Minor Repairs and Miss America...

Today a 50-ish year-old man showed up at my door.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Bob the repairman from your property management company, and I’m here to make minor repairs.”

“Oh,” I replied, “Everything’s fine. There’s nothing…really that needs fixing.”

It’s true. I love my house.  It’s old, has a ton of windows and natural sunlight. The rooms are large for the area, and there’s a ton of closets.  Yep, couldn’t be happier.

"Any leaking faucets?" he asked.

"Nope, I fixed them," I announced proudly.

"Need some re-caulking?"

"Nope," I replied smugly, "Did that too."

“Surely there’s something,” he said, “I’ve got an inspector’s list a mile long.”

“Well, you’re welcome to come in and look,” I said, “but everything’s fine.”

He walked around the house for a few minutes then said, “I’m going to run to the hardware store.  You think about what might need to be done. Also, I'm going to remove the keyed deadbolt from your back door because it violates code."

"YOU CAN'T DO THAT!" I told him.  "You see, the door, it's glass, and if you only have a keyless deadbolt, someone can break the glass and walk right in, and I live alone, and I've had it happen to me before while I was at home, and I didn't get hurt, but Bob, you CANNOT remove that deadbolt."

"Ana," he said, "I used to be a fireman, and the people who died, they were always standing trapped at a keyed locked door."

"And I am telling you that I am willing to live with that risk," I reiterated. "The deadbolt stays."

When he came back, he asked again if I needed any repairs.

“Um, there are a few things, but there completely cosmetic,” I showed him. And when I got to where the ceiling leaked in the kitchen when it rained heavily, I felt just the teensiest bit embarrassed.

A few hours later, all of my doors closed properly.  The door to the pantry that didn’t open all the way had been sanded down.  My back door lock was readjusted so that’s it’s easy to turn the key.  There was a window in my extra bedroom closet which faced out on the front of the house and always annoyed me because, at some point, it had been boarded up with unpainted plywood and torn blinds and LOOKED AWFUL, but again cosmetic.  Yeah, he fixed that.  The windows in my bedroom that rattled and were shoved full of old cardboard beer boxes? He caulked them shut.  The cracked step on my stairs that I always feared would break as I descended was screwed back together.

He did all of this while Augie ran around inspecting his work and occasionally stealing a tool to gnaw on.  I asked if she bothered him and needed to be crated, but he insisted that no, he was a dog person and would stop every so often to tell Augie how fantastic she was.  While he did his work, I sat at the computer and did mine, but because we were within earshot of each other, we talked about our lives and Houston and work and careers and everything else.  When it was all done, I was positively giddy with the changes.

“Did you fix anything else that I didn’t notice?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied, “All of your smoke detectors were broken, so I replaced them.  Also, I noticed that you walk through the house barefoot, so I sanded down all of the chipped areas in the hardwood floors so you wouldn’t get splinters.  Additionally, I called the property management company to tell them in no uncertain terms that you need a new roof. Also, we decided to bend the rules on the deadbolt, and to make sure that you were safe, I put in two inch screws.  Before someone could easily kick the lock in, but that can't happen now.”

“WOW,” I said. “That was really nice of you.”

“Ana, can I say something?” he asked.

“Sure, hit me,” I laughed.

“I have three daughters. They all think they’re Miss America.  They’re all married, and they’re all happy.  Two of them have given me some wonderful grandchildren ... Don’t be afraid to ask for the things you want in life.”

“Really, I like the changes,” I said, “but they were cosmetic.  I didn’t NEED them.”

“Yeah, but Miss America would’ve asked for them. And whether you realize it or not, you’re a Miss America.”

Bravery...(ha!)

I brought Augie home on 03/02/13.  Tonight, I gave her a freedom that I didn't allow Martha until five years after we'd been together.  I opened the door and told her to go outside without a leash.

She went outside, did her business, and then started to wander off.

"AUGIE!" I called. "Let's go back inside now."

And she did.

"WHO'S an awesome doggie?" I asked when she came back inside.

Augie.  Augie is an awesome doggie.  Not what I was expecting when I picked her up two months ago, but man, is this girl a champ.

Happiness...

This morning when I woke up, the first thing I did was hop into the shower.  Then, because it was too hot for coffee, I drank iced orange soda on the porch.

Summer has officially arrived in Texas!

Inheriting Abandoned Dogs...

Ok, so whoever used to own Augie must have taught her that when they put food in their mouth she could have some too, because every time I eat anything, she's like a heat-seeking missile towards my lips.

At which point I have to say, "Dude, I love you, but no. NO, you may not eat food out of my own mouth.  Total gross-out. Wouldn't have even let Martha (the queen dog of all dogs) do that.  Please. Stop. That. Now.  Gross, Augie.  Really gross."

And she's totally cool about it...until the next time.

Again...GROSS!

Plotting and Scheming...

I have to say this – after being gone from the regular work grind for approaching two years, I am totally over it.  I had two legal closings last week  - an acquisition and a semi-complex company formation that revolved around funding coming in at the right time, future employees quitting their current jobs on the spot, and everyone signing documents before midnight.

Those days went like this - I got up at the crack of dawn to get the dog walked and myself showered, dressed in “work clothes,” hair styled, make-up done, etc.  That took two hours.  I spent another fifteen minutes driving into downtown, and another forty looking for a parking space in multiple garages because apparently, every resident of Houston and its outlying suburbs works downtown during the day.  Fifteen minutes to walk through various tunnels and take elevators to the umpteenth floor.  Then I sat in the lobby of a large law firm for fifteen minutes while they tried to find someone who had thumbprint clearance to take me to the floor on which the conference room was located.  When I finally got there, I sat around with other lawyers for about four hours, occasionally editing documents with last minute changes as they happened.  When it was finally over, I spent another thirty minutes getting to my car in getting home.

All in all it turned out to be about 7 hours worth of my time and about fifteen minutes of actual work – which, let’s face it, could have been done by a legal secretary.

My client told me to charge him for the whole shebang, but man. (He ended up waiting around/working on the deal until 10 pm.)

What creeps me out even more?  If I’d still been working a ‘regular’ job, when that part was all over, I would have driven back to the office to start my ‘actual work day.’

