Hey loves,
"Sometimes when I'm scared, I get furious." Our all-around-wacky and weirdly-wise 5-year-old said that.
Yeah. I'm furious a little too often so I guess that means I'm...
scared.
And when I'm scared I feel really small. And then I act really small.
Often I HAVE AN ALL CAPS MOMENT and I get really loud and really scary and sometimes I get my way. But I'm still scared.
The number one thing I'm scared of is that I won't be heard.
Because if I'm not heard, no one knows who I am. And I guess I want to be known.
I mean, don't we all? Even the quiet, the meek, the shy want to be known,
not just the ALL CAPS people, like me.
The question that begs to be answered then, is "how can I be known without it coming from a place of fear?"
Like, how can I be brave enough to accept that I am known even though I am not the skinniest?
How can I be known even though I haven't reached my career goals(that's a big one for me)--it makes me feel very small.
How can I be known if I'm not the most fun, most empathetic, most intelligent?
How can I be me and it's okay?
There is God, who loves me, I hope. I try to be firm in God's love, but I'm so wretched sometimes that I feel like God says "Oy vey, this one." And there's my mom, who definitely thinks I'm great(although I am not attentive enough--I know, Mom, I'm trying). I guess the hubs loves me, I mean we're coming up on 25 years next month. And there's my BFF who loves me, even though she's known me since I was 12 and let's just say I was a very, uh, challenging teenager. And I have so many wonderful friends and family who know me, and I assume, like me. I'm pretty sure my children love me, because it's required. They don't always like me, but that's not required.
And then there's me. Do I like me? Kind of. I think I can be funny and I'm smart enough, but I'm kind of a bitch and I sometimes make ridiculous choices and I'm truly, truly mistake-prone. Like, I make lots of big mistakes. And then I feel diminished and scared and you know, small.
Wow. Seems like that's a cycle.
I guess I've got an idea of where to start. How, though? The challenge of my life is: I'm a GO BIG OR GO HOME kind of girl. If I can't be the best, I don't want to play. So if I can't be the smartest, I'll be the funniest and if I can't be the funniest, then I'll be the most passionate and if can't be the most passionate, then I don't care. It's all about that -EST.
I need to do better.
Better has never been a destination for me.
It's going to be hard, but I'm going to try to moderate. Kinder, not kindest. More patient, not the most. More engaged, not all in, all the time. More faithful, not Mother Teresa. Remind me, when I look overwrought, that's it's better, not best. I'll be glad to remind you, too, because I want you to do better, too. That's where we start: doing better. I don't mean we need to improve. I mean, instead of BEING the best, we just need to DO better. IF we DO better, there's no fear of the failure of BEST. And no fear is so much better.
Let's do better together.
Love,
Corks
PS le mieux est l'ennemi du bien. (perfect is the enemy of good). Voltaire
Friday, August 28, 2015
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
For the love of dog.
Darling peeps,
happy national dog day.
Normally I'd be all over that crap, posting selfies with my pooches and posing them in ridiculous positions, but this year, my dogs have decided to die. Well, I'm sure they didn't decide, it just kind of happened, but either way it sucks. I am a dyed-in-the-wool, card-carrying, Facebook- and Instagram-posting, crazy dog person. I love them all: big ones, little ones, long ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones, but especially Winston Buddy and Daffodil Shmoopie(no, you're a shmoopie). After Greta, the Wonder Dog(RIP),
Winston,
and Daffodil
are my fave dogs ever. Daffodil is suffering from systemic lymphoma and Winston has spinal nerve compression which will leave him paralyzed. They are both old: Daffodil is 11 and a half and Winston is 9 and a half. It's time to say goodbye, but we keep doing these things to keep them alive, like trying anti-inflammatories and antibiotics and hand-feeding Daffodil anything she will eat(today, it was tuna and hamburger. Yesterday, it was apple slices).
What do you do when things start falling apart? Me? I use a lot of profanity and then I cry at inopportune times, like walking in to the grocery store, then I try to muster the troops and keep on going. Mostly, I'm making a lot of uncomfortable jokes about dogs dying, which is super fun for everyone around me, and then filling my cheeks with air and slowly exhaling in a big, dramatic sigh. I'm in this weird middle place, waiting for these dogs to give up the ghost or, really, figuring out when to help them on to the next life. E says it's dog heaven, where they will play fetch with Jesus and be whole, young dogs again. E has a real connection to Jesus so it's pretty much guaranteed.
Why do I love these dogs anyway? On paper, Daffodil is a terrible dog. She's not affectionate, kind of a biter, intimidating to strangers, and as soon as you start to make a connection, she gets uncomfortable and moves 1cm out of arm's reach. But she's so chatty and asks for cookies by barking three syllables(biscuit, please!)and used to ask for water by standing at the garage door and howling "wa-wa-wa." When E was born, Daffodil was her constant protector, lying at the foot of the bed or next to her bassinet or anywhere she was. And in the middle of the night, she jumps up on the bed and lies in-between Michael and me and she scootches closer and closer to the top of the bed and might softly lick our hands if she thinks we're sleeping. Winston has fecal incontinence, gas that would wilt sturdy oaks, grabs sandwiches out of our hands and gets warm, viscous slobber on every surface in our house, including the ceiling. Every morning when he gets out of his kennel, though, Winston leans against us and gazes into our eyes and wills all of his love into us. In happier times, he would jump up with front paws on our shoulders and make out with all of us when we got home from anywhere, including just out to the mailbox. He used to kick a soccer ball and Daffodil used to catch everything you threw for her(unless she didn't feel like it). I haven't had to talk to a Jehovah's Witness or a traveling salesman or the people casing the joint in years because of my big-ass dogs. I'm going to have to start locking my front door.
What am I going to miss the most when these guys are gone? Standing in the middle of the family room and Winston coming to put his head under my hand. Daffodil lying on my feet during Thanksgiving dinner(because after a couple of glasses of wine, I start to drop food). Knowing that the dogs are just downstairs whenever the family goes away for the weekend and I have to stay home and work. Having someone who acts like they're listening on all of the worst days, with no judgement and really cute expressions if I add the words "snack" or "cookie" or "biscuit" to any sentence.
When will our family be ready for a new dog? Probably as soon as we have new carpeting put in, because our life is like that. What screams puppy more than clean, cream berber carpet?
Can I love a dog again? Will any dog ever entertain us like Daffodil or love us like Winston or calm us like Greta? Probably not. Will we treasure the memories of these wacky canines? Forever. Sigh. Say a prayer, or think a happy thought, for Winston and Daffodil and us, friends, we're kind of a disaster.
Love,
Corks
happy national dog day.
Normally I'd be all over that crap, posting selfies with my pooches and posing them in ridiculous positions, but this year, my dogs have decided to die. Well, I'm sure they didn't decide, it just kind of happened, but either way it sucks. I am a dyed-in-the-wool, card-carrying, Facebook- and Instagram-posting, crazy dog person. I love them all: big ones, little ones, long ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones, but especially Winston Buddy and Daffodil Shmoopie(no, you're a shmoopie). After Greta, the Wonder Dog(RIP),
Winston,
What do you do when things start falling apart? Me? I use a lot of profanity and then I cry at inopportune times, like walking in to the grocery store, then I try to muster the troops and keep on going. Mostly, I'm making a lot of uncomfortable jokes about dogs dying, which is super fun for everyone around me, and then filling my cheeks with air and slowly exhaling in a big, dramatic sigh. I'm in this weird middle place, waiting for these dogs to give up the ghost or, really, figuring out when to help them on to the next life. E says it's dog heaven, where they will play fetch with Jesus and be whole, young dogs again. E has a real connection to Jesus so it's pretty much guaranteed.
Why do I love these dogs anyway? On paper, Daffodil is a terrible dog. She's not affectionate, kind of a biter, intimidating to strangers, and as soon as you start to make a connection, she gets uncomfortable and moves 1cm out of arm's reach. But she's so chatty and asks for cookies by barking three syllables(biscuit, please!)and used to ask for water by standing at the garage door and howling "wa-wa-wa." When E was born, Daffodil was her constant protector, lying at the foot of the bed or next to her bassinet or anywhere she was. And in the middle of the night, she jumps up on the bed and lies in-between Michael and me and she scootches closer and closer to the top of the bed and might softly lick our hands if she thinks we're sleeping. Winston has fecal incontinence, gas that would wilt sturdy oaks, grabs sandwiches out of our hands and gets warm, viscous slobber on every surface in our house, including the ceiling. Every morning when he gets out of his kennel, though, Winston leans against us and gazes into our eyes and wills all of his love into us. In happier times, he would jump up with front paws on our shoulders and make out with all of us when we got home from anywhere, including just out to the mailbox. He used to kick a soccer ball and Daffodil used to catch everything you threw for her(unless she didn't feel like it). I haven't had to talk to a Jehovah's Witness or a traveling salesman or the people casing the joint in years because of my big-ass dogs. I'm going to have to start locking my front door.
What am I going to miss the most when these guys are gone? Standing in the middle of the family room and Winston coming to put his head under my hand. Daffodil lying on my feet during Thanksgiving dinner(because after a couple of glasses of wine, I start to drop food). Knowing that the dogs are just downstairs whenever the family goes away for the weekend and I have to stay home and work. Having someone who acts like they're listening on all of the worst days, with no judgement and really cute expressions if I add the words "snack" or "cookie" or "biscuit" to any sentence.
When will our family be ready for a new dog? Probably as soon as we have new carpeting put in, because our life is like that. What screams puppy more than clean, cream berber carpet?
Can I love a dog again? Will any dog ever entertain us like Daffodil or love us like Winston or calm us like Greta? Probably not. Will we treasure the memories of these wacky canines? Forever. Sigh. Say a prayer, or think a happy thought, for Winston and Daffodil and us, friends, we're kind of a disaster.
Love,
Corks
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