Author Archives: Rachelle

About Rachelle

I live on the west coast but hail from the eastern one and I love the things I love. I think life should be the pursuit of happiness, because what's the point otherwise? I'm a writer, a dancer, an unlikely MBA and a yoga teacher. I live on a beautiful island in the Pacific Northwest with my dashing and fun husband, Adam and our two furry cat-kids, Maui & Hermes.

Magnumbo, She Wrote.

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I’ve been taking yoga at a different studio as of late, which has been a refreshing change. I love my yoga studio, but they’re offering fewer classes when I need them (and after all, shouldn’t my preferences dictate the schedule?). I do my own Mysore practice at home four days of the week, so I like to get my led Primary Series on on Fridays and Sundays.

Today was my first Sunday led Primary at this new studio (it’s not a new studio—it’s just new to me). It was AWESOME. One of my favourite teachers who I haven’t seen in ages has been teaching there, so it was great to take her class again.

Now, Primary Series is tough. Ashtanga yoga is a particularly physically demanding style of yoga. And, I was sore from ballet class yesterday, so it was a little extra effort. This is what happens when you only pull on tights and plié every other month: just enough time in between to make it really hurt. Apparently I beat myself up emotionally and physically. I’m a big jerk.

The real point of this little vignette is that upon leaving class, I am, as they say, STARVING TO DEATH. That may be a little bit of hyperbole (is that an oxymoron? I think it is…). I have been known to embellish my tales from time to time. I was pretty hungry, though, because Ashtanga is practiced on an empty stomach. So, it was 11 am, I hadn’t eaten breakfast and I’d worked pretty hard in Primary.

Where does this leave us? It leaves us coming out from the studio in Market Square, directly above Wannawafel, where the fragrant and intoxicating aroma of waffles drifts upwards on its way to heaven and my nostrils. Do you know what waffles smell like? THEY SMELL LIKE HEAVEN AND VANILLA COVERED IN SYRUP AND WHIPPING CREAM WITH STRAWBERRIES. THEY SMELL LIKE DELICIOUS LOVE AND SEX AND EVERY SINGLE THING DESIRABLE ON THIS BLUE PLANET. Okay, I don’t actually think waffles smell sexy, but they do smell  pretty damn attractive to me. Maybe I do. Maybe I find waffles sexy. It’s impossible to say for sure (I’m pretty sure).

I didn’t get a waffle. But here I am, over 12 hours later, writing about them. That’s the power of waffles. WAFFLE POWER.

Oh hello. Some people tell me I look like Tom Selleck.

Oh hello. Some people tell me I look like Tom Selleck.

So, Netflix is pretty much the best thing ever. Not in terms of my time management, but in terms of my entertainment, it is a success. I am currently writing this while I should be going to bed, so there you have it. I’m too successfully entertained to manage my time. Well played, Netflix. Well played.

I love that I can watch entire seasons of a show with a single case of strep throat. Or a single case of laziness. Whichever the case might be (it is most often the latter). Some of the shows that have fallen prey to my inability to pace myself are: Merlin, Once Upon a Time, Bones and Dark Shadows. I’m pretty sure there are more, but now I’m distracted by Dark Shadows: Can you believe that storyline has been reduxed three times? It must be financed by Revlon or some other cosmetic company with an excess of smokey eyeshadow. So cheesy. And yet, I couldn’t look away.

What I really love is that you can watch every episode of ye olde favourites like Columbo, Murder She Wrote and Magnum P.I. I love them. They don’t make shows like this anymore. There’s so much facial hair, blue eyeshadow and shoulder pads. And so much ACTING. ACTING amongst the incredibly busy prop design. I suppose you had to act very much to overcome the details of the sets. I haven’t even mentioned the orchestra scores. There’s a lot of sounds (most noticeably the piccolo so you know when things get dire), accompanied by a lot of background noise and, blessedly, no laugh tracks at all. I wonder if I can watch MacGyver on Netflix… (just for the record, Adam and I already have all these shows and watch them regularly. It’s okay to be jealous. We’re very trendy.)

OMIGOSH, this episode of of Murder She Wrote has a guy whose pants go up to his nipples. At least to his nipples. I don’t know if people wore their nipples in the same place way back then (I’m kidding: I know nipples don’t move). It does NOT look good. Especially because they are cream riding pants <<read: they are fitted>>. Wow, and this lady’s pants go up extremely high, as well. This is clearly a thing, these pants going all the way up there.