I’ve been going through a huge shift in relation to work and life lately.  I started law school eight years ago to get ahead and in today’s world, it’s more and more about simply staying afloat.  In the past fifteen years the price of everything has skyrocketed: real estate, gas, food.  My monthly rent has doubled in the last eight years as a result of my cute, artsy neighborhood being invaded by (sorry to say this) boring, workaholic, wanna-be-part-of-the-latest-and-greatest, think-they-are-oh-so-liberal-and-hip-and-cultural-and-intellectual yuppies. God forgive me if I EVER resembled that kind of individual - if I have to sit through one more conversation about how much someone loves Whole Foods, NPR, Terry Gross, barre classes or the latest gastro-raw-food-locally-sourced-whatever restaurant opening, I will vomit. My duplex recently sold and I'm now writing a higher rent check to a "property management company" rather than an individual who used to stop by once a month to pick up the check and say hello. (And when I went to pay my rent check, they snickered at me because, "WHO STILL WRITES CHECKS THESE DAYS?" but then quickly added that they understood because, you know, some people don't set up automatic bill pay when they don't have a consistent cash flow. WTF? I guess when you show up at an office in the middle of the day wearing sweats and driving a Hyundai people just assume you're broke. Next month I'm pondering going in with my rent check in one hand and a can of beer in the other.) When I think about actually buying a home I worry that I won’t be able to pay for it ten years down the road because the property tax will probably exceed the mortgage by then.  I watch all of my friends work longer and longer hours in order to either maintain their lifestyle or pay for their kids’ daycare/schooling, and I wonder if it’s ever going to stop.  Yes, in the midst of all this, we’re all putting aside money for retirement, but heck, is it going to be enough?!?!

In the meantime, I sit and realize how much happier and healthier I am since the great corporate layoff, how amazing my quality of life seems compared to just a few years ago.  And this is all motivating me further towards my great plan for next year. To be continued...at some point. 

Cosmic Brownies....

Last weekend, at the festival, my straight-laced, practically teetotaler sister turned to me and said, "I brought Cosmic Brownies."

I was like, "Excuse me, what?"

And she replied, "Yeah, they have sprinkles and everything.  Little Debbie, HOLLA!"

And I was like, "J, I love you and won't judge you, but you are the last person on this earth who needs Cosmic Brownies."

J: Are you saying I'm fat?

Me: What?  No, You just don't need to be eating cosmic brownies. I love you, and you're perfect the way you are, and trust me, you don't need Cosmic Brownies.

(Yeah, it's confusing because I have the friend J who goes with me to the fest every year, and then there is my sis called J.  Whatever.  Maybe I should simply refer to my sister by her middle name - Marin...yes, named after the hippie county outside of San Francisco...even though I'm pretty sure my sis votes Republican.)

J: Way to be judgmental.

Me: I know. I get it, but I know you and as your older sister I feel protective. Just promise you won't eat them.

J: Oh, but I bet you think that you can eat them!

Me: I might, but trust me, it's different.  But you know what?  I'll make a deal with you.  If you don't eat them, I won't either.

J: Ok, fine.  But you're kind of being a FREAK about brownies!







.

Then today, I was grocery shopping

Happiness...

I think I am finally out of the woods on the whole Martha saga.  After handling it pretty well, the whole thing finally came to climax with Augie’s spay surgery.  It’s a long story.  She was supposed to be spayed and then two days after I brought her home, she appeared to be in heat…and if she wasn’t, that meant something was seriously wrong with this dog.  Since it had been only a few days since Martha’s death, I wasn’t ready to run back to the vet to find out that she had some serious illness which would cost an arm and a leg (only to put her down several thousand dollars later). When I determined that she definitely WAS in heat, I took her to a vet who informed me that Augie was not two years old, but SEVEN, and now the surgery was not only high risk, but also very expensive.  I was adamantly advised NOT to take her to a low-cost non-profit place for fear that she wouldn’t survive the surgery.  After some searching, I found a place highly recommended and affordable, but completely unknown to me…and by the time I took Augie in for her spay, I had decided that I really liked her and didn’t want to lose her quite yet.  So yeah, I had a lot of wine the day before and day of her special surgery, and while she had a few rough days afterwards, almost two weeks later I am pleased as punch to report that she is as good as new, and her mama has fully embraced her as a member of the family.

The week after Augie’s spay I headed out to my favorite music festival and a much needed vacation.  I am not sure why, but spending three nights in the woods really clears your head.  This was my third year to go, and this year was extra special because my friend J (who goes with me every year) and I invited TWO NEW PEOPLE – J’s boyfriend, who cooked for us the whole time and sustained me on something other than Chex Mix and my beloved BABYSIS!

I was really worried about how Babysis would take it as she is a city girl who loves lint rollers and anti-bacterial gel, but that girl was a champ!  For years, I have wanted to stick around the campground, cut out on the main stage shows, and wander the campfires at night to watch informal shows.  J always agrees, then wants to spend all day at the festival and crashes around 11 pm.  But Babysis was game and Saturday night, we took a ‘nap’ from 9 pm – 1 am and then got up to prowl.  It was so fun, and we saw some great stuff.  At the end of the fest, Babysis commented that the best shows were those she saw in the campground and then after playing on her phone during the final shows on Sunday she turned to me and said, “What was the name of one of the groups we saw last night?  It was Green Mountain Grass, right?  I wanted to download some of their songs, but I’m having trouble finding them.”

I really love Green Mountain Grass and have been going to their shows for several years, so when Babysis mentioned them I thought, “OMIGOD! WE ARE RELATED!”

We also had another super-bonding moment when we tried to explain the story of Jim Henson’s Emmett Otter’s Jugband Christmas to our friends, and they looked at us like we had two heads. Nevermind, we sang “Our World” over and over anyway.

After the fest ended, I stayed for a night at my sister’s and then drove to a small Texas town to watch some friends record their album while I babysat their newborn (7 weeks old!).  It was so much fun to play in the studio, and the baby was super cute too.  I never knew that babies ate so much, burped so much, or farted so much.  They’re like crusty old men.  I have a huge new appreciation and liking for them.

And the best part of it was, last weekend I had this realization about something I’ve been wanting to do all my life, but put off for a myriad of reasons.  When it came to me, I thought, “Why not just go ahead and do it?!!”  It will take some planning, and I’ve given myself a deadline that things need to be in high gear by June 1, 2014.  Today I crunched numbers and determined that my timeline was slightly ambitious, but we will see.  Super-excited.  Every time one of my clients sends me work I get fired up to make a little more money to sock away for D-Day aka “Dream Day”.

Before Martha got sick, I felt like I was riding a great wave of momentum.  After it was all over, I didn’t fall apart, but I did find that I’d been thrown for a loop and was simply maintaining from day to day.  It’s so nice to feel back on track and back in the game.  This is going to be awesome.

The Augusta Rae version of "Where's Waldo?"

Martha might have been the most emotionally-needy and anxious dog that I have ever met.  For the first few years or so, I found her incredibly taxing and draining.  She followed me from room to room.  If I sat down, she sat down.  Right next to me.  Making sure that at least one part of her body was touching me, be it a nose, a paw, her tail.  Every single time I picked up my house keys, Martha's tail would begin to wag nervously, and she'd look like her world had caved in.  Whenever I packed to move to a new apartment, Martha's stomach gave out on her.

The upside of Martha's neediness was that she was the best cuddler in the world.  There was nothing that could comfort me on a bad day like Martha could.  Since her death, I've noticed that I eat a lot more Ben & Jerry's ice cream.

