Lying atop my mother’s hot tub cover in my teen years, slathered in tanning (baby) oil, soaking in the sun’s glorious rays, Supertramp and Billy Joel often in rotation.

Driving through town in “my” 1983 Volkswagen GTI with the roof cranked back and windows down because she was a model too old or too basic to offer air conditioning and because it made me feel alive. Sure, things could get a little sweaty in the peak of summer sitting in traffic, but it was all part of the experience.

We also did not have AC at home, only ceiling fans. It could get toasty in the afternoons but manageable, and we had a basement for refuge.

I have cherished memories of waking up on chilly summer mornings; cool early air blowing through every room of the house. Sometimes it was so icy it was painful.

Those summers carried all the good feels. A reward for the six months of cold in these parts.

Even later, when I grew up and married and we bought a century-old home without AC or ceiling fans, summer remained something I looked forward to. There were always two or three sweaty weeks leading and bleeding into August, but there was still plenty to love: remembering what the neighbors look like and catching up on their lives; lingering over patio meals—by the river, if you planned it right; swimming in unchlorinated water; practicing yoga in a park beneath trees shaking their full leaves in the breeze. Every living thing liberated in this season.

It used to last three months. However, the Dionysian season grows shorter each year it seems.

Wildfires are not new to this area. Dry summers are a staple in Eastern Washington with plentiful vegetation to burn. What has changed over the last two decades is the high heat levels and more importantly, winds. I wrote about a devastating windstorm that hit the area in 2015. That one occurred in November, when the temperatures were still agreeable and ground soft; unprecedented gusts uprooted countless grand and historic trees and ushered in winter overnight. Now wind seems almost commonplace. Not to the same level, although gust speed seems to have increased for every changing front, overall.

This context is to say that during peak summer recreation, fires spark and spread vigorously through pine forests, billowing smoke through the region, obscuring access to sun and blue skies. Sometimes for the entirety of August.

It is not typical, however, for the fire itself to encroach on the city. Outlying areas, sure. At times much too close for comfort but manageable.

Historically firefighters have been able to tamp down flames before they reach dense residential areas. There are tracking apps and push alerts for community awareness.

My opinion on the latter is mixed. Forecasted weather events have been sensationalized like all news, to the point that one might begin to ignore them. Maybe even crack a smile about the use of grandiose words meant to invoke fear. The darker effect of these tools can also mean that a nefarious person or persons may leverage the warning to spread ruin.

Last Friday was a perfect summer day. Nothing but blue sky and temperatures edging toward mid-eighties before noon. A day I was fortunate to spend on a scenic golf course (not golfing) raising money for a non-profit organization I support. There was barely a breeze to keep things comfortably cool across the hours spent under a canopy, waiting for teams to approach the 10th hole. Everyone remarked how lucky it was the event fell on such a beautiful day.

“Tomorrow is going to be a shit show,” I heard one of the golfers say. He is a local newscaster, which gave weight to the comment. I had seen a weather alert, I think, but as noted, I don’t always take those to heart.

Saturday was not wildly different than Friday from the outset. There was a stronger breeze, gusts strong enough I chose not to run against them. But nothing felt as significant as the warnings foretold; albeit gusts were not forecasted to increase until midday.

I posted a silly note here while I was sunning in my backyard and soon after, received a text from J with a photo taken from the sports complex he was just evacuated from. There was an ominous plume of smoke and fire in the distance, and I knew exactly where it was burning. I used to date someone that lived below that hill and a good friend of mine from work moved into the neighborhood as well a few years back.

I messaged both to see if they were safe. They had been evacuated moments before and were in route to secure places. We kept things brief and I offered any help needed. The fire raged so quickly across the north ridge that the line of cars to evacuate was a problem in itself. It was total chaos, even recognized by someone nowhere near the danger. I saw the giant smoke cloud move northeast across the horizon, while searching for updates and watching the red blob expand in the app.

I messaged later in the day to check in with my friend, expecting to hear that the fire had spared their homes after all. I even had a tip from a good friend that their street may have been missed.

Her response was “total loss” with a cry laughing emoji, which confused me at first. But she also included a photo of the smoking ground and burned-out car frames near her home.

I inspected the picture in detail and held out hope she was wrong. The rest of my day seemed to drag on forever. News trickled in slowly and there didn’t seem to be any end in sight for the destruction.

Searching for news on social media sites is always a bad call. There might be slivers of solid information, and personal accounts but among those things are conspiracy theorists ready to comment on each post. Adding their two pennies as to why this happened, and it always begins with the homeless folks. The boogeymen responsible for all the dreadful things that happen in our city. Or, its political conspiracy. Either way, there is always a scapegoat.

My Pollyanna heart is always rooting for underdogs and human goodness. Which is another reason my only social footprint is here on the stack.

