earns the tearful results listed above. But I have also earned some pretty amazing physiological results in the past eight weeks as well:

Achievements in CrossFit so far:

• Started deadlift at 15 pounds. Eight weeks later up to 80 pounds.

• Went to a concert at Red Rocks and didn’t need to stop on the walk from the parking lot to the upper check-in level. I did stop. But I didn’t need to.

• Started dead hang unable to pull my feet off the ground for even a second. Now can hold for three excruciating seconds.

• BP went from an average of 140/90 (that’s high) down to an average of 117/78 (that’s kinda perfect).

• And most importantly, while Fuckabouting this weekend in Seattle — a city made of nothing but bidirectional angles and hills, where it is literally possible to walk to and from a destination and go uphill both ways — I didn’t have to make a desperate, wheezing stop every half block. Even going uphill at what I’m pretty sure was a 60 degree angle, I was winded but didn’t stop.

At the end of class last week, my Coach came up alongside me as I was leaving and asked, “How are you liking it now that you’ve gotten into the groove of class?” I answered with a grim smile, “Oh, I hate every fucking second of this.”

She instantly held out her fist for a bump and said, “Yes, but you haven’t missed a class. I’m proud of you.”

I cried in the gym again.

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PS. I sent this story to my Coach and she had some important notes:

“One note on “CrossFit”, we technically aren’t doing CrossFit, but rather just renting the space and equipment from a CrossFit gym as they have everything we need. CrossFit is a licensed term where gym owners have to pay a licensing fee to CrossFit and have coaches that have gone through their proprietary coaching system, which I have not. I’m just your friendly neighborhood physical therapist that’s worked with a lot of women over the years and wanted to bring them together to do high-quality strength and conditioning which has been around since long before CrossFit existed in the early 2000’s.”

“CrossFit has an extremely intimidating connotation for most of the general population and women specifically, so we’ve tried to market our class as high level strength and interval training for women, but not CrossFit and that really has reduced the barrier for entry for a lot of of our participants that would otherwise never set foot in a gym like this.”

~Kristin Carpenter, PT, DPT, OCS, FAAOMPT; Co-founder, MEND; Orthopedic Clinical Specialist; Fellowship Trained in Manual Therapy

Kristen and I met in the seventh grade in Kerrville — the same year and at the same school as I met my Hubby. I was 12, she was just 10, having skipped a couple grades because she was so freaking smart. She is an immensely intelligent, brilliantly funny, creative spirit who somehow persuades her outsized personality to inhabit the teeny, tiny, pixie body of an adorable blonde forest elf. Her equally brilliant, funny and creative son, Graham, occupies a full-sized teenaged body, but you can definitely see a hint of elf in his eyes. Thirteen years ago, when Graham was barely in elementary school, he and Kristen endured the sudden loss of their beloved dad and husband, Brent. Pulling each other through that tragedy forged a bond and a resiliency that served them well during their July 4th ordeal.

In Kristen’s Words:

“I woke up at about 2:00 AM because it was thundering so loud. I went to the kitchen and opened the door to the carport and everything was okay. I used the bathroom and went back to the kitchen and water was coming in the door. I grabbed a bunch of towels and put them at the door. I checked on our pets (a dog and a cat) and Graham. Suddenly a bunch of water flooded into all doors. I woke up Graham and we got our kitty into his carrier and our dog leashed up. I thought we would get into our car and head upstream.

In seconds, we were up to our waists in water. All of the flooring and furniture came up making it hard to move within the house. We got to the kitchen and looked out the door and both of our cars were floating and the water was above the door. Graham said, ‘Get on the counter’, and we did, and he was screaming at me to get out of this tiny window above the kitchen sink. I thought there was no way I could fit out of that window. The refrigerator floated between us, and Graham had to swim under it to get to me. He got shocked with electricity when his feet hit the floor. Neither of us remembers who went first, but we got out of that window with both pets. There was an AC unit under that window that had floated up. We were kind of standing on that.