"Don't mind me; I'm just making sure I know where you are. You're not going anywhere, are you?"

When Augie first came to the house hot on the heels of six years with Martha, I thought at first that she didn't like me.  It took a little time to realize that in fact, no, Augie is simply a well-adjusted dog.  She feels safe, secure, and happy in her new home.  Because I'd love for her to stay this sane, I've noticed myself being careful with our interactions.  I let her come to me when she wants to cuddle rather simply grabbing and squeezing her when I need a shot of puppy love.  If she wanders out of the room, I don't follow her into it to make sure she's behaving and/or ok.

Me: Yes, Martha. I'm still here...working.  Martha: Can I come closer? You seem so far away.

Many days, hours will go by as I'm encompassed in work, and when I get up from my desk, I'll realize that I haven't seen or heard Augie trot by in awhile.  Around this time, I will take on the Martha personality and start wandering from room to room.  WHERE IS AUGIE?!?!?

WHERE THE EFF IS SHE?!?!?!

"AUGIE LIKE TO HIDE FROM THE MAMA!!  HAHAHAH!"

(Oh, by the way, while I always imagined Martha's voice would be high and her language articulate.  I imagine that Augie speaks like a two-year old, very-loudly, and in the third person.)

By the fourth circle of the apartment, my anxiety is building, and I'm starting to get really concerned...until I realize that she couldn't possibly NOT be in the apartment.  And then I'm like, "OH, I know where she is."

"AUGIE TAKING NAP.  MOMMY NO DISTURB AUGIE."

New Beginnings...

So, I seem to be taking advantage of this uh, “new chapter” in my life.  

Here’s how I did last week.

Attended four (FOUR?!?) different social engagements – all of which involved fairly new or non-regular people in my life, and I did not find it draining.  (WHAT?)

• Twice, I played fiddle in living rooms with people I’d played with before.
• Another time I played fiddle in a dining room with two people I’d never even hung out with before.
• The fourth time I met a former co-worker at a bar.  She brought two friends I’d never met and I, unbelievably chatted happily with both of them and had dinner with the two even after the co-worker left.

I got some really great advice on needed vet services for Augie (long story there).

I also might have found a friend of a friend to help me build a bed frame since I cannot seem to find one I like online or in stores.

I made up with a gal friend who really pissed me off when Martha was sick.

I sent my brother pictures and music for the Martha Memorial slideshow that he is making for me. (Coming Soon!)

I finished up my taxes.

After receiving a rent increase from my landlord, I did a little negotiating and now have a dishwasher and disposal sitting in my house waiting for the plumber on Tuesday.

One of my clients gave me a raise with the promise of another bump next month.

I had to turn down a last minute invite for margaritas with a former law school classmate I’d never hung out with before because I already had plans.

I gave away my rarely-used kegorator to a friend of a friend of a friend who recently started brewing his own beer.

I sent the last of my thank you emails and texts to the people who sent Martha well-wishes.

I went to a business networking lunch by myself and actually talked to people without feeling awkward or self-conscious.

I chatted briefly with my fairly new neighbor and walked away with some of her homemade leftover matzoh ball soup. (YUM!)

I sent emails to my parents.

I cleaned and reorganized my kitchen cabinets and pantry (on account of the lost space due to the dishwasher).

I did NOT schedule an appointment with the dentist to get my cavities filled. (Yeah, that one might sit on the to-do list for a few more weeks.)

I checked in with my brother and sister.

I did my hair and make-up, like, MULTIPLE times during the week.

I put in 3k worth of legal services and less than 30 hours of work.  (Oh, how I wish I could have guaranteed work like this every week rather than on a project basis!)

I blissfully sipped margaritas in the sun and awesome solitude on Saturday afternoon at my favorite Tex-Mex restaurant.

I snuggled with the Augie-Doggie and taught her a trick or two.  (See video below.) We are officially starting to bond. Awww...

I enjoyed every minute of it.

All in all, not bad for a kid who recently lost their BFF.

Finding Common Interests...

Some of my friends came over today to play instruments.  Augie seemed to settle in just fine.

Life After Martha...

Man, you guys, it so totally sucks to lose your best friend.

…And yet it’s also an awesome lesson on acceptance and learning to be at peace with the things that are out of your control.

To tell the truth, most of my friends and family either couldn’t stand Martha or were indifferent to her - while I thought she was the greatest thing since sliced bread.  They’d come into my house and see her move about like a whirling dervish and go, “Oh. My. God.  What is wrong with your dog?”  I’ve been thinking so much about our time together over the last few weeks.

I remember when I signed her up for obedience training when she was a pup, and the trainer told me that she taught through the treat reward system.  I nearly blew up saying, “Are you serious?  I could get this dog to dance the polka and discover a cure for cancer if I had a piece of food in my hand.  It’s getting her to listen to me when I don’t!”

Until the end of her walking days, we had this war.  After her walk, she was required to sit before I took her off her leash.  On her afternoon walks, she did it immediately without a gesture because her dinner was right around the corner.  But on the morning walks…

Me: Um..(cough)

Martha: Oh, I’m sorry.  Is there something you wanted me to do?

Me: Oh, I don’t know, maybe the same thing you’ve been required to do after a walk for the last six years?

Martha: Oh that. Yeah, do we have to do that today?  Is it really necessary?

Me: Yes.

Then we’d engage in a stare-off until at some point Martha would let out a huge sigh and then sit down giving me a look of, “You are the HUGEST control freak.”

However, if you let her slide even once, it took twice as long the next time you tried to get her to do it no matter how many times she'd been required previously.  

A few minutes after these ordeals, she would inevitably come to me and crawl into my lap.

Martha: You still love me, right?

Me: Always and forever.

House-training her?  Don’t even ask.  She knew I preferred for her to go outside, but in the meantime she made sure that it wasn’t ok to go in the living room, and then the bedroom, in the house on weekends, in the house at night after I’d gone to sleep.  I nearly killed her in the early days.

And despite her stubbornness, she always wanted to be loved.  She knew the command for “snuggle” and “cuddle.”  You could squeeze her so hard that you thought you’d hurt her, but when you let go, she’d look at you like, “Do you not love me anymore?”

Every time someone visited and they hadn’t been around in awhile, they’d comment on how they remembered Martha as bigger.

“No,” I’d reply, “She’s always been 23 pounds.  She just has a REALLY BIG personality.”

Martha was so intense and energetic and anxious that she was more like a person than a dog.  I talked to her all of the time like a crazy person, and I swore that she understood half of what I said on account of the tone of my voice and physical mannerisms.  She was unbelievably intuitive.  Some days I didn’t realize I was sad until Martha came to me and cuddled up.