I woke up the next morning feeling apathetic. Worn out from worry for my friends, the ones that lost and others still under threat. Part of me felt like some kind of imposter for having these feelings. It wasn’t my house; wasn’t my story. But that isn’t quite true. Tragedy reverberates. Especially where there is a personal connection.

S is a coworker and she and I have grown close in recent months. In fact, she’s responsible for my renewed motivation to continue running. My accountability partner. While she doesn’t consider herself a runner, she was inspired to work some miles each week when we began spending more time together. I would check in with her occasionally on progress.

Then, earlier this year, I challenged her to run a timed race with me. She hadn’t run three miles altogether and was a little nervous about it but committed anyway. Following the run, she wanted to train for another. In fact, she decided it should be a monthly goal for us and doggedly searched for race options that suited us both. We’ve since traveled to other cities together for these events, with plans to go to the west side again later this month. She plans at least 80% of the logistics for these events and I am glad for it.

I ran into her at the office on Friday afternoon and we talked about weekend plans. She knew about the fire alert because she has the app on her phone and monitors it daily (S is a meticulous planner and disaster averter). Her husband had been out of town on business and was returning Monday. She was looking forward to a single girl’s weekend at home and possibly some huckleberry picking at Mt Spokane.

And that’s where she was returning from when the evacuation order came in. She had barely any time to race into her home for important documents and other safekeeps.

It breaks my heart on so many levels this happened to her; kindness and wry humor aside, she’s one of the most responsible people I know.

L had lived on the street for decades. He had a recording studio in his basement, even if out of date. The years of playing out and recording local bands have passed. He gave up partying more than 10 years ago and developed disdain for band drama in recent years. The passion for making music remains, only in another shape.

I know him through a mutual friend and former bandmate of his, and also because we dated for about a year before I eschewed traditional relationships.

He took immense pride in his home, even if he was a bit neurotic about the space. It took him a painstaking number of months to pick a new exterior color and once he did, nobody noticed the change because it was nearly the same as before.

He loved his neighbors and was always chatting with them and sharing news to others about them. Sometimes too much. Community was important to L. It helped ease his anxious mind. Having others to focus on and care about.

I can only imagine how devastating this is for him. But true to form, his responses were stoic following the discovery.

Monday came and I awoke in a hazy daze. And not only because the blanket of smoke masked the time of day.

I thought about my friends, waking up in someone else’s house, realizing they couldn’t ever return to their own. It reminded me of a painful period of my life when my marriage was dissolving but we were still living under the same roof. I would wake up, only to remember I was living in a nightmare and there was no way around it; a gut punch. And while this was a less significant loss in comparison, it felt relevant.

Losing a sacred space you have been building and growing over time, a place you call home, in mere minutes, is truly unfathomable to me.

Work was disorienting. I arrived at the office at my normal time, as the wheel doesn’t stop turning for tragedy. The building was mostly empty, normal for weekend bordering days, but the emptiness felt especially eerie.

I had scheduled several meetings that day because the team is cramming for an end-of-week deadline. Faces on the screen were mostly somber, but discussion of the fire was limited. Not everyone was impacted and even for those who were, there seemed to be widespread aversion to the topic - even in person. While I craved the distraction of work, I could not focus on anything at all. Perhaps everyone was feeling some part of that.

I learned in passing that a coworker living on the same street as my friends did not lose her home. It was one of few spared. It made me think how dark and strange it would feel to return to a house without others surrounding it. But I suppose it is still better than the alternative grief.

I forced myself to crank out a few miles on the treadmill before leaving that day, even though my body felt exhausted, and managed a few chores at home before I poured a glass of wine and sunk into a cozy chair.

And then I saw it. News I did not want to believe.

Someone had been arrested for (allegedly) lighting one of the fires. The fire that jumped the river and burned down my friends’ neighborhood before moving on to hundreds of other homes. Not accidentally but intentionally. A person convicted of shooting his father years earlier after refusing to complete a chore.

I can’t wrap my ahead around it and at the same time, I can’t stop trying to.

This story took longer to unpack than I intended, and I am still unpacking it. Perhaps I will update at some point when the event is over and more distant, and I have a more hopeful perspective.

I also want to note that I condensed the story to include two known connected losses; I know several people - one very close friend - that remain evacuated from their homes, having experienced dramatic impacts close hand and having perspectives vastly deeper than mine. I do not mean to diminish anyone or anything through this piece.

In closing I want to express my appreciation for the concern and kindness I have received from friends here. You guys are the very best.

Thanks for reading. 🧡

-Melanie

The thing is, I have heavily disparaged this place over time for being boring; lacking culture and diversity. That assessment is not completely inaccurate but the full truth is that Spokane was once a bustling hub. It was the largest city west of Minneapolis (before Seattle) at the turn of the century.

There are a lot of ghosts here from those earlier opulent times. Old neighborhoods, local parks and architecture tell many stories.