Graham was trying to get on the roof, but it is metal and he just couldn't. We talked and decided to throw the cat, in his carrier, as far up as we could. At that point, the river rose again and we were just in the drink. Mirabeau [standard poodle] was climbing on top of me and pulling me over and Grahm yelled to me that I had to let him go. So, I did. We free flowed in the angry water and I lost touch with Graham for about 40 minutes. A gigantic tree hit me and pulled me under water. I somehow got untangled. Still went with the flow and finally grabbed onto a tree. Started yelling for Graham (or vice versa -- we don't remember) and he called out. So, for a couple of hours, that sweet boy was yelling, "Don't let go mom!"

To make a long story longer, and I'm skipping some stuff, about that time we saw a flashlight and Graham and I started screaming "Help!" and then the light receded. Once the river went down, that light came back and the most wonderful neighbor saved us.

Later that same day, we went to look for missing friends. Remarkably, we were able to get to our house and the cat carrier was still on the roof. With a waterlogged Governor [kitty] in it. Even more remarkably, in the early evening some people came by where we were sheltered, and asked if anyone was missing a standard poodle. Mirabeau, our dog, was found alive three miles down the road. So we are whole. That said, we lost friends. And so many people lost friends and family. It’s hard to celebrate our luck.”

A Laundry List of Miracles

Clearly, their quick thinking and tenacity saved their lives, but I also believe that Brent must have been intervening as well. Take a look at the list of small but significant miracles that happened one after the other: Kristen was awakened by the thunder and therefore they were not ambushed still sleeping in their beds; Graham wasn’t killed by the electrocution; they were able to fit themselves and the pets through the small window; Kristen was hit by a giant tree — but not knocked unconscious — and was able to free herself from it’s underwater grip; after being separated and tossed by raging waters for more than 40 minutes they found each other clinging to trees within shouting distance; both the cat and the dog survived and were reunited the next day. I don’t know about you, but that feels like world-class otherworldly intervention to me.

The Rescuers

Kristen: “The wonderful man who saved us from the tree is Mike Little of Hunt. His wonderful wife, Alana gave us clothing and warm towels and put us by a propane stove. Without electricity, they made us coffee and made warm soup (immediately) for the tiny children who had bravely and fiercely been clinging, naked and cold, on roofs before Mike rescued them too. The children were visiting grandchildren from two families. Eleven years old, four, barely three and a baby. The four-year-old was naked on a roof holding on to a vent pipe for hours.

We were then all sheltered and fed and clothed by the magnificent John and Dee Elliott (also of Hunt) for the remainder of that very long day. The Elliott's son, Brooks, did a scouting mission and found out that he could get us into Kerrville in his very large vehicle. We were stopped by law enforcement. Brooks explained that he was taking us to my 93-year-old Mom’s, and they let us pass. I think you can imagine how my mother felt when she saw us coming through her door. There is no way I can express my gratitude to these people for the rest of my life. Which better, by God, be very, very long.”

Amen to that.

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Footnote: July 4, 2025 Flood Facts

I thought for her birthday it might be nice to replace all the To Do’s in her brain with To Be’s — the things that are vital for her to become and to experience in her lifetime. Some can be accomplished daily, some are rare or even once-in-a-lifetime achievements, but they’re all essential to a life well lived. Happy 27th Kid, and many more.

Love, Mom

Alijah’s ‘To Be’ List

• Be peaceful

• Be creative

• Be powerful

• Be fun and funny

• Be ready

• Be kind

• Be a friend

• Be steady and steadfast

• Be an artist

• Be a writer

• Be feral

• Be THAT motherfucker

• Be curious

• Be clever

• Be social

• Be anti-social

• Be a good mom to pets or children or strangers who need a mom

• Be strong

• Be healthy

• Be Love and Light with just a smidge of Fuck Off when necessary

• Be endlessly curious

• Be prolific with your talents

• Be alive

• Be real

• Be vulnerable

• Be proud

• Be a giver

• Be aware

• Be open

• Be safe

• Be adventurous

• Be a pain in the ass to someone who has earned it

• Be a beacon of hope for someone who has earned it

• Be giving of your heart with someone who has earned it

• Be wise

• Be forgiving, particularly of yourself

• Be furiously wholesome in the face of cynicism

• Be a bitch, be a ho

• Be a mensch

• Be a forest witch

• Be childlike and gaze at the world in wonder

• be your own fashion icon

• Be a crone who swears off fashion

• Be a legend

• Be motivated

• Be lazy

• Be faithful

• Be celebratory

• Be reserved

• Be relaxed

• Be a force of nature

• Be a wild woman

• Be the driver

• Be a genius

• Be an idiot and make the same ludicrous mistakes over and over until you learn the lesson properly