She was entertaining, mentally-challenging, and so loving that she fulfilled almost all of my companionship needs.  Often in the evening, a friend would call and invite me out.  Martha in the meantime would counteroffer with, “OR you could cuddle with me on the couch in elastic pants with a glass of wine!  Don’t leave me!!!” 

Most nights she won out.  Since she’s been gone, I’ve realized that because she couldn’t be taken most places, because she didn’t do so well when people came over, because she couldn’t stand to be alone, and because I found her such a joy to spend time with, she was my social life.  But the nice part about her being gone, if you can say that, is that I’ve rediscovered humans and the companionship they offer.  Hell, maybe I’ll start dating again now that the space in my heart is available.

Augie, on the other hand, is 100% dog.  She licks herself, scratches herself, chases cars and squirrels.  The other day I was bummed out and sat down on the floor.  Martha would have immediately run over to love on me.  Augie was just like, “Why is the human sitting on the hard floor when she could be sitting on the comfy couch?”

Augie’s smart for a dog, but her needs are so basic.  A few pats, dinner, and a walk or two a day.  With that she’s happy and content.  I don’t feel bad about leaving her alone. Martha had a command for “chill out.”  Augie doesn’t get worked up about anything.  She’s simple.  I love her in a totally different way than I loved Martha.  (But just between you, me, and the fence post, she might be the teensiest bit boring compared to Martha.)

Augie’s cute in a conventional way that Martha never was.  I can take her anywhere and people fawn all over her and tell me what a wonderful dog she is…which she is…for a dog.

I allow myself a little bit of time each day to mourn Martha.  Interestingly, the biggest struggle related to her hair.  She was such a huge shedder that at times I thought I should start a side toupee business.  Every time I did the laundry there was a huge wet glop of dog hair in the washer and then a clogged lint catcher in the dryer.  I clean both out from habit over the last six years, and in the past three weeks, every time I’ve done it, there was less hair…until eventually there was none.  That oddly, was what reduced me to tears.

But yeah, a few moments a day, and that’s all the more I will let myself do…because if I let myself think about her constantly, I’d fall apart.

Her ashes came last week, and while I assumed they’d be delivered in a plastic bag, they arrived in a really pretty cedar box with her name carved into it.  The first thing I did was place her collar in the box because she hated to be without it for some reason.  I thought long and hard about where to spread them.  Our most common walk?  Eh.  The dog park?  She hated other dogs.  Then I asked myself where Martha would want to be, and I realized that Martha would want to be with me.  So now I have to find a place to ‘put her.’  If I keep her in the pretty box then I risk people sitting in my living room and going, “What is this?” and me being like, “Oh, that’s just my first dog who was the love of my life, but I’m totally normal, I swear.”  More than likely I will hide her inside of something, and I’ll know that she’s nearby, but no one else will be the wiser.

Life goes on, and I am living it rather than going through the motions.  After not playing fiddle for nearly a month, I'm setting up practice sessions with nearly every musician I know.  I'm caught up on work, doing my taxes, getting the oil changed on the car.  Life is back to 'normal.'  But I think of Martha all the time, and I hope I never forget the little dog that taught me how to love for the first time.

Last week, I pulled out my camera and was delighted to find some Martha videos.  They’re nothing special which is why I never posted them to begin with, but I’ll put them up here now in case you’re curious.  For me, seeing her move around happily is pretty cool.  Also included is the last video I took of Martha from my phone a few days before she was put down.  She’s bloated from prednisone and less than pleased. The whole time she’s looking at me like, “Are you not familiar with the phrase, ‘sick as a dog’?” Personally, I was trying to be light hearted because the whole experience SUCKED big time, but it makes me laugh to watch it, and you can see from her reactions how an ostensibly intelligent person could think that it was possible to carry on a conversation with a dog.  Also, her middle name was Martha.  Her first name was Scrivener's (long story), but I usually called her Scrivs or Scrivvies as you can see in the videos.

When I got laid-off, I taught her how to go outside off-leash - much more rewarding than finding a new job.

In this one, I am clearly a bad owner because I was trying to get her to jump up to the kitchen counter because I thought it looked cute.  She did, but not before knocking the camera out of whack.

And her last video.  I mean seriously, does your dog understand the word 'posterity'?

The PICIT...

For those of you who are not telepathic...PICIT stands for Partner-In-Crime-In-Training.

Introducing Augusta Rae, or as she is affectionately referred to when not causing trouble and needs no middle name calling, "Augie."  Augie was abandoned at a park in a quiet island beach town near Corpus Christi and sat in a shelter for five months (!) before a Houston dog rescue put out an alert for her.  Six hours of driving later, she is now officially a Houstonian.  Augie appears to be a Jack Russell/Dachshund mix and is *nothing* like Martha - which is probably a good thing considering that no dog wants to be constantly compared to the best dog there ever was.

I will write more soon, but the short story is this:  I miss Martha like crazy, but I am doing really well and getting back to daily life.  Thank you for all the nice things you said about Martha and the well-wishes from the past few weeks.  I SO appreciate them.

Hey all – Today Martha rested her head on my lap and went to sleep one last time.

She’d been super active as of late and *hated* being in the crate, resorting to a regular whine at her confinement.  Tuesday night I took her out for a few minutes to cuddle with her and around that same time, someone knocked at my front door.  Martha, ever the great protector, popped up faster than a jack-rabbit, forgot her legs didn’t work, and ran to the front door to announce the caller.

It all happened so fast, that I didn’t have time to catch her and instead watched her as she tumbled head first down the stairs.  After a few moments of hysteria, it was clear that Martha was fine except for a slightly injured front paw.

This morning, I took her outside to potty.  She can’t do it on her own, but rather than use doggie pee pads, I’ve been taking her outside to keep a semblance of normalcy for the both of us.  Martha wiggled and wanted to run so much that I couldn’t keep her still to help her potty.  (PS – I hate the word potty, but I don’t know what else to call it.)

What I'm trying to say is, this girl wanted to move.

Today, we went for her fourteen day check up and after running a series of tests, the neuro looked at me and told me that Martha’s condition had not improved, and she didn’t think there was much hope that it would at this point.  In addition, Martha had developed a UTI and needed antibiotics.

I knew that if I took her home, we were just going to continue with more of the same – Martha wanting to run around and down the stairs, but being confined, and Martha developing infections as a result of her condition.  (I haven’t mentioned them, but she’s had other (way too TMI) issues besides the UTI.)  So I decided it was time.

We put her on the floor and gave her something to make her drowsy.  She curled up in my lap and then went peacefully and without any pain.

***

I guess they send the dogs somewhere for cremation because the neuro asked if I would want her ashes.  Finding this really creepy, I said no.

“Ok,” she answered, “Just so you know, she’s not going into a dump or anything, the cremation company spreads the ashes into the ocean.  It’s very nice.”

With that I raised my head up and said, “Oh, if that’s the case then I want them, and I’ll find some place to distribute them.”