I am sure I have mentioned this before but I am not a deep diver. I swim on the surface. So maybe you can categorize this and related Notes as a close relative to Drunk History. I will do my best to keep to the facts.

Installment One: The Riblet Mansion

This place fascinated me in my youth. Perched atop a hill above an orphanage and overlooking the Spokane river, it remains a display of historical opulence.

There are a lot of rumors and whimsical stories about the estate that is now home to Arbor Crest Winery.

A few years ago, an article about the owner and his brother caught my eye.

Until then, I assumed the Cliff House estate owner had been the only successful person in his family. In reality, he was the salesman and peacock of the family. He claimed to be an inventor and patented many ideas but it was his brother, the engineer, that built the family business. He also had a mansion but it was in another part of town, and a less flamboyant show of wealth. Drama certainly played out.

I am already in over my head and I really didn’t recount much of their story. Other people already did this so why recreate a wheel (or tram)?

I plan to do these as Notes going forward but as I was typing, the whole thing turned into a run on sentence and I figured this was a better vehicle to deliver. Short and longer form stories linked below.

Thanks all for indulging me!

Melanie 💗

Sometimes it was reading the bible with his name etched into the pages of the foreword: James Frederick Ables.

Sometimes it was lying in bed, imagining he was cradling my small frame while I wept.

Most often, the closeness I felt to my father was through his mother.

My grandmother Rose lived in Spokane and raised five children on the west side of town. She was a cradle to grave Catholic and had suffered much loss in her life before she herself passed to another realm.

It really was not until I was older I more fully understood her level of loss and astounding perseverance.

When I was young, I remember staying at her house over weekends, whenever I was welcome. It seems like I was there most weekends during grade school but it could have actually just been three. That is how young minds work. Honestly, I know it was more, I just can’t quantify.

My grandmother thrived on routine. And she was a terrible cook but these are the things I could always rely on:

• Dinner: Chicken with skin, cooked in her convection oven. White rice with cinnamon and sugar shaker, possibly a vegetable?

• Golden Girls, if it was airing either of the nights.

• My grandmother sitting in the dining area while the television was running, creating pin curls with snap barrettes and applying Oil of Olay (she had glorious skin!)

• Breakfast: half a banana and some really thick oatmeal.

• Lunch: Some kind of sandwich, probably split between us.

• Mass on Sunday mornings and a donut from Safeway across the street if I behaved.

Occasionally, there were special treats

• Grandma had a treasure trove of picture slides from her visits to Germany when my father and mother lived there, and possibly from other times. She would present these in a slide show in the evening.

• Listening to an audio recording of my father and his siblings around the dining room table from earlier years. I love so much that she made a point to record at least one dinner with all of them.

• Rose loved all historic areas in and around Spokane. I don’t know if it was a generational thing (Wasband’s grandmother was also very much into it), but she would often drive me to places she visited growing up and where she took her kids. Lakes, historic buildings and parks. I could tell it made her happy to share these things with me.

  • Davenport Hotel

  • Bowl and Pitcher Park

  • Manito Park

  • Loon Lake

• I went on a women’s retreat with her once when I was a bit older and the ladies let me drink boxed wine with them. It may have been the first time I felt a little tipsy. Catholics have vices.

I remember meeting friends of hers at times and she often introduced me as Jimmy’s little girl. I absolutely bore a resemblance to him with my dark hair. It made me feel like I belonged to somebody. Somebody important.

When I was in high school, I opted for a Humanities course. It blended History and English subjects. We learned about history and wrote about what we learned. It was pretty cool.

One of our assignments was to interview a member of our family (or someone else) who had lived through the Great Depression.

My grandmother never talked about this period of her life, really. I knew her older sister had passed away when they were young, I knew she had lost her parents, but that was really it.

This is what I learned from my grandmother through that interview:

• Her older sister, the apple of her mother’s eye, died from illness when they were both young. I feel like my grandmother told me it was scarlet fever but it was actually appendicitis (I think).

• They lived in one room of a small house. Shoes were reinforced with cardboard when they wore out.

• Her mother jumped off the Monroe Street Bridge and died when she learned she had a brain tumor. It also could have been due to grief, following the loss of her oldest child.

• Her father wandered off. My grandma told me he had a nervous breakdown but I learned later it was Syphilis. He had worked for the railroad.

• She raised her brothers before marrying my grandpa that she met at a USO dance.

My grandmother lived, despite the pain. She suffered many setbacks and went on to serve others until her dying day. She went to Mass every week and raised her children in Catholic education. She was immensely strong and honestly, pretty fun and funny.

More heartache would follow the early years. She handled it all with dignity and grace.

• Grandpa died of a heart attack, about a year before my father lost a battle to cancer. He was a heavy drinker and worked two jobs to support his family. I don’t think they got along that great but it was a loss, nonetheless.