• Be a guide

• Be guided

• Be willing to be resistant

• Be brave

• Be fearless

• Be afraid and do it anyway

• Be bold

• Be soft

• Be the loudest person in the room

• Be humble

• Be a listener

• Be empathetic

• Be a seeker

• Be the bigger person

• Be petty and savor it for a moment before self-correcting

• Be serious and obsessive about something no one else seems to care about

• Be flippant when others around you are getting too serious

• Be immortal

• Be still

• Be a mystery

• Be unfathomable and illogical

• Be gregarious

• Be silent

• Be unfuckwithable

• Be cantankerous

• Be respectful

• Be respected

• Be a cautionary tale

• Be an inspiration

• Be proof of concept for an intelligent, caring human race

• Be literate

• Be alive

• Be a badass

• Be insightful

• Be honest

• Be sexy

• Be notorious

• Be memorable

• Be a fuckabout

• Be the poster child for over sharing

• Be an insatiable learner

• Be a dancer

• Be a drummer

• BE.

CROWDSOURCING: Please add any vital To Be’s that I have overlooked!

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“It’s quite common for cats to lie about being dead,” Nancy explained. “They don’t mean to — they either don’t know that they’re dead or they’re embarrassed about having died in a stupid way, so they deny it and say they’re fine.” My daughter’s cat, Steve, had been missing for a week and the proper Boulder response to a missing cat is fourfold:

1. call the Human Society,

2. post a zillion Lost Pet signs around the neighborhood,

3. flood social media with pleas for help,

4. then call an animal communicator (aka pet psychic) — not necessarily in that order.

The first three options yielded no results, so we called in my friend Nancy who happened to be a very talented animal communicator.

Apparently, Steve could see us; he was hanging out around the house and on the roof with the neighbor’s cat, Harry Potter, all the time. He seemed kind of offended that we couldn’t see him. “Why would you think I’m dead? I’m right here.” Sadly, Nancy confirmed that, despite his protestations, Steve was no longer with us. He had probably fallen victim to the coyote pack that roamed the prairie dog field on the other side of our fence. I told Steve he could hang around as long as he wanted.

Nancy and I chatted for a while about how our family could deal with this news, then as she was about to leave, she casually asked, “How are things going lately?” I’m not sure if it was the raw emotion of knowing we’d have to tell five-year-old Alijah that her beloved Steve wasn’t coming back, or if I was just in a really loony place then, but my interior dam broke and I tearfully blurted in one breath, “I’m a stay at home mom but Alijah is in kindergarten now so I’m only a part-time mom and what am I supposed to do with myself the rest of the time because I forgot how to be me over the last five years and why am I here and what is my purpose?”

Yeah. I’m a lot. You innocently ask me how I’m doing and I may just regurgitate an entire existential crisis all over your lap. But Nancy is one of those grounded, steadfast types who can implacably wipe away the word-vomit and carry on, unabated. She offered to do a life purpose reading and I eagerly accepted.

When a Pet Psychic Accidentally Fixes a Midlife Crisis

After she settled me into a peaceful kind of haze, Nancy began to guide me through a series of visualizations, each one going a bit deeper into my psyche. Eventually she asked me to imagine myself living a life that aligns with my values and passions. What does that look like?

Gilda Radner and Jane Curtin, laughing with each other from behind the SNL News desk.

That’s the vision that came to me, crystal clear, as if I had just adjusted the rabbit ears on my inner television set to NBC at 11:00 pm on a Saturday night in 1977. Nancy was confused, and I think a little disappointed that it wasn’t something a bit more profound. “Let’s go a little deeper. What does that mean to you?”

“It means that like Gilda and Jane, I’m supposed to make people smile. That’s it. That’s all. Just smile.”