The neuro looked at me quizzically, and I smiled before saying, “She'd love the dump because of all the great smells and things to discover, but she’s always been terrified of water.”

Here's a three year old video of Martha showing off her "guard dog" skills.  :-) (We're totally goofing off, by the way - she is not hurting anyone in this video.) 

Better-ish

Sorry for the downer post last night, people.  Here’s what I think contributed to it.  So far, I’ve been running on hope and every day that goes by that Martha doesn’t improve means a little less hope.  Also, yesterday was a trying day – read: paralyzed, incontinent dog with diarrhea suddenly decides she wants to move all over the duplex.  To top it off, in my attempts to further research Martha’s disease I found a blog with someone who had a dog in a condition almost as bad as Martha’s.  This woman painstakingly and in great detail journaled her account through rehab, physical therapy, incontinence, and everything else.  At around eight months, the dog finally walked again. At eighteen months, after all that effort, the dog ruptured another disc and had to be put down.  That might have brought on the bawling.

Because I’m too lazy/tired to re-type things, here’s the update email I sent my friends and family tonight….

Hey everybody –

Thought I’d send out an update on Martha.  She came home last Tuesday and refused to eat anything until…Friday when her appetite miraculously returned.  In the last few days she has become increasingly more “mobile” wanting to drag herself everywhere.  Today I accidentally said the word w-a-l-k, and she was inconsolable until I took her outside and put her in a little sling that the neurosurgeon gave me.  Once in it, she tried to run like the wind.

Unfortunately, here is the deal.  Of the dogs who are in Martha’s condition, nearly 90% of those who recover will show some form of improvement in the first 14 days.  Martha is on day 10, and as of yet, has shown no improvement.  In fact, her condition has slightly worsened in that she has lost all reflexes in the back half of her body.  Her desire to be mobile (when she is supposed to be resting), along with her incontinence are making things a little difficult.  Starting tomorrow, she will probably need to be crated.

Because I can’t comprehend forcing her to live in a crate for the rest of her life, save for the occasional respite or outdoor visit, and because, despite my best efforts to stay tidy, my house is already becoming a little stinky, unless the neurosurgeon advises otherwise at her appointment on Thursday and/or barring something really cool regarding her paralysis, I will probably put her down in the next few weeks (days?).

If you would like to come see her, please do so.  She is still very much like Martha in her front half and adores to be patted or have the opportunity to lick you to death.  I am relatively sane, all things considered, and am back to wearing non-elastic pants and maintaining focus while working.  What I’m trying to say is, it won’t be a downer if you stop by.

Thank you to everyone who has sent well-wishes in the past week and a half, and special thanks to my sister M – who offered me mini-therapy sessions in the early days of this, to J, who almost canceled her Valentine’s day plans on the day Martha became ill before I realized what day it was, and who later came and sat with me the day of Martha’ surgery and brought dinner and flowers, to S, who brought me dinner last week and rolled around on the floor with Martha in all her incontinent glory, and very extra special thanks to M2, who randomly called on that first night when Martha had become paralyzed, was in intense pain, was super frightened and had bitten the heck out of my hand.  M2 showed up thirty minutes later with the biggest bottle of red wine that I have ever seen, sat with me as I counted the seconds until the neurologist’s office opened, and stayed until I could no longer keep my eyes open.  M2 has also since been back a few times to bring me food, insist on my going grocery shopping, bring more wine, and play with Martha.

This isn’t going to be fun, but I think it will be the best thing for both me and Martha.  While it stinks to lose her, she’s been the coolest dog in ways that I couldn’t imagine and the greatest little protector.  She has immensely enriched my life, and I’m just thrilled that we’ve known each other as long as we have.  I know she’s just a dog, but when a dog has been your best buddy through law school, the bar exam, break-ups, job losses, and attacked a 200-pound stranger intruding your house in an attempt to protect you, she deserves a two page email with a little bit of over-the-top sentimentality.

Much-much love to everyone,

Ana and Martha

Whiniest post ever...

This is a completely whiny, non-positive, woe-is-me post, so you might want to skip it.  Plus, there’s probably some doggie-TMI.  I’m having a down in the dumps moment and decided to write about it rather than call a friend at 11:45 pm on a Sunday.  Plus, it's probably melodramatic - a quality I can't stand in myself.

Before I write any further, I need to stop and recognize the things that I am grateful for right now:

• ·         Though my vet slightly bungled Martha’s required care (no fault to him – he’s not a specialist), the group at the neurology center was amazing and showed wonderful care to Martha (and me).  They were attentive, understanding, informative, non-judging, and super kind to me even though every time I appeared at their office, I looked like a homeless bag lady.
• ·         My friends are amazing.  In the past week, people have sat with me, waited with me, brought me food (and wine), sent well-wishes, played with Martha, etc.  I’ve got a good crew here folks.
• ·         While Martha refused to eat on her first few days home, she miraculously gained an appetite on Friday.
• ·         Martha’s “personality” is about 80% returned.
• ·         My dog is home, and right now, the time I have with her is pretty precious.

And now the not-so-great news…

I’ve been reading a lot on Martha’s disorder lately.  This disease affects less than 1% of the pet population.  Interestingly, 50-75% of the cases are Dachshunds, followed by Pekinese, Beagles, Corgis, and Basset Hounds, or any other breed of dog who, like Martha, has legs that are proportionately short in relation to their body length.  Of that less than 1%, 90% live without surgery and lead happy lives with a slightly restricted lifestyle.  (No stairs, jumping, etc.)  Of the ten percent that require surgery, somewhere between 50-70% have a full recovery.  Most of those exhibit early symptoms of the disease and have a few repeated episodes with minor paralysis before the surgery is done.  A year ago, Martha had some pain, and I took her to the vet.  He said it might be this disease or it might be a bruise.  She rested for a few days before returning to normal, and everything was hunky-dory until a year later, WHAMMO, paralyzed dog.  According to my calculations based on the blogs and websites I’ve read over the past week, of the 10% that go into surgery, Martha was one of the worst cases – or the top 10% of the 10%.  And beyond that, of the dogs who deteriorated into the condition that Martha did after the surgery, Martha’s the only example I can find on the internet of a dog who survived a week past the surgery, ie, she's already a miracle dog.

I find that on the days I focus on her recovery, I am slightly despondent, because neurologically, she hasn’t made any progress.  On the days I view this as a hospice situation, I am much better, because I’m just so happy to have this time with her.

I’m surprised at how much instinct and pack mentality has taken me over in the past few days.  I thought that the indiscriminate pooping and peeing would make me fall over in faint.  As of today, I am more familiar with her rear-end than I am with my own, and my gag reflex is non-existent.  It’s almost like having a newborn.  You look down at your clothes at some point in the day to find they’re covered in poo.  The first time, it grosses you out.  After the fifth time or so, you shrug and tell yourself that you’ll save yourself a load of laundry by changing clothes later in the day.  