• Dad died of cancer after a year + long fight before I was school aged.

• My cousin Justin died in a hunting accident when I was 21 (he was 17).

  

  

  

Although she was modest and never dated after she lost her husband, she was not afraid to share important wisdom. I remember starting my period when I was taking a bath at her house and being so embarrassed. It wasn’t supposed to happen in a bath! She kind of laughed and told me how normal it was and that they used to use actual rags to trap the bleeding when she was young. How lucky I was.

Also, I don’t remember how it came up but in regard to fashion, she advised me to “leave a little mystery”, which I never forgot, even if I tested that tenet when I was becoming a woman.

She was wise, subtle and a warm constant in my life for many years.

I remember visiting my grandma after my daughter was born. She was living in a senior women’s apartment building and had suffered a stroke months earlier.

She was no longer allowed to drive. Not that she was ever good at it but she seemed to be forgetting a lot in her later years and it was not safe for her to be on the roads.

Grandma held her youngest grandchild and cooed. She offered to watch her any time I needed help. We all knew that was not going to happen.

When she died, there was an open casket funeral. I guess this is customary for Catholics, although I didn’t know it at the time.

My uncle Jeff and his wife were ahead of us in the viewing line. They appeared to be inconsolable as they looked upon her and I cried for them. But then he turned toward us to walk back and he said, trying not to laugh, “that isn’t grandma”. To which I also tried not to laugh. But he was right. They had really messed it up. She was fully made up and her facial expression absolutely angry. PISSED!!!

Often times I think of her in the spring, when the flowers are blooming, the sky is moody and rainbows appear out of nowhere. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe I spent more time with her during these months.

I can tell you I miss her dearly. Not only was she my connection to my dead father for so many years. She was a strong woman who lived with conviction. She loved her family fiercely and taught me more than most women in my life have.

And when I need to feel her most closely, I attend Mass. I am not a practicing Catholic but there is something solemn and beautiful about the Catholic ritual. And I never hesitate to touch hands and extend grace to those around me when it is time. It might be my favorite part of the service, besides the fact that it always ends on time.

As always, thanks for reading.

Melanie💗

First and foremost, happy Mother’s Day to everyone who celebrates. 💗

Before I met my husband, I had no intention of marrying or having children. I don’t really know why, it was just something I didn’t picture for myself. Some girls imagined diamond rings, bouquets and dresses growing up. None of these things came to mind for me, ever.

Especially after my stepdad left my mom and she had to start from scratch to make a living. Not that she did not have employment history, but none of it was current or relevant. She had only spent a few quarters at community college before she met him and went back to being a stay-at-home mom.

I did not want to end up going back to college when I was 50 years old, working minimum wage jobs to bridge a gap. I was going to pursue a CAREER in a BIG CITY. Screw depending on someone else who would only later disappoint you.

Anyway, I met my husband and the father of my children when I started my junior year in college. He had graduated that spring and I liked the cut of his jib. A lot.

In the early days before marriage, he said he wanted to have four strapping young boys some day. I negotiated two humans of nameless sex in the deal.

We had a lot of fun together pre marriage and before children, and not the reckless kind, really. Regardless, the adults in the room told us we needed to solidify things.

Don’t give the milk away for free.

So we did it. We got hitched. Why not?

We took a budget vacation to San Francisco, he proposed and we made things real in the year when all electronic gadgets were destined to die (2000).

Our wedding day and night was magical. Nothing, including a shitty DJ that didn’t remember our names, could ruin it.

We threw caution to the wind that night and every one after in our bedroom habits. I mean, I had been only semi-responsible in sexual encounters leading to this point and had never had a pregnancy scare. It was not likely to happen right away. I thought.

Three months later, during the Super Bowl, I felt really off. Maybe I was sick. But as I climbed the stairs to retire for the night, I felt a hot pulse in my lower stomach. Something felt raw there. Not sick, just raw.

And then a test confirmed it. I was growing another life inside of me. Social media sound bites from women who have had children, speak of pregnancy like it some blissful adventure. I can assure you, it is not.

I was growing an alien. And it did not want me to have nice things. The smell of microwave popcorn in the work lunch room and doing anything not related to sleeping were things I had to abandon. At the time, I didn’t know if my lust or energy for life would return.

She was also really comfortable in there. When the due date came, it soon went. I had to go in for non-stress tests often to make sure she was not suffering in silence. I’ll skip the drama around a test failure and failed induction that followed and just say, my oldest is certifiably stubborn. It took a witch’s cocktail to get her to come around, two weeks after her due date, on Halloween. During a Blue Moon.

I wanted a natural birth. Not because I am acutely woo or feminist. I am a control freak.

After 24 hours of labor and having a swollen cervix, the midwife insisted on an injection to help me relax.