The clothes in these shows are amazing. Magnum P.I. wore very tight short shorts. Actually, I don’t really know that for sure. I’m basing that purely on speculation. The last time I watched that show was probably during the original airing (holy crap I’m old). But seriously, I can’t remember what I ate for dinner yesterday: I can hardly be trusted with wardrobe recollection from a million years ago.

Also, my mom loved Tom Selleck and I used to think he’d be a cool stepdad. I still sort of do, actually: I could’ve been in movies. Or at least television (how I’m not in Glee or Once Upon a Time, I’ll never know). All you need is a famous parent. DON’T EVEN TELL ME I’M WRONG BECAUSE I’M NOT WRONG ON THIS ONE. Lily Collins. Liv Tyler. Angelina Jolie. Drew Barrymore. Charlie Sheen (oh jeez. I’m mentioning Charlie Sheen on my blog: He’s gonna be so pissed). Kate Hudson (I want to be her). I mean seriously, you guys: It’s not fair. It’s like junior high all over again, or anywhere I’m not cool enough to be on the list. I’m very cool. Ask Grimby or Adam. They’re not biased.

This isn’t a very intriguing post, but in my defence, I’m tired. Here’s a treat for you. You’re welcome.

Night, y’all.

Yoga Hair

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I’m back in Seattle, where it rains like it means it. I was actually impressed this morning at the volume of rain falling from above. First, there was the volume in terms of the sheer quantity of water hitting the roof. But I was even more impressed by the volume in terms of the deafening sound of it. So impressed, actually, that I couldn’t get back to sleep. Rain 1: Bay 0.

It’s not so much that I hate the rain, it’s that I can’t stand when it rains All. The. Time. Of course, it sort of does rain All. The. Time. I have cute rain wear and I like wearing rain boots, but all my favourite shoes are little leather ballet flats and have leather soles (yes, I know they are impractical for someone living in a temperate rainforest. Whatever.). So really, Rain; you’re messing with my footwear options. Enough. Enough now.

Okay, so that’s been dealt with. I’m in my favourite Starbucks. You know, the one with Beardy McBeardyson? He’s here and this time he’s sharing his table with some guy in a track suit (he must be so athletic). Turns out he’s quite chatty this morning (Chatty Keith is missing): I’ve overheard him discussing his credit (he’s hoping to get some soon) and his ability to produce attractive offspring. According to Beard Man, he makes beautiful babies. Well, all except his youngest daughter (his words, not mine—I’ve never seen her, after all), who (unfortunately, I take it) looks just like him. Nice one, Dad. Sheesh!

There’s also a dude in front of me who doesn’t wear underwear. This is not an educated guess, either. It’s based on empirical evidence; namely, that he’s not wearing a belt and while he sits on a stool by the window (as he is currently doing), I can see a rather impressive expanse of cheek and crack, with nary an underthing in sight. I feel like there’s no way he’s not aware of his predicament, either. There’s distinct draft that sneaks in each time the door opens, and this is a Starbucks, after all. In downtown Seattle. The door is opening a lot.

UPDATE: He just stood up and turned around and I’m pleased to note that he has those incredulous eyebrows, which I’d like to attribute to his discovery of his cheekiness (hahahaha), but in fact I think may be in response to the conversation he’s having with the dreadlocked pontificator who’s sharing the secrets of Nimh with him. Or so I assume. I mean, what else could they possibly be discussing, right? Yes, I am.

That’s my morning report. You’re welcome. On to our feature presentation: Yoga Hair.

As you know, I love yoga. Lurve it. I practice and teach Ashtanga. I also teach powerflow and yin/restorative classes, but that’s neither here nor there, nor the point of this post. And yet I keep in here, as though I’m not the boss of my keyboard and the backspace button. Fascinating.

Yoga is good for you. See? It's on a cake!

Yoga is good for you. See? It’s on a cake!

 

I took my first yoga class when I was 15, I believe, as a part of a summer ballet intensive. I took a hot yoga class when I was maybe 20 or 21 for an article I was writing for school (incidentally, I named the article “Some Like it Hot,” which my prof thought was a clever connection. At that time, I didn’t know where I’d heard that line and had no idea it was the title of a famous movie with an even-more-famous star. But I smiled and took the credit anyway.).

Anyway, that hot yoga class inspired me to find another yoga studio, and the rest, as they say, is history. I’ve been practicing Ashtanga yoga for probably about nine years or so, after dabbling about in various forms of Hatha flow. Ashtanga is good yoga for Type A people/dancers. It’s hard, it’s got a demanding schedule (1–1.5 hours, 6 days per week) and it’s super traditional. Why does it take so long to do each day? Here’s why: All these asanas, or postures, on both sides, with a vinyasa (like a mini sun salute) in between each side and each asana. I’m excited just writing that!