If this were purely recuperation, I could handle it.  If this is how it will be for the next 7-8 years, we have a problem.  Her needs are constant.  Today I took her outside for an hour, and when I brought her in, I put her in her bed and went to wash my dishes.  It took no more than seven minutes.  When I came back into the living room, Martha had poo’d on her blanket, and disgusted by it, dragged herself across the room, leaving a streak of poo.  Seven minutes, people.

As for Martha, she waffles on this whole thing.  The other night, she poo’d and I went to grab a doggie bag to clean it up.  In less than ten seconds, she’d dragged herself to the top of my stairs and was all excited.

“I’m SO ready to go on my walk, Mom!” she said with her eyes, because I never grab a doggie bag unless that’s what we’re about to do.

This morning I set her out on my front lawn, something she’s enjoyed for the past few days – but today she whimpered the whole time, frustrated that she couldn’t chase the cat or the mailman.

And here’s the worst part…

Statistically speaking, recovery goes like this:

A large percentage of dogs who recover will show some sign of recovery within the first 15 days.  After that, there’s a precipitous drop-off.  The next marker is 45 days.  After six months without recovery, the dog is a total outlier.  (Think about 80/16/4.)

When I brought Martha home, I told myself that we’d give her until the 45-day mark, but today I sobbed hysterically for the first time since this whole thing happened.  And the reason I cried was because I realized that I don’t want to wait 45 days.  I want this to be over.  I want to put her down now.  And the reason I felt so hideous was because, after all this dog’s done for me, I’m ready to give up after less than two weeks.  And at the same time, I sit here looking at her, her looking at me, and I can’t stand the thought of telling her goodbye before she's had her chance.

The little doggie that could...

So, truth be told, Martha’s made no neurological improvements over the last few days.  As for personality, when she came home she was morose, fearful of people (including me), and unwilling to eat.  

Despite that, there is just something special about this dog.

When I took her home from the surgery, the neurologist said to me, “If you ever need to take a break and get away for a few days, Martha is always welcome to stay here.”

“Really?” I asked.  “A few days ago, I asked one of the techs if she knew of place that would board dogs requiring Martha’s care, and she specifically said that your center doesn’t do that.”

“Well,” said the neurologist, “She was right to say that – because we don’t, and truthfully we’ve only made the exception twice, but Martha…Martha is welcome to stay here whenever she likes.”

Tonight a friend of mine came over and found herself rolling around on the ground with the little pup in the midst of slightly soiled potty pads.  She and I are good friends, but still, I was a little shocked.

Perhaps the most interesting opinion is that of my mother.  When Martha became paralyzed, it was pretty obvious that my mom thought she should be put down.  When Martha went into surgery, I think my mom tried to be supportive by telling me how scrappy Martha was. After the surgery went poorly, my mother went right back into her stories of people spending ridiculous amounts of money on their dogs, of dogs who needed to be put down and owners who refused to do so, of medical heroics, people whose lives revolved around their dog and …yada-yada-yada.

Last night I sent my family a status update on Martha and included a video of her.

My mother replied back with – “Is physical therapy an option??”

As of today, Martha is a little less morose, still not eating much, but cuddling like a champ.  Having your dog fall asleep with her head on your lap for the first time in seven days = priceless.

Martha...

I wrote a ten-page post about what’s been going on with Martha over the last five days, but instead have decided to offer the Cliff’s Notes version.

She started acting strange late Wednesday night and by Friday morning was whisked into emergency spinal surgery.  As it turns out, she has a genetic condition causing the discs in her vertebrae to break down prematurely.  When we visited the surgeon for the initial consultation, she gave Martha a 50% chance at full recovery.  If I didn't want to do surgery (which by the way, costs about as much as small vehicle), the neurosurgeon advised putting her down immediately as the compression on her spine was causing intense pain and would continue to do so unless the pressure was relieved.  Slightly exhausted from a tumultuous prior 24 hours and unprepared to make such a major decision at that moment, I opted for the surgery in an attempt to buy some time, get some rest, and clear my head.

Once in the surgery, it was determined that Martha’s case was more severe than originally thought.  The surgeons assumed she had one ruptured disc; it turned out that she had two ruptures and two more on the verge (her T-11, T-12, L1, and L2 for all you spinal nerds).  What was normally a 60-90 minute surgery turned into three hours.  After the surgery, her condition continued to deteriorate over the weekend (it was expected to get better immediately following), and the neurologist suspected that her spinal cord had begun to die – a condition that would create complete paralysis in every part of her body including her lungs and diaphragm, ultimately causing asphyxiation.  But then yesterday night, the downhill slide suddenly stopped. (Halle-freakin-llujah.)

She is coming home tomorrow, but the journey isn’t over yet.  Today, she is paralyzed from the waist down and completely incontinent, or as I told her when I visited this afternoon, a shitting paperweight.  Over the next month or so, we will do exercises to keep her muscles in shape, turn her at regular intervals to prevent bed sores, share a few beers and some good times, and clean up a lot of poop and pee while hoping that her spinal cord heals and she regains sensation in the lower part of her body.  If she does not, then I will take her back to the neurologist and put her down with the best drugs known to man('s best friend).

She is not particularly thrilled right now, but I can't say that I blame her. (Plus, she has no idea how much fun we're going to have in the coming days...bags upon bags of Snausages totally on the house in addition to lots of cuddles and kisses.  Maybe I'll even catch her an almost-dead squirrel.) We'll see what the next few weeks bring.  If anyone's got it in them to overcome something like this, it's Martha.  

In the meantime, both of us are very, very tired, but on the upside, she licked my face today when she saw me, something I usually chastise her for but which today brought a great thrill.

Mostly she's just peeved that she can't scratch her ears.

Last one for the Lessons Learned: Know and Understand Happinesss

Though there are a few more, I’m skipping to the end of my “Lessons Learned” series, partially because I’ve been dragging these posts out for too long, and partially because my last lesson has become all the more resonant in the last 72 hours.

I’ve always been told that happiness is something you create inside of yourself, something you can’t get through achievement and milestones or anything external.  Last year that saying finally clicked.  Money, friendships, a significant other, prestige – none of those things truly create happiness.  Don’t get me wrong, they can enhance your life on a multitude of levels, but day-to-day happiness comes from having a good relationship with yourself.  It comes from learning who you are and not just accepting that person, but embracing it, perceived faults and all, trusting it, believing it, and being it.  If you love yourself, nothing can really fuck with you.  Sure, crappy things happen and you can get sad or pissed off at them, but overall you are still a happy person.  This year I learned if I wasn’t happy, I either wasn’t fully in touch with who I was, or I wasn’t being true to the person I knew myself to be.  The external and other people were just that – something outside of me.  They were neither the cause nor the source of my well-being.  It’s unbelievably empowering when you get to this point.  You suddenly realize that you have complete control over everything important in your life.