I woke up in the worst pain of my goddamn life and it took several seconds to realize where I was and OMG I AM STILL PREGNANT!!

She was born not long afterward and had all ten fingers and toes. Alex was perfect (aside from her cone head). I was so relieved.

To be done with the hardest part, to have had a good partner cheering me on, to have this sweet tiny warm body resting on my chest. What a crazy beautiful moment.

Then, the midwife asked if I wanted to see the placenta. It was really healthy, she said. All of a sudden, I was in a horror film.

Please let us pack up and go home.

The first weeks were really hard. I nursed for what felt like every 30 minutes.

Winter was setting in and I couldn’t get out to do things with her very easily. She really didn’t care for the lights and sounds at the mall. It was tough.

My mom lightened my burden, as she always has. She came over every day for those first weeks to make sure I was eating and to reassure me that I had everything it took to be a mother.

I felt a closeness to her that I haven’t always felt in my life. She was real with me and the kids in those months and early years. Nurturing, accommodating, loving, selfless, interested. That last point may be one to highlight.

Tim and I struggled through the first 18 months of this new phase of our lives before we decided it was time to throw caution to the wind again. For kicks. Our son was due that next summer.

This time around, it was me who felt he could stay rooted there forever. I didn’t have to give anything up, nor did I lose energy. In fact, I became interested in red meat again after 15 years while I was pregnant with Patrick. The Prime Rib that Christmas was unbelievable.

Even so, his birth was traumatic. For me and for him. The labor was especially intense and things moved faster. I remember losing feeling in half my body when I was “in position” because I couldn’t regulate my breathing. He was born with the cord around his neck.

I guess all of this is to say I have a conflicted relationship with motherhood. Both in my relationship to my mother at times, and a level of confidence in my own abilities to be the right amount of mom for my kids.

What I do know is I am incredibly fortunate to have an imperfect but tight family unit that looks out for each other.

And I am so dang proud of my kids for being loving, responsible humans.

Thanks for reading💗

Melanie

The puberty years, when the body changes and realization hits we’re no longer children. We become ravenous wolves, desperate to regain our perch in the social pecking order.

It’s also true that there’s something uniquely special about this period. That precious bridge from innocence to adulthood. A film genre I obsessed over many years after. Maybe like a Bruce Springsteen song. However, I think I preferred Mellencamp then.

I met Isaac in 7th grade, perhaps midway through. We went together for about two years. He set the bar for many relationships that followed. This seems strange, given our ages then, but I swear we embodied 30 year old skin suits.

Ike was different than other boys. He wore a jean jacket decorated in markers touting band names I was only slightly familiar with. Not necessarily current - Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, etc. - but kind of deep cut for kids that popularized Debbie Gibson and NKOTB.

He had musical legacy; his father and mother played in a band in Minnesota before they divorced.

He was confident and clever, a whacky daredevil. And for that he was popular.

Isaac wore aqua socks to school and nobody batted a lash. He hopped a train sometimes with friends to get to school.

Ike was cool in the most genuine expression of the word and people loved being around him. While not traditionally handsome, in my eyes, he was perfectly chiseled.

When not playing class clown, or distracted by adventure, he was audaciously sincere.

He walked me home most days. Even though my house was at least a half mile out of the way for him.

We also talked for hours on the phone most nights. Sometimes while he serenaded me with his guitar.

Isaac was a real gem.

His mom was a bartender at an Irish pub downtown. I recall her having long dark hair and a perfectly raspy voice. She was known for her singing and beloved by bar patrons.

She was often gone by the time we were out of school. However, her sister lived with them, so the apartment was not always empty.

Occasionally it was. We spent a lot of time after school with friends there. From time to time, we were left to our own devices.

The first time we made out, Chuck Berry was playing in the background. The memory is seared in my brain.

There are many sweet memories I culled during that period of my life. Music always decorated the space.

After he moved across town, I remember evening visits, drinking his mom’s White Zinfandel, our clothed sweating bodies spilling across the kitchen table.

Or the time we went camping with the adults and I learned about camping knives. While not the most notable part of the trip, it stood out in memory because it was an inside joke unveiled to me. I knew about pot - its existence and usage. I did not know of its prevalence, or how people made do without typical instruments to ingest its heady tonic.

Two impressionable memories remain with me from that trip - I’ll share the appropriate one:

On the way to our destination, a Steve Miller song came on the radio that I’m sure I’d heard a few times. Isaac knew all of the words and sang them out loud with the windows down and the sun and wind streaming in. He was so in his skin. I was both envious and full of a strange pride.

Months after we broke up for the last time, I remember making out with abandon in his basement stairwell, while friends of ours milled about. It was in our freshman year, and we were in different schools. A girlfriend passing us on her way down the stairs said, “I thought you didn’t like him anymore”. She remained a bitch as long as I knew her.

But I’ve skipped over a sobering event.