So, while yoga is extremely beneficial to body, mind, spirit and soul, I must admit that it’s hard on the hair. And here is why: Several postures have a damaging impact upon my follicles. Setu Bandhasana gives me dandruff, just at my front hairline. I think it’s from the pressure of gravity, and even worse, my entire body weight, mostly resting on my forehead. It’s hard to say, but my scalp just gives up.

Then there’s Supta Kurmasana, which is difficult for my body at the best of times (my scoliosis tips my pelvis to the right and makes hip openers hard). When I’m skootching (official word of yoga: Skootchasana) my feet in from Kurmasana, my feet often catch my wayward hair and then when I try to lift up, I yank out handfuls of hair (okay, maybe 10 hairs, but still. STILL.). I can hear it. It’s not a good sound, the sound of hair protesting being yanked out from the root. And then my practice is spent mourning the loss of all that hair that wasn’t ready to go yet. Because that’s where my mind should be going in a yoga practice. To vanity.

Well, that’s kind of it really. Just two postures. So much hair drama for so few asanas. I still do it, though, so clearly yoga is worth it. In case my hair drama was turning you off of trying out some classes, just remember that my hair is particularly wayward at the best of times, so of course it would misbehave in yoga. It feels all free and relaxed and does whatever it wants. But yoga: Do it. Just make sure your hair is well pulled back first.

 

On the tip of my tongue…

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Good grief. I had an amazing topic all planned out and thought briefly that I should write it down. So briefly, in fact, that I forgot to do it. But then I decided that it was so obvious that I didn’t need a written reminder. And then I promptly and completely forgot what I was going to say.

Classic.

I even thought that if I stopped thinking about it, it would come back to me. It did not. It could be that the memory knew that I was secretly still thinking about it, with the hopes of tricking it into making a return appearance. I’m very tricky, you see. It’s tricksy when you are smarter than your thoughts.

This is when I had something else on the tip of my tongue. It was delicious.

This is when I had something else on the tip of my tongue. It was delicious.

So, I will write something else, instead. Did you watch Game of Thrones last night? Because I surely did. It’s so good. THIS SHOW, IT IS SO GOOD. The hair is quite inspiring. Man. Here’s a thing: I’ve never really wished harm on someone else. Okay, so that’s not entirely true: not really really, if you know what I mean. I’ve certainly entertained less-than-philanthropic thoughts from time to time, but not like this. I want Joffrey to depart this blessed make-believe world. In a hurry and in a painful and humiliating way. For crying out loud, how is that douchebag still alive in the show? And since when do I refer to a kid as a douchebag? I don’t like who I’m becoming, Game of Thrones. But he is. He is a monster. He makes me afraid to procreate and he’s not even real. Maybe his mom, too. She’s a real piece of work. Apple didn’t fall far from that tree, if you know what I mean.

Anyway. I’m getting all riled up and Joffrey isn’t even what I want to write about. What I do want to write about is how this show is about the only fantasy world I don’t want to live in. As you know, I’ve long wanted Narnia to be real. I’m not even kidding: I’m kind of holding onto a thin feathery hope that I just haven’t peeked through the right wardrobe/closet/painting yet. There’s still a chance…

Harry Potter’s world? UM YES PLEASE. I’d be an amazing witch. Wow, I just read that out loud. Sounds different than what I’m thinking, that’s for sure. But, I’d love to fly and cast spells and see magical creatures. I’d even like for the world of Twilight to be real (as long as I didn’t get killed. Actually, that kind of goes for all of the magical fantasy worlds I want to be a part of: I don’t want to expire in them. That’d be lame.). I’d look amazing if I glittered. As it is, I have to buy mineralized skin finish from MAC to achieve that look. Plus, I’d love to see what I’d look like as a vampire. And it would be fun to run that fast.

But the Seven Kingdoms? Not ideal, really. Crap seriously happens and it is not pretty. It’s just terrifying. You’ve got Whitewalkers, who are pretty nasty dudes. And they create Wigts, who are basically zombies. There’s a demon-birthing witch and dragons (though the dragons are pretty cool). And that’s not even the scary part! It’s how horrible people are to each other that really does me in.