So why’s this so important of late?  Look right and scroll up on the full-screen portion of this blog.  You’ll notice a little dog named Martha.  Martha is one of the best things to happen to me externally…possibly in my life.  I adopted her during my second year of law school.  She wasn’t housetrained, had separation-anxiety, and was generally a pain in the ass when she first came home.  I’m really not sure *how* I ended up with her except that she was about to be put down, and I took her in a moment of guilt and weakness.

It took about twelve months for me to learn to tolerate her and another twelve before I learned to love her.  We learned things about each other and life as they hit us.  Each of us had to adapt.  Each of us had days where we sat in separate rooms because we needed space.  But there were also days when I cried and Martha ran over to lick my face, nights we sat on the couch in a ball of cuddle.  Every morning her muzzle was on the edge of the bed near my face and her tail wagging emphatically.

“Mom!  Check it out!  The sun came up today.  How cool is that?”

I called her my personal Prozac.  It was impossible to be unhappy when Martha was around.  She has always had a huge zest for life, a highly inquisitive nature, a bouncy step, and this joy that fills a room.  She also had the world’s most expressive tail you’ve ever seen.  It was always wagging, but with a different wag for happiness, fear, nervousness, hunger – you name it.  Her tail was her own brand of sign language.

Despite being one of the sweetest, most lick-giving dogs out there, she really surprised me the night she turned into guard dog and attacked a guy who quietly entered my house while I sat on the couch working in another room.  A few years later she alerted my downstairs neighbor of a burglary, and she always let you know when the mail had been dropped off or if someone was standing at the front door, but hadn’t yet rung the bell.  If my phone rang, and I was in another room, she came to let me know.

She lay at my feet as I studied for law school exams, the bar, and later when I started working from home.  She always followed me from room-to-room keeping an eye on me and making sure that everything in the house was a-ok.  In the last six months I’ve let her sleep on the bed and on the off-night when she decides to sleep somewhere else, I strangely miss her.

Martha is a mutt of unknown origin, but has the cutest little feet shaped like those of a Dachshund and these little clickety-clack toenails that let you know where she is at all times.

This past Tuesday I was at a friend’s house for a get-together, and somehow he, me, and one of our law school professors started discussing the possibly changing legal world in relation to pets.  Apparently at some point they’d co-written a paper arguing that the loss of a pet was more than economic damages and possibly a full-blown loss of consortium.  The paper, they said, had recently been gaining notice.

“Makes sense to me,” I said as I downed wine. “I don’t know what I would ever do without Martha.”

Twenty-four hours later my world got rocked…big time and in a not-so-pleasant way.

I can’t tell you the outcome of this situation because it’s still ongoing.  What I can tell you is that with every hour that goes by, Martha has a better chance of survival…and that if she survives there’s a large chance that our day-to-day lives will be changed for the extent of her remaining lifetime.  But I can also tell you that Martha is a scrappy little fighter, that I will try and type out the whole story in the next few days, that she is in doggie ICU at one of the best places in the state, if not the country, that I am grateful for a ridiculously high limit on my credit card, that thanks to everything that’s happened in the last year I am surprisingly doing ok, that this house is way too freaking quiet right now, and that as of yet, I can’t sleep too well without her next to me.  But however it turns out, I know that I will be ok. And that while I hope there are many good memories to come, if there are not, I will be immensely thankful for the ones we have had.

A few Martha-related posts over the years:

Did I just adopt a dog?

And she's home!

With an emotional disorder to boot!

And some potty-training issues.

Oh crap, I might love her.

And thanks for saving my life.

You are really man's best friend.

Thanks for not running away.

Lessons Learned in 2012 #7: Good isn’t always good; Bad isn’t always bad. Suspend judgment of day-to-day occurrences.

A big promotion and pay raise at work can turn into more responsibility and an extra ten hours a week at the office.  A flat tire on the side of the road can turn into making a new friend in the service center waiting room.  There are experiences in life that we’re prone to qualify as good or bad without knowing how they will ultimately affect us. 

How has this idea affected me?  Well, when something unexpected or unwanted occurs in my day, I'm less quick to judge its ramifications (and less likely to become upset over it).  Running late and about to miss an appointment?  Maybe if I'd gotten on the road when I'd planned, I might have been involved in an accident.  Got laid off from your job? ;-)  Maybe this is an opportunity to create a better life than the one you were living.

We never really know what the world has in store for us. Embrace change. Go with the flow. Savor each moment as it occurs.  Trust that no matter what may happen today, there's a reason for it, and this is an important part of moving closer to where you are supposed to be.

Lessons Learned from 2012 #6: Intangibles Count

If you’re like me, you’ve been a Type-A over-achiever since birth.  Around the age of 3-4, you astounded your parents with the fact that you’d taught yourself to read.  At age 7, you blew away your first standardized test.  At age 11, you were voted by your classmates as “Most likely to attend MIT and discover a cure for cancer.”  At age 12-13 you won the spelling bee -  twice…and the science fair and the fiction contest and made the honor roll sixteen times.

You are the person who people have looked at your whole life and told you that you are going to BE AMAZING one day.

You are also the person who sobbed uncontrollably when you didn’t make National Merit Scholar and years later “choked” while taking the LSAT and have never told another living soul your score because you ‘only scored in the top 5%,’ a fact which you find hideously embarrassing.

You consider yourself a productive, capable and efficient person and constantly berate yourself for all the things YOU HAVEN’T DONE each day/month/year/decade.  You feel guilty that you’re not living up to your 'potential' while wasting opportunities that others will never have.

2012 was the year that I sat down, thought about all that potential, and determined, “Fuck that.  The only potential I want to worry about is the one for my own happiness and the people I love.”

Sometime last fall, it was a Saturday, and I had a list sitting before me of all the things I needed to accomplish that day. 

I didn't do it. Instead I spent the day doing nothing…except as it turns out, I didn’t do nothing. (Back off, grammar nazis.)  I spent the day meditating and looking at my stumbling blocks in my life.  At the end of the day I’d scrawled out three pages of notes.  What did I learn?  Here are two items.

Well, for starters, I’ve had anywhere from 10-15 extra pounds hanging on my body this year that I couldn’t seem to get rid of.  I sat down with my paper and a comfy pillow and pondered.  I knew it wasn’t about food or hunger or anything like that.  It was something psychological, but what?

Turns out, when I really thought about it, for the last few years a lot of people have commented on “how skinny” I am. While it’s considered rude to say something to an overweight person about their size, thin people are fair game, and even worse, people couch their comments under a bullshit façade of concern. “Are you eating enough?” “Did you eat today?”  “You never eat lunch.  Do you have an eating disorder?”  What made it ten times worse is that I have always been slightly obsessive about my weight.  