Ever since then, anytime I have felt like I am not enough — not productive enough, not successful enough, not fill-in-the-blank enough, I ask myself whether I made anyone smile that day. If the answer is yes, I try to ease up and congratulate myself for another day of fulfilling my life’s purpose.

Good for me, right? But what if it’s not good for the people around me? What if I’m trying too hard and it makes others uncomfortable? Maybe not everyone I come into contact with wants to smile right at that fucking moment. Maybe I’m just tossing joke grenades into the conversation to make me feel better because I’m a thirsty little attention ho. Even if those jokes are interspersed with an occasional bit of quiet wisdom or anecdotal empathy, is that because I’m genuinely wise and empathetic or am I performing as wise and empathetic so that people will like me — and therefore, I will like me?

I Found My Tribe and Immediately Wondered If They Hate Me

I recently joined a group called Real Roots, an organization that matches up groups of likeminded women based on age, interests, beliefs, values, etc., with the goal of building genuine, deep, friendships. At our first meetup, ten fabulous women gathered at a local brewery where we laughed, we bonded, we overshared secrets; by all accounts, it was a smashing success. As we left, we all professed our mutual love and marveled at how lucky we were to find such an amazing collection of fun, high-energy people. As I got in my car, I was giddy — high on camaraderie, but as I drove home, the doubts infested my brain like that scene in World War Z where thousands of zombies swarmed like amphetamine-addled ants over the walls of Jerusalem.

Replaying the evening in my head, it felt like I was too “on.” Like I was performing as my authentic self rather than being my authentic self. For the rest of the night and most of the next day my thoughts spiraled: Did I talk too much? Was I too loud? Did my jokes pull focus from others and demand that I be the center of attention? Did I swear too much? Did they find my ample use of the word ‘cunt’ off-putting?

Probably yes to all of this. But I made them all smile.

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I hadn’t wanted to go to the party that Saturday night. I wanted to be virtuous and do Monday’s homework and then sleep through all of Sunday. So I had dropped my friends at the party and headed back to my dorm room; only to be struck by Fuck Beta Idiots.

I jumped out of the car to inspect the Mustang: a dent in the bumper the size of a cantelope; this was unacceptable. I whirled around swinging, punching Biff (I assume his name was Biff) in the face, screaming, “You dented my CAR!!!” in a voice that I hoped demonstrated the precise level of unacceptability. When the cops arrived, he whined about that punch (“She assaulted me!), but it was 1985 and Texas and they weren’t having his wussy nonsense. Instead, they kindly asked me if I was injured and did I want to go to the hospital? I declined.

The next morning I awoke to a nasty case of whiplash that morphed over the next few weeks into a randomly locking jaw and then eventually became a lifetime of TMJ issues. I got the best advice known to medical science (virtually zilch at the time), that the whole problem was obviously my fault because I must be clenching my jaw as I slept and the cure therefore, was to grind down all my teeth so that they couldn’t meet — or chew, I might add. Somehow, that astute intervention didn’t rectify the locking jaw.

Several years later, after Adam and I had been dating for a while, he realized how debilitating the locking jaw was and he encouraged me to keep searching for a solution. I consulted another clever, leech-bearing quack who gave me a prescription for a ludicrously powerful muscle relaxant. One month’s worth, no refills.

I don’t know if you’ve ever taken a powerful muscle relaxant for an entire month and then suddenly stopped, but the discontinuation has equally powerful repercussions. I didn’t sleep for four straight days.

I don’t know if you’ve ever failed to sleep for four straight days due to powerful muscle relaxant withdrawals, but the sleep deprivation has powerful repercussions. By the end of the fourth day, I got lost walking back to my apartment after class. I sat down and cried in the middle of the checkout line when the university store didn’t have my favorite gum. I talked to my Bono poster and may have heard him respond. I was deliriously unwell.

Meanwhile, Adam was driving trade show gear cross country from Dallas to Washington, DC and back to Dallas; with only a handful of quarters and a few scattered pay phones keeping us in brief contact once a day. Day Five of his roadtrip aligned with Day Four of my sleep deprived unhingement and when he finally found a moderately safe payphone in downtown DC that night, I had crumbled into weepy ruins.

Through heaving, labored sobs I begged him to come home and never leave me again, “I … (gasp)… just (gasp) … miss you (gasp) … SO MUCH (gasp)! Come home and marry me.”

He was confused. “Wait. Really? I’ve asked you to marry me more than a dozen times over the last two years. Why now?”

It was suddenly oh so clear to me: “Because I can’t live without you any more. Will you marry me?” He agreed. The gasping stopped and we were engaged.

It was a very bad, no good, really delusional proposal. But it worked.

Today is our 36th anniversary and I am immensely thankful that four days of withdrawal-insomnia broke my mind open enough to realize that Adam was my one and only.

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Sometimes you have to let your brain out to wander and graze. I’ve been making an effort to do that lately and I thought I’d share some of my brain’s ruminations in case they might be useful to someone else. Or maybe it’s all just self-indulgent claptrap, but either way, the shit needs to get out of my head. For your sake, I’m breaking the ruminations into three separate posts because no one needs to be stuck in side my brain that long.

I kinda hope this is one of those posts no one reads

I started my week with a cataclysmic meltdown — the kind where I end up ugly-crying on my knees, begging the Universe/God/Spirit of Tom Petty to show me the light that deems me worthy of existence so that I could get out of my pajamas and go take a shower in peace. You’ve been there, right? It started when I found out my friend Tammy had a massive stroke three months ago and is still hospitalized, barely able to speak or stand. She’s younger than me, far healthier than me, hustling through life with the seemingly endless drive it takes to raise four kids and work full-time.

The fucking unfairness of it all broke me. She’s fighting for her life, trying to regain basic bodily autonomy while I am sitting at home, still in my pjs at 1:00 pm, trying to drum up the energy to go upstairs and reacquaint myself with at least one piece of the exercise equipment collecting dust in our dry and deserted “home gym.” If anyone is supposed to have a catastrophic stroke it’s me. Tammy has done everything right but my unfit ass gets off scot free; unscathed by the extra hundred pounds I carry? For three years no, my annual calcium heart scans scored a perfect zero. How is that fair?

It’s not. And I feel massive guilt about it. Survivor’s guilt, white privilege guilt, whatever guilt you got, I’ll take it. Compound that with the guilt I feel for every unearned bit of goodness I’ve been given throughout nearly six decades of life and I guess my conscience hit critical mass.

The panic, the cringy discomfort of having more good fortune than my actions have warranted — seriously, my life is proof we are living in a simulation — has been building exponentially lately because of my retirement. My Hubby does SO much and provides us with everything, damn near killing himself so that I can retire to sit at home and be an artist, writer, and fuckabout. He’s out traveling around the country rescuing one chaotic job site after another while I’m at home with the dog, the cat, and six tons of crushing self-reproach which results in the oppressive procrastination that prevents me from actually doing the art and the writing.

Hubby always says, “I couldn’t do any of this without your support,” and part of me believes that. Another part of me, a deep down, core belief part, maintains that I have to do to deserve.

Simply existing and morally-supporting and being a goddamned ray of fucking sunshine and delightfully amusing badassery doesn’t meet the requirements set forth by that malevolent, sadistic voice niggling in my brain whenever I try to let the guilt go and experience gratitude in its place.

The super stupid thing is, I would NEVER accept that kind of self-condemnation coming from my daughter or Hubby or even a total stranger. So on that ugly-crying, desperate, pleading day, I tried to give myself the grace and wisdom that I hope I would bestow on them or any fellow human; the grace that the spirit of Tom Petty would grant: YOU. ARE. ENOUGH. I am enough. Then I got up off my knees and — still in my pajamas — did a balls-to-the-wall workout in the alleged home gym and showered in a tolerable level of peace.

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Rumination Part One: I really wish the Universe would quit trying to help me grow as a person.

Springtime is prime season for artists to apply to all the juried summer art festivals. For the first time ever, I am applying to a few of the Colorado festivals this year. Every application requires a ‘live’ photo of your booth setup — they wanna make sure your display isn’t gonna bring their fancy-schmancy vibe down and make the attendees wonder if they really should be spending $6500 on a framed pencil. (They should not).

No problem, I thought, I don’t have a photo of my booth because I’ve never had a booth but I’m sure I can create a reasonable facsimile with no supplies and very little time.