You can’t trust anyone and you sure as heck can’t get attached to them. I mean, here I am, all, “Well, the situation is most certainly dire, but he is a main character and, after all, he IS Sean Bean, they can’t kill hi—OMIGOSH THEY JUST CUT OFF HIS HEAD! IN FRONT OF HIS YOUNG DAUGHTERS!” This kind of trauma happens All. The. Time. Sure, sometimes, it happens to someone you really wanted to suffer and then you’re all happy, while simultaneously feeling guilty and like you need a shower. And an adult. WHAT IS THIS SHOW DOING TO ME?

Anyway. There you have it. The only make-believe world I don’t want to daydream about joining. Also, Adam and I like to hum the theme song, like this: “Do-do-do-doo, do-do-do-doo, do-do-do-doo, do-do-do-doo.” We’re very talented, musically.

Do you watch GOT? Do you kind of know what I mean? And are you also waiting for Joffrey to die a swift-yet-prolongued-and-incredibly-painful death?

 

 

On taking risks.

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Okay, so I’m not a big risk-taker. I guess, in retrospect, I have taken some leaps of faith, like deciding to go back to school full-time to get my MBA. In the midst of a massive global recession, no less. Okay, well, the market didn’t actually tank until my third week or so of classes, so really, it wasn’t that risky when I went in. But still. Still.

There are, however, some smallish risks (risklets?) that I take on a daily basis:

  • Despite knowing better, I continue to use Q-tips to clean my ear canals. 
  • I cut veggies (or fish, or anything requiring cutting) like a madwoman. Or so I’ve been told. Generally by people who have cut themselves seriously.
  • I use Groupons for haircuts, much to Adam’s chagrin. Those of you who know me understand the risk in this. Those of you who don’t can eagerly await a blog post on this very topic.
  • I wear yoga tights for pants. I guess that’s not so much risky business, but I am risking judgment from strangers. Or some acquaintances.
  • I jaywalk. I’ll even jaywalk in front of police, though only if I think I can disappear into the crowds before they catch me. It’s more of a calculated risk, this one.
  • I don’t always rewash my pre-washed veggies. Especially the greens. You know, the ones that say they’ve been washed nine trillion times? Or at least three times.

I know, I know: I’m INSANE. I’m practically a maverick. What do I think I am? Invincible? Well, maybe. Just a little bit.

However, just this very evening, whilst cutting (unsafely, of course) some veggies for a salad, I shook out some spinach from the bag. I even thought to myself, out loud, so I could use quotes when I blogged about it later, “I should totally wash these.”

As I put one in my mouth, I thought, “Meh, what are the odds of actually getting ecoli on my spinach?” Probably pretty high, based on some recent news, but that’s beside the point. I don’t even know what Cryptosporidium is, but it sounds pretty (I’m sure it isn’t).

In the face of this menacing peril, I laughed, because that’s what mavericks do when they take risks, grabbed a leaf, popped it in my mouth and began to munch it. This is about when I noticed something in the bag of aforementioned spinach. Upon closer inspection (said spinach is still being chewed in my mouth), I discover that “something” is, in fact, a beetle of some sort.

And then I died.

Okay, I maybe didn’t die or even faint. I did, however, spit all the spinach out of my mouth into the sink, along with the beetle, which went down the drain. I may have run the garburator. What? WHAT?! DON’T JUDGE ME FOR KILLING THE BEETLE. IT SHOULDN’T HAVE BEEN IN MY SALAD TO BEGIN WITH. I don’t like bugs, though more specifically I don’t like bugs with eight or more legs. When they’re in my food, I don’t like any of them.

And no, I am most definitely not reassured that the beetle would’ve at least been clean, on account of his being washed at least three times, according to the marketing on the bag.

I’ve been all twitchy ever since. I keep thinking it’s on me. Or it’s called all it’s friends and they sneaking in under the doors.

I don’t have a picture for this post. No, I did NOT take a photo of the beetle. I’m okay with that.

Is it so much to ask for, really?

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I know I’m fortunate. I live in a beautiful country. I was born to privilege compared to many around this planet. I’ve never had to wonder if my water was safe to drink, or if I would be able to get an education. I’ve always had enough food and a warm bed to sleep in at night. I’ve had more than enough, though I am aware I have often wished for more.

It’s the human condition, right?

I try to be thankful. I try to cultivate my gratitude. I try to be generous and loving. I try to help others. I try to spread joy and promote peace.

So, is it too much to ask that my pets get along? I mean, really, you guys. These animals? They’re not friends. They are not buddies. Some of them (ahem, Maui—don’t even try to look like you don’t know who I’m talking about) aren’t even civil.

All I’ve ever wanted is for pets that would snuggle up and be all cosy together. Okay, that’s a lie—I’ve wanted for much more than that, including, but not limited to: shoes, travel, unicorns (if they’re not real, then how do we know what they look like? Answer me that, Smarty Pants! I know—my logic is flawless.), magic (wardrobes, wands, wizards, etc), the ability to fly and more shoes. And shoes.

But still. I mean, if I was a furry creature, I would want nothing more than to snuggle up on another furry creature. IT WOULD BE THE MOST COMFORTABLE THING EVER. Amiright? Yes, yes I AM correct. I submit that it would be even more comfortable than leaping onto a freshly laundered and-still-warm-from-the-dryer pile of bedclothes. And that is saying something, because I have done that and it is truly lovely. Seriously. Try it. You won’t regret it. Chuck a couple of dogs and cats in there, plus perhaps an angora rabbit (though I think perhaps angora is a goat, which might make for a less pleasing snuggle pile. Goats are really grumpy bastards. And they’d wait till you were all comfy and then they’d go and do this just when you’re dozing off.).

Come on. You knew I had to get Goats Yelling Like Humans in here at some point. You knew that.

A coworker showed me a photo of her new corgi—his legs are SO short!—being snuggled by her cat. My cats don’t go near my dog unless it’s to take a swipe at him. He chases them endlessly. Especially Maui, which I think we can all agree is a bad idea. She will cut him. She’s tweaky and temperamental and erratic. She’s not all there. There’s a cost to looking that pretty.

I’ve seen homeless people’s pets behaving with much more appreciation and decorum than my own spoiled pets. Maybe not Grimby. I’m pretty sure he’d snuggle them if he could get near them without losing a bulgy brown eye. And to be honest, I think Hermes would be much friendlier and open to finding brotherhood if his unrequited love hadn’t been squelched like so many forlorn romantics before him.

I don't think she knows he's there...

I don’t think she knows he’s there…

This is pretty much as close as they’ve ever gotten. Best two out of three, I guess.

"He's looking at me right now, isn't he?"

“He’s looking at me right now, isn’t he?”

A placeholder

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Gosh, I’ve been gone too long. I promised I’d write every single week and here I’ve gone and missed two. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to post and thought about you often. I’m not going to justify it with an excuse. I’ll just say I’ve been doing some growing and learning and it hasn’t been particularly graceful (again). But it’s good. It’s perfect. I’m right where I need to be and it’s making me a better Bay. But it’s hard. March is hard this year, all around me.

I need to go to bed—I have a well-being plan I’m following right now, so bedtime is pretty important these days. I’ll write more about that later.

So, I don’t have time to write anything momentous and earth-shakingly awesome tonight (or even ridiculous and trifling). But I do have a new band to add to my list of favourites and to share with you. Thank you Songza and 8Tracks for showing me that I am, in fact, a hipster who adores indie music. My amazing coworker Jill said she knew it all along. I think it’s my shoes…

Passenger. I love it. The melodies, the lead singer’s sweet and funny voice. The lyrics. I was walking to work today when I listened to “All the Little LIghts.” I mean, really listened, and heard, the lyrics. I invite you to listen to it now. Really listen, and hear it.

We’re born with millions of little lights shining in the dark
And they show us the way
One lights up
Every time we feel love in our hearts
One dies when it moves away

What makes your little lights go out? Do you notice? Don’t let them flicker and fail.

Light them up. Light up your world. We can use a little more light.

 

The Free Way, or, A Canadian Takes the Wheel

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The Free Way. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Freedom.* Who doesn’t like things that are free? Really? ‘Cause I sure do!

* Here’s an interesting and little-known factlet (not quite big enough to be a full-blown, grown-up fact): Whenever I type the word “freedom”, I add an “e” to the end. I just did it again, there.

Actually, though, what I’m talking about is the freeway. BECAUSE I DROVE IT YESTERDAY. TWICE. All by myself. Yeah huh. Me. Bay. Baysie. The princess. Her royal highness. I didn’t get lost or anything, either. Turns out it’s not as terrifying as I thought. I mean, sure—I miss my exit and boom: I’m enroute to Mexico, but you know what? I could use a little sun. And heck, I’ve been wanting to revisit SoCal anyway. I’m half tempted to “miss” my exit tonight on my way back to Van and take the I5 south by “accident”.

I mean, fuck it, right? What would Frodo have done? Bilbo? THEY WOULD’VE GONE SOUTH. Granted, they would also have been accompanied by dwarves, elves and a wizard.  As well as some huge dudes who were highly skilled in the ways of dispatching wrong-doers, which would surely be of great use, if not just great comfort, should I get lost on the tough streets of Compton. Or Astoria. You never know. Remember the Goonies? There could be robbers and pirate ships (I hope there are robbers and pirate ships, otherwise this Grand Adventure is a lot like a road trip).