My thin weight was perfectly healthy, but I’d kinda developed a complex about it, and I realized that I was hanging on to this extra ten pounds in an effort to a) stave off the comments and b) convince myself that I could tolerate being a heavier weight.

That day I told myself that it was ok to be skinny.  Since then, without any effort on my part, the extra weight is fading away, and I’m SO much happier when I put my pants on in the morning.  When your pants fit, it’s the beginning of a good day.

Another fun thing I got from that day?  I always seemed to have ‘just enough’ money regardless of whether I was making $20k or six figures a year.  I asked myself WHY that was and came up with the theory that I was scared of being without financial worry.  I know, it’s seems counter-intuitive, right?  I was afraid that if I paid off my loans and saved up a fair amount of money, I would take on bigger financial obligations like buying a house or having a kid – and I was worried that those things would limit me in some way.  Or worse yet, I’d become one of those douchebags with a lot of nice things and zero personality. Also, my parents have heavily manipulated, bartered, and coerced each other into doing things throughout the years with – you guessed it – money.  (FUN FACT!  My mother, who never wanted children, consented to my creation in exchange for a top of the line washer and dryer.  To this day, I LOVE doing laundry.)  Back to the story, with that one I realized that money wasn’t actually the issue.  It was what I thought money would create, what money symbolized to me. I’ve since decided that it’s possible to be financially stable and not be a complete asshole.

At the end of that day, I’d crossed nothing off my to-do list.  From a tangible productivity assessment standpoint, I was sitting on a big fat zero, but some of the realizations I had the day I did nothing more than sit on my butt have improved my daily well-being.  And bonus, because I was navel-gazing rather than running errands that day, I also had the time to meet a good friend for lunch. 

The point I’m trying to make here (probably poorly), is that there’s so many little things out there that we can do for ourselves and others each day that have no discernible level of achievement, but which ultimately have a much bigger impact on our lives than being named a National Merit Scholar.  (That's right.  Suck it all you National Merit Scholars....just kidding.)  And those little things ARE our real achievements.  And that’s what I try to remember every time I ask myself, “Is this really all the more I’ve done with my life?  Is this where I’m supposed “to be” at this age?!?!”  Then I go play with my dog and forget all about it.

Life Lesson of 2012 #5: Trust in Yourself and Let go of the External

So, when I first got laid-off from my super-duper corporate job, my initial instinct was to go out and get another one…even though I hadn’t really LOVED my job and even though I wasn’t sure it was the best thing for me to do.  Ultimately, I spent six months turning down offers to submit my resume and cringing in job interviews before finally deciding that either, I really didn’t want that super-duper corporate job, or if I did, I didn’t want it right now.  Everyone tells you that if you take time off and opt-out for a bit, then you can never hop back on the train.  I don’t know if that’s true, but I can tell you that eighteen months ago I was burned out, had three years worth of non-career-related neglected items rolling around in my head, and really felt like I needed a break.  I honestly think it would have been worse for my career if I’d jumped right back in and tried to go full guns when I was running on empty.  

Ultimately, I decided that working from home and taking contract jobs would be the best thing for me at the time.  Still, I sometimes felt embarrassed when I ran into law school peers and was like, “Yeah, I got laid off.  Yeah, I’m just doing contract work now.  I really like it though, I mean really.”  Actually, that’s not true.  I wasn’t embarrassed at all to be doing contract work.  I loved it.  What I was embarrassed about was being judged for doing it.

On election night of 2012 I ended up on the phone with my brother and he asked, “Ana, what are you doing with your life?!?!”

And I was like, “What do you mean? I’m figuring my stuff out.”

“If you were 22, I would support you,” he told me. “But you’re WAY TOO OLD to be doing this,” he continued.  “You’ve got debt. You’re a lawyer and capable of earning a bunch of money and you’re sitting in your house working 7 hours a week and playing fiddle. Think about your retirement!”

I answered, “All I can tell you is that I don’t know where this is headed, but I do know that what I’m doing right now is right for me, things are slowly taking shape, and it will work itself out in the end.”

Normally my brother’s words would have upset me.  I would have worried that he was disappointed in me or worried about me.  But I wasn’t upset.  I wasn’t mad.  I knew his journey in life and understood why he said those things and why his path was right for him.  I also knew that I was doing what was right for me, and I was no longer worried about justifying or explaining it.

And that was a cool moment, because I realized that for the first time, I was living a life based on no one’s expectations or opinions other than my own.

We’ve all been told different countless things so much since birth that we now take them as ‘musts.’  I must have health insurance.  I must work an 8-5 salaried job.  I must have a college degree. I must get married before the age of X. They’ve been repeated so many times that we don’t stop to think about them anymore.  We just assume that they’re true. Sitting down to figure out all of your ‘musts’ and questioning if they’re actually true for you takes time, but the relief and freedom that comes with each one you cast off is thrilling.

Lessons Learned from 2012 #4: Give & love freely without expectation.

A month or so ago, I suggested to my fiddle teacher that she should charge more…and I was a little torn when I did it because, while I think she’s an awesome teacher, I didn’t have the cash to pay her an extra $20 an hour.  As the words came out of my mouth I thought, “Way to go, genius.”

My fiddle teacher asked me *why* she thought I should charge more, and again, countering my thought process, I laid out a series of well-reasoned ideas.

A little while later she texted me and said, “Hey, my husband wants to know if you’d like to be a part-time manager for our band.  He thinks you make us sound *really* marketable!”

“Sure,” I countered, thinking she was totally joking.

A few days before Christmas, my fiddle teacher and her husbnad were in town playing a show, and I drove out to see them.  After the first set, they sat at my table, and we caught up on random stuff.

“Okay, at the next break, we’re gonna talk business and get your advice,” she said as they headed back to the stage.

“Say what?!?!” I asked.

“You know, manager stuff...now that you’re our manager,” she said.

OMG, seriously, WTF?  Manager?!?!?  ME?!?!

And so, during the second set I furiously scrawled notes on their performance pretending to be a band manager.  When it was over I awkwardly laid out my suggestions to them, awaiting their impending eyerolls.

“Hmm,” they said, “we’ll try it in the next set.”

And they did…and I think we were all amazed when something about the third set felt different.

“Aww, man,” my fiddle teacher’s husband said as they were packing up their gear at the end of the night.  “I bet if we’d been doing that we would have had the number of fans we wanted on Facebook by now.”

“We wanted X number of fans on Facebook by the end of the year,” my fiddle teacher explained.

“Well, it could happen,” I told her. “Y’all have a few more shows left.”

Two days later my fiddle teacher texted me, “OMG, Ana!!! People from the Houston show went on our facebook page, posted comments and “fanned” us.  Instant results!! Plus, we reached our goal!!!! You’re awesome!”

Suffice to say, as a direct result of recommending that my fiddle teacher charge a higher rate, I’m now receiving free fiddle lessons…and referrals related to marketing other bands.