The plan was simple. I’d just use the little tent we got for sitting in shady comfort at the bluegrass festival. Then I’d buy a cheap folding table with a cheap cover and some cheap shelf units and cheap display stands (cheap + cheap + cheap = not at all cheap) and fill the whole enchilada with a few art pieces I’ve kept for myself. If I also Photoshop in the non-existing pieces that I intend to paint, I should have enough to fill a booth. And if I start painting now, by show time, I will have enough inventory built up to pass for a genuine exhibition, considering that most of my customers will want to order a personalized piece, not buy something off the shelf, so it’ll all be good by July. See? Easy peasy.

First application: the Broadmoor Traditions Fine Arts Festival in Colorado Springs. Deadline: three days away. Furiously clicking away on Amazon, my credit card near the melting point, I pushed my Prime two-day delivery guys into the redline — they were screeching up to my doorstep in a nonstop frenzy — until finally, all my ‘cheaps’ had arrived with plenty of time to spare (i.e. 13 hours to deadline).

That’s when the time suck countdown began.

• My cheap display stand was an unacceptable smudgy grey color and had to be repainted black before I could add the zebra print wallpaper — subtract 2 hours.

• The cheap shelf units were an infuriating pile of loose screws, mislabeled shelves and assembly instructions written in what I can only assume was ancient Sanskrit mixed with Mandarin Hanzi and cat scratches. Subtract 2 hours.

• I set up the tent in the back yard and instantly, Colorado went all Colorado-y, blasting my poor little bluegrass shade tent with 60 mph wind gusts and causing it to suffer what any decent architect would accurately deem “substantial structural damage.” It was a twisted pile of aluminum and torn polyester fabric. Subtract 1 hour.

Me: Ok. I can still do this. I’ll just run to Target and get another tent.

Target: Not so fast. All our tents are blue; art shows require white.

• The Walmart two towns over had white tents. Subtract 1.5 hours round trip.

• I set up my new white tent, this time carefully staking it to the ground and adding sandbags. Then I started moving my not-fully-dry display stand and not-fully-assembled shelves (a lot of zip ties and tape were involved) into the tent, only to be hit in the back of the head by a tent leg as it somersaulted across the yard because the wind was still being an asshole. Aaaand back to Walmart. Subtract 1.5 hours round trip AGAIN.

• I built the third tent — the last one in Walmart’s inventory — and tied both its back legs to our 8-foot fence. I set up all the display shelves and stands, the table, placed the bags and jackets in a carefully curated artistic array and stepped back to start taking photos … and the entire tent flip backwards over the 8-foot fence it was attached to. Subtract 2 hours. Add tears.

  

• With three hours left until the deadline, the nonsensical railing at Mother Nature began: “Fine. You can have the fucking tent, you gale force twatbucket!” paired with much hurling, flinging, and chunking of tent bits, chairs and tables.

• Right. Deep breath. I’d just have to set the display up by itself, then Photoshop the tent into the scene along with a substantial portion of the artwork. Subtract 2 hours and 59 minutes.

• With seconds to spare, I upload my final booth photo-concoction, press submit and instantly get an error message saying my photo is too large to upload. Edit the resolution, re-upload, press submit and voila! I have missed the deadline by 32 seconds.

Normally, at of these mishaps, my first instinct would be to interpret the annoying obstacle or setback as a “sign” that I shouldn’t be trying this.

My lack of confidence would have declared, “Clearly, when the Universe throws this many hindrances in my path I am supposed to read the fucking room and give up already.” But this time… yeah, I totally did that again. “Fuck it, I’ll try again next year.”

At least, that was my first reaction. But then I heard a brand new voice in my head, a composed, steadfast voice asking, “Is it the Universe sending me a sign or is that fucker just trying to teach me perseverance?”

So I did a brand new thing. I kept going. Every time. When I missed the deadline, I took a screenshot of my application with the time clock in the upper corner marking the 32 seconds of tardiness and emailed it, along with an explanation of the photo sizing issue, to every festival contact I could find until the judging committee agreed I could submit my entry. Aaaaand I was waitlisted.

Still feels like a victory, though.

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