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, on the interstate. Gripping the steering wheel like I was trying to strangle a salmon. I was a little worried about all the exits, since in the US, I’ve noticed that they like to sign the exits about 30 metres past them. How exciting. I was changing lanes like a pro, mostly because I was terrified of accidentally finding myself in an exit to Abu Dhabi (who knows where those express tubes go?). I was very Canadian about it, waving at everyone, ducking my head and saying, “Sorry, sorry: I’m Canadian,” with a very sheepish smile. As we Canucks are wont to do, eh?

You would not want to learn to drive a standard in Seattle. The streets are really steep. I mean it, guys. You want to have a magic touch with your clutch. You also want there to not be a Porsche behind you. To help you understand, I’ve created this graphic so you can see what I’m talking about:

 

This genuine photograph is 100% accurate.

This genuine photograph is 100% accurate.

And the street parking? Well. What can I say about it? They’re just car seats, right? You can get them detailed and that nervous-urine smell can be cleaned right out.

 

You can't tell, but you're parallel parking between an Escalade and a Maserati.

You can’t tell, but you’re parallel parking between an Escalade and a Maserati.

So, in closing, I will say I’m very proud of myself. I’m an all-star. I didn’t pee in fear once (I made sure to go before I left the restaurant, because I was nervous and figured if I got lost, the need to pee would only make my predicament more frazzled). Yay for not losing bladder control!

Lastly, I’m in the same Starbucks as last time I posted from here. And you know what? Chatty Keith is here again! And so is the beardy guy who’s intently taking over the world (or playing Mario Kart). They must be regulars. And for me to recognize that, I guess that means I am, too. YAY I’M PART OF THE TEAM. WE ARE A TEAM!

Sort of.

P.S. I didn’t lose my shit yet this weekend. Amazing. And relieving.

 

 

Juggling a couple fewer balls.

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Oh, I am crass.

This is a post about balls. You may or may not want to read it.  Indeed, I am talking about gonads. Grimby’s, to be specific. Though, I promise this post has less to do with the actuals balls themselves than it is about the circumstances surrounding the removal of them.

I’ll stop using synonyms for Grim’s cojones pretty quickly here, I promise. I mean, after all, how many ways are there to say huevos? Evidently, there are several.

I would also like to mention that it is difficult to type when your dog insists on gluing himself to your side to chew on his favourite soggy pumpkin stuffy. Here’s what it looks like:

So comfy

This is where Grimby is sitting while I type this. It’s very meta.

And then occasionally, he walks across my laptop, because obviously the other side of me is more comfortable. I mean, I love that he snuggles, but sometimes it’s a little tricky to get things done, though I suppose I could always go sit in my chair at my desk. Which is specifically designed for such activities as typing. You know, as opposed to lounging in horrible posture on the couch, craning my neck like a raptor whilst I tap out my thoughts on the laptop resting on my lap.

Nah.

Okay, so on Thursday, I bring the Mayor to the vet office in the early hours. All is well. He actually loves going to the vet, possibly because he loves everything except baths. And peeing in the rain and having his teeth brushed and his nails clipped.

I go back later that afternoon to pick him up and here’s what unfolds (you just knew there had to be something dramatic, right?): I chat with my favourite admin lady, who is all lovely and friendly and clearly adores Grimby more than all other patients. I know this because when I showed up to pick him up, she said, “Are you here to pick up the cutest little Boston Terrier and Best Dog in the World?”

I mean, there were other people in there with their dogs. Talk about awkward. True, Grimby was in fact 78 percent cuter than the next cutest dog, but still. So, clearly, Grimby is the vet office fave, based on the empirical and unbiased evidence that I just presented. Obviously. Have you seen him?

Sorry, all you other dogs. I know you are awesome and your owners love you very much, but that’s just the way it is. We do try to let other dogs feel good about themselves, by exclaiming how much our devastatingly handsome pup farts and snores (which is a lot, by the way). He is currently snoring on my lap, in fact. He has woken himself up six times with his own snoring. I’m kind of impressed.

I paid her, we chatted and laughed while agreeing that Grimby is the best dog on the planet. And she would know: She works with all kinds of pets. I paid her and filled out the microchip form (Grimby really wanted a chip. He’s really into technology.).

Then, the vet tech comes out to tell me about post-op care and gestures me into a room. I had a brief moment of concern, seeing as how I’ve only been in this particular room once, when my beloved Minnette was put down.

“Pshaw,” I told myself, “it’s just an examination room. You’re being silly.”

So, we’re standing there in The Death Room of Great Sorrow and she turns to me and says, “So, we made a mistake this morning with Grimby.” To which I responded, “Um, what?”

And I flung myself upon my hands and knees, gnashing my teeth and wailing in grief. Or at least had a mental flurry of concerned thoughts, such as:

“Oh my God, they killed Grimby!” and then, “Wait, they wouldn’t have made me pay for the surgery if they killed him.” After all, “Would they make me pay for the surgery after they killed him?” Let’s be rational here. Oh my gosh, what did they do? “Did they cut off a leg? Replace his heart? Replace him with a bunny?”

You guys, I was worried. I had me a moment. I think my reaction was only to be expected. It turns out this vet tech just has an awkward bedside manner. What had happened was that they did a blood test when we’d chosen against it (really, only because he is very healthy and it seemed an unnecessary expense. We are not bad pet people.). He was alive. Grimby was alive and had all his limbs and a normal puppy heart and wasn’t a bunny.

But wait <<insert more panic and wringing of hands>>, did they find something terrible in the blood test and that’s why I was in The Room of Sorrow Mingled with Death?

No, they did not. Grimby is perfectly healthy. That tech just really needs to choose her lead-in a little more carefully. I mean, come ON!

So that’s that. I am possibly somewhat dramatic and very much attached to this snoring fur ball.

 

A new look and an old question.

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Coffee-shop-blog-post outfit.

Coffee-shop-blog-post outfit.

You may have noticed that my blog has changed. You, Friend, are very perceptive. I decided, in light of my recent perspective shifts, that the View From the Bay should shift also. It’s a sleeker, more grown-up look, just like me. Ha! Just kidding. I’ve been wanted to swap it up for a while, because I didn’t like how narrow the text column was, which is irksome to my eye and most likely to yours as well. I like to write and I don’t need my posts seeming optically to be longer than they already are.

As for me being all changed and whatnot, well, that part’s true. Though, strangely, I’m quite at peace with myself. Not that I was expecting to go all “cray” and act out in my internal struggle, cutting my hair with rusty kitchen scissors in a fit of angst. Yes, that is from a country song. It’s been kind of like a breakup.

Don’t worry, though; we don’t even have rusty kitchen scissors. That’s just unsanitary.

The thing is, I am changed. Pretty profoundly. And to be honest, I struggled against it (clearly, as my last post conveyed). I didn’t think I could change me without losing me, if that makes sense. Instead, I’m pleased to learn that I’m still me, just more of me. Unfiltered, though not completely, by any means. A little more true. There was no loss that cost me anything I didn’t want to lose. It’s like being hypnotized: No one can really make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not saying I’m perfect (though I am, and so are you), at least not in terms of my journey. I’m pretty sure I’ve only dipped my toes in, and I’ve got a long way to go. I think that’s what life is about. It’d be pretty boring if I was on the top of my game with nowhere to go already.

I love this quote by R.W.E. and I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean this was something you just do once:

Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m a little surprised to see that life goes on as it did before. I don’t mean to sound all dramatic (though I realize I often do, but let’s face it: I’m a star), but honestly, it’s like the sky should be, or could be, a different colour. It’s not, but I will say I can appreciate the sky in whatever shade it shows up, without thinking about what it should be, so that I can have something to resent. I spent a lot of time shaking my fist at the sky, chastising it for not being something other than what it was.

And, if you think I’m just talking about sunshine and blue skies here, you’re missing the point. I’ve spent a lot of time experiencing my entire life and my relationships with people, animals, inanimate objects and fairy tales, through what they should be, or should have been or not been. It’s exhausting and let me tell you how well that was working out for me: Not so much. Unless you count me having the right to be angry and disappointed all the time. Not exactly a blue-ribbon life, huh?

peterpanAs for my old question, well here it is:

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Thing is, I’m still not sure. It’s really frustrating and it’s a question that’s plagued me for a long time. In my full-time business of making every little thing so gawd-damned significant, I’ve been utterly paralyzed. I’ve stayed where I don’t want to be, afraid to answer the question with anything but “I don’t know”. I’m not sure who I expect to have the answers to what I’d like to be when I grow up, but clearly, it wasn’t me.

 

Maybe I’m going to be many things. Maybe moving on doesn’t have to be so bloody significant. Maybe I move on to something and it’s the wrong something, and I move on again. Maybe I mess up and go backwards. So far, nothing in my life has done anything but add to who I am today, so why don’t I pry off those fingers of fear that have been holding me back?

I’m trying. I often wear a necklace that Adam bought me for my birthday (he bought me Runaway Girl for a wedding present—subtle irony intended): It’s the silhouette of a little girl wearing a cape. I love her fearlessness and her can-do attitude. Maybe it’s time I try my cape on, instead of just talking about it. Time to actually try something, instead of worrying about whether it’s going to work out. Because there’s no way I can actually know that and staying put isn’t working out for me so well, anyway.

Do you recognize any of this in yourself? Are you holding yourself back? What’s in your way?

Growing pains.

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Hey my peeps! How are you? I’m pretty good. It’s a long weekend, for one thing. Tough to beat a long weekend. It’s been about two years since I lost flex days, which have to be just about the best work flexibility ever. I sure miss my Monday flex days. Some people prefer Fridays, but here’s my strategy behind Mondays:

  • Mondays are kind of a bummer. Because they’re all Monday-ish.
  • Fridays, however, are pretty much awesome. You can wear jeans on Friday and everyone’s in a good mood, what with the impending weekend and all.

Therefore, why would I want to miss Fridays? Much better to miss every other Monday. Plus, long weekends are often Mondays, so then you get Tuesdays off, too. Anyway, I don’t get flex days anymore. I work the same hours, actually more, but alas! No flex days in recognition of it. I do definitely have a pretty flexible situation at work, so I’m not really, really complaining (much). But I still miss them…

So, I said I’d fill you in on the coaching training I’m doing. This could be a really long post, but I’ll give you the Cole’s Notes version.

The long and short of it is that I’m taking a year-long, super-intense training and accreditation program in life coaching. “Life coaching?” you say. “Oh geez. I can’t take Bay seriously now.” I know what you mean. I nearly couldn’t either, when Adam started looking into coaching. But after witnessing his personal transformation this past year, as well as seeing the results in some of the people he’s worked with, I started to change my tune. I wanted it for me. I want me out of my way. Some people live really amazing lives and, quite frankly, I’m tired of envying them. I want to be them. So I dove in.

Thus far, it’s been hard. This style of coaching is called ontological (I totally had to Google it, too). This basically means it focuses on who you are being, as opposed to what you are doing. I mean, there is power in this. But there is also discomfort. For reals. I remember when I was 13 or so and grew four inches in one year. It friggin’ HURT! It felt awkward and achey and uncomfortable. Turns out that personal transformation feels pretty much the same.

So far, both weekends I’ve been in training have been tough (this is somewhat misleading: we meet in-person in Seattle one weekend per month, but there is mad work to be done in between. I guess I’m saying that if you don’t get phone calls or coffee date requests from me, don’t take it personally.).

Tough. Ha! Understatement of the year. I LOST it, very publicly, on more than one occasion. I mean alternating between wracking, heaving, can’t-exhale sobbing and simultaneously saying, “Feck all y’all” on repeat while envisioning doing great physical harm to people. Not killing them (I’m not a monster!), but I was pretty much a Virtua Fighter in my mind. Like a crazy one, with mad ninja skillz and a cold, cruel disregard for pain.

Why was I mentally orchestrating such pointed violence, you ask? Well, there were many reasons, but largely they were of my own interpretation (so I see now. This awareness was not available to me last weekend.). Imagine you have a bear. A big angry momma bear (I think they’re grumpier), and you’ve taken away her cubs and her salmon and berries (this is all that I know that they eat, apart from hapless people), backed her into a corner and then poked at her with sticks. Picture her response, multiply it by 12 and you might be getting closer to envisioning my emotional/mental state last weekend.

The good news is that I’ve come out the other end of each weekend a better person. To my mind’s eye, too quickly for my comfort, my perceptions have shifted and I’m noticing that I’m noticing things. Hilariously, I didn’t want to admit this. That’s what I mean by too quickly. Perhaps that isn’t hilarious. More indicative, really, of some stuff I need to deal with. And this transformation is what I signed up for, after all. Add to this the fact that I am actually really enjoying coaching people (I was really not sure how I’d do/feel, but I’m loving it) and really, things are going swimmingly, if not always smoothly.

I feel like that’s a pretty heavy post, so I’ll stop rambling here. I’ll share more of what I’ve learned about me soon. And I promise I’m okay. Better than that, really. Much better. Some old chains are falling off and it feels much nicer. Lighter. More free.

 

Sometimes, you just need to get a new perspective.

Sometimes, you just need to get a new perspective.