Before we started high school, although I’m not exactly sure how long before, Ike called me on the phone, or I called him, and in a quiet voice he told me that his mother had gone missing. She’d left for a weekend getaway with a friend to B.C. Canada and hadn’t returned as expected. I was not sure what to do with that information. I don’t think he was either.

Perhaps a day or two later, he was dropped off at my house while his aunt joined others to search for her. I don’t think he was with me for more than an hour before his aunt appeared at the front door in dark sunglasses. It was the last time I saw him for what felt like a long time.

They found the truck parked along a highway, keys and purse left behind, with no sign of foul play. It was parked next to a hillside.

The bodies were found at the bottom of a cliff on the other side of the hilltop.

The theory is they pulled over for a bathroom break. I believe it was still snowy in that area, and police speculated she may have been the one that initiated the stop and slipped on ice when she was out of sight in the trees, and when her friend heard her scream, he followed after.

Isaac struggled much following his mom’s death, and we ended up drifting apart.

I ran into him years later, when I was engaged to be married, and was out for a friend’s bachelorette party during the annual lilac parade downtown.

We talked on the phone once after that and pieced together a few memories. Bittersweet closure.

Going through old pictures tends to pull some of these things to the forefront, yeah?

As always, thanks for reading.

Melanie❤️

After the end to the pandemic was announced, the office called all of the vaccinated back to the building. Full time at first. This was a hard lump to swallow. We’d spent the last 18 months learning a new way of life. One that held more balance for some. It was a rough assimilation. Perhaps not as rough for those called back in the second round, who were required to wear masks and test weekly.

During this time, I cut back on other people’s pet care. I needed self care.

In my spare time, I signed up for local “workshops” that sounded exciting. I read an article on NPR about improv that piqued my interest.

I do not love being on stage or the center of attention in any way but I do love a good stretch. Something that takes me out of my body. Forces me to engage and respond in more rapid fashion. I thought, maybe I should join that 101 class starting in a few weeks at a local improv joint. Additionally, because I can’t just do ONE enriching thing, I started dropping in for salsa lessons downtown as well.

Both were undoubtedly helpful in the transitional period.

We eventually were granted a 50% remote work option. This compromise helped immensely.

I mentioned in a previous post that my sister suggested looking into an app that would allow me to travel across the nation (and internationally, if I chose) to care for people’s homes and animals while they were on vacation. I found it intriguing. Primarily because there was no money directly exchanged in the transaction. Owners and sitters paid the same annual subscription fee. As a sitter, I apply for house sit opportunities I find on the app.

The owners review applications, and set up video calls to assess sitter suitability.

Initially, I thought of places I had not visited and felt a burning desire to so. At the time, Austin TX came to mind. I am not sure I would choose it now but then, it was forefront in my imagination.

I applied for a sit that looked promising - manageable pets, a pool, a great working space.

Somehow, without any recommendations on the app itself, I was welcomed to Austin for a week.

The house was in a newer suburb, about 20 minutes by car to the downtown area. I knew this going in. I made sure I would be able to spend several hours in town without needing to worry about animal welfare. I was also able to work remotely in Class A office space in their home.

I arrived the evening prior to their departure. The house was modern, clean and warm-feeling. The design was odd to me but the guest room was decked out in Grecian celebration. I felt comforted.

I spent two days downtown in Austin during my stay. I hailed a car both times. The owners offered use of their car. I hate driving in the first place, but driving in a foreign city ramps my anxiety up to 11.

I did totally normal things when I went into the city. I purposely communed with random strangers at a local yoga studio, worked on my improvisational skills with another set of lovable weirdos, walked across the city to check out a vintage store my Lyft driver recommended on the DL the first morning, and visited a renovated hotel I’d heard about on a podcast interview with a resident hotelier (I am a recovering fangirl).

While all went well during my visit, I learned a few things. If you want to visit and feel a city, don’t stay in a suburb of the city.

The house was modern and safe feeling. There was a swimming pool I could have used if the weather had been more predictable. There was a 5K paved running trail around the corner from the house.

BUT

It really felt like I was living the intro to Weeds, with the ticky tacky houses and repeat physical activity occurring outside the window.

The only business within walking distance was a CVS. You better believe I found a reason to visit that CVS every night after work.

I have continued to use this app for more than a year now, however, I have not traveled further than 300 miles from my home since.

I had one trip locked for Toronto, CA that fell apart. I do not regret purchasing refundable plane tickets.

My oldest lives on the west side of the state these days, and I love Seattle, so I visit as often as I reasonably can.

I also do some local sits, although, hot tubs and views are pre-requisites for those. I know what I am doing.

When I am in the city, I love arriving without a car. Dependent on local transport, dropping into places I am unfamiliar with. Pretending I live there. Infiltrating. Embodying the vibe.

It is invigorating to study the patterns of a neighborhood. I have a golf handicap, of course. The city is big, none of the neighborhood locals know I don’t belong there!

Much of the time I spend with my kiddo, going to shows, thrifting, visiting friends, napping. All of the good things. When I am not doing that, I might go on a date - alone or with another person. I might just relax in the tub and feel the quiet of another human’s home. It is honestly an unbelievably cool gig.

I have had plenty of fun experiences away from the city, as well. Really, the primary reason I do any of this is to push myself outside of comfort. It might mean becoming a versed city dweller, it might mean spending time in solace. In an alone-beside-an-animal that doesn’t belong to me, kind of way.

This closes the story, I guess. I don’t think I need to go into the growth I’ve experienced through these experiences. Or why and how I plan to continue working this muscle. It seems a lot of that can be implied through the tale and pictures above.

Thanks for following along.💗

-Melanie

I have been pondering a couple sound bites that arrived on the same day, from unrelated sources, but which tie into one another and seem to be speaking to my jumbled nervous system as of late:

“You need a vision. Not a goal. Not a mood board. A real, specific, non-negotiable picture of who you are becoming and what you are building.”

Arnold Schwarzenegger

And this:

“With the Sun exalted in Aries, Jupiter exalted in Cancer, and Venus entering her home sign of Taurus, we’ve got a sky with serious standards. We are redefining who we really are (Sun). We are growing from a deeper place of emotional authority (Jupiter).”

Resident astrological deity and all around badass,

You see, I developed a vision for myself a few years back, one that I still believe in, but became estranged from several months ago.

It began with a seed from a podcast interview I listened to in a newer community I was exploring, coined as Solo. People preferring personal autonomy over traditional interdependent or codependent relationships.

The topic of discussion was Relationship Anarchy. A term that comes from a manifesto written by Andi Nordgren more than a decade ago. Tenants that support the term have existed much longer, of course.

Relationship Anarchy in a nutshell:

“(A lifestyle approach) that offers alternatives that emphasize the importance of communal support and care, rather than the codependent perspectives that are frequently encouraged in rule-based relationships - monogamous and polyamorous, alike.”

It’s essentially organizing relationships into containers, without prioritizing one person in a container above another consistently.

It doesn’t mean never prioritizing one person above another, but not as general practice. At least this is how I interpret the concept. Come at me.

The pieces together - Solo identification + RA - gelled to create a pathway for me then. One that minimized internal anxiety because it gave me boundaries to work within and language to communicate those boundaries.

Even though I’m not fond of labels, those two seem to align best when paired together.

I am non-monogamous but not polyamorous. There is a clear distinction between the two for me. There is an external governance implied in the latter. I would just as soon return to monogamy if I had to choose between the two, because I am a 1:1 gal at my core.

I envision the containers as a dartboard. Each ring representing a different sphere, from deepest to most superficial.

The deepest sphere is familial. The next is a mix of my deepest friendships and closest romantic relationships, each offering unique benefits. The next ring might be friends, flirty and platonic, that I appreciate in smaller doses. And so on. In this way, there is a level of hierarchy, but in a community sense. I will always prioritize my family over friendships when focus is required.

Another thing I’ll note is that outside of familial organization, people can move in and out of containers over time. Deep relationships can wane, superficial ones may deepen. I specifically appreciate this element of the structure. It provides a certain energy management strategy for me.

I treasure all established relationships in my life, but the concentration of energy on each person within a container may change, day over day. This approach works for me and I can’t say exactly why. It is simply how my mind, body, heart and spirit operate.

The concept worked well for me at inception. I managed multiple romantic and platonic relationships with honesty and finesse.

It quelled internal anxiety around what I long thought to be people pleasing (before a friend laughed in my face for expressing the belief), but was really an inner desire to lift spirits and amplify joy in those around me. It has been my lifelong role. I don’t know if it was assigned at birth or I was groomed to fill it and I don’t really care. It is my personal truth. The Solo - RA structure works to support me in these efforts. I can push and pull energy invested in people autonomously to maintain balance.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because I got a little sloppy in the last eight months. I opened too many doors and started too many threads. Mostly in a romantic sense; regardless, I dropped boundaries all around and as a result, and stopped being able to organize and manage the containers. I spread my energy too far, in too many directions.

My nervous system has taken a toll. My body is physically warning me to halt the mischief and return to basics.

Duly noted, universe.

I have some work to do ahead, but at least I have a vision to return to, one that still suits me.

I hope by sharing this post with you all, I can go back to sleep before my alarm sounds.

Thanks as, as always, for reading. ❤️(Especially when it gets weird.)

-Melanie

One more skip before the third and final thread about surrogate pet care and personal growth. Not that any of your are counting.

Chronologically plays before Greece.

Growing up, it was always my older sister that wanted to travel. She saved all of her chore money in high school to spend a summer abroad in France. It did not end there. In fact, she has not lived in or near our home town since she finished her Bachelor’s degree at Gonzaga in…well, I don’t know exactly. I was an angsty self-indulgent teenager at the time.

I have often said I live vicariously through her and bro-in-law in their lust for travel. Historically I was game if it was easy and cheap. When you have young kids, those things don’t really go together.

Honestly, I also never felt like I traveled easily (besides with my sister).

I hate planning things, especially big things. I don’t like feeling responsible for other people’s happiness. I get pouty when I have to compromise. Energy levels, entertainment preferences and rigid schedules are what come to mind when I think about traveling with another person. I am a pain in the ass to travel with (probably).

After living alone several years post-divorce, boarding pets, developing in my space, having kids graduating from high school and on to college, I started thinking about things I might want to do and see, outside of the bordering states.

On a whim, I bought tickets to a concert in Williamsburg, NY. The band from Isle of Wight was new at the time and concert tickets were $25. They sold out in Seattle and Portland. So I bought them for a show at Brooklyn Steel a few months out.

I didn’t know if I would actually go and if I did, who I would go with. I figured for $50, I wouldn’t lose sleep if I did not commit in the end.

My oldest heard me talking to a friend about the purchase and nonchalantly mentioned she wouldn’t mind visiting New York. I absolutely was going to make the trip happen from there.

I booked our flights and hotel and started mentally preparing myself for the journey ahead. This planning did not feel painful. It was different, because I was doing it for my daughter.

Mostly.

Sort of.

We boarded a plane to the MSP hub, bought a Golden Girls coloring book and Prince magnet, before jumping on our connecting flight to NY, arriving at our destination without any trouble.

Our hotel was modern, cheap and in a cool spot. It was embedded in an urban neighborhood with access to everything within blocks. There was also a waterfront park with paved running paths and mind-blowing skyline views a few blocks from the hotel.

The only thing she really wanted to do on the trip was to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art and a Nintendo store in Rockefeller Square.

I didn’t really have any plans other than the concert, so there was some give in our timeline for whatever else came up.

Besides our set plans, we shopped at a few book and magazine shops, surveyed a few dining options and chilled.

On our trip to Manhattan, we started at the Vessel in Hudson Yards. I thought we would be able to tour the towering art installation but alas, they had closed the walkway to the top for a period of time. I won’t go down that sad path here.

Most of our day was spent at the Met. My daughter had an early passion for art history and majored in that area later in college. It is hard to express the pride I felt as she tutored me in art styles, influences and personal artist details. We easily spent several hours in a small number of wings that afternoon.

The last stop before finding our way back to the hotel was the Nintendo store. Apparently one of a small number of its kind. We are a family of nerds, sorry.

Other than some nasty blisters my kiddo acquired from walking a couple miles from through Manhattan in Doc Martens, and a brief panic attack in the subway tunnel (after I finally found an entrance), pleading with my brain to understand the route map on the platform before throwing in the towel, climbing our way back to the street and hailing a cab, the trip was going really well.

Oh, and the concert. That was fun too. At least from my perspective.

This trip was the biggest leap I had taken to date.

Traveling across the country to a destination I knew very little about for reasons that felt painstakingly whimsical as the date grew nearer. Embarking on the journey with my first born, who left the house sparingly during teen years. Feeling fully responsible for both of our welfare.

But you know, I did a great job. And so did she.

I planned ahead but not overly. We monitored each other’s energy levels and didn’t push each other to concede on any point (besides the subway). We didn’t need to spend every minute together, but made a valiant effort to remain engaged the whole time.

We learned about each other in subtle ways that felt very special.

I love these memories of our first big trip together. We have had several more concert adventures together since. And she’s joining me in New Orleans later this year. I can hardly wait.♥

Thanks for reading!

-Melanie❤️

My sister and brother-in-law are fiscally responsible and as result, retired early. They live mostly abroad and generally spend about six weeks in a given location. Fortunately for me, they camped out in Athens, Greece a few years ago and invited me to join them for a spell.

I have only been outside of the United States a handful of times and prior to Greece, it was the typical Mexico/Canada branch out.

Greece had been on my short list of places I would sit in a plane as long to experience. What isn’t to love about Greece? Sunshine, sea, wine, Mediterranean food. It’s heaven on earth.

Plus, my sister and BIL are ultimate fun planners. All I ever need to do is show up. As independent as I purport myself to be, I love being taken care of. They do that for me always and it’s never lost on me.

This was also a big deal because I flew solo. I had been several places by myself and managed one big trip with my oldest kiddo to NYC a year prior but the whole being responsible for everything was still pretty new.

The flight out was fantastic. British Airways provided more wine and food than necessary for most people to make it across the pond.

When I got to Heathrow, it was a different situation. I only had an hour between flights and didn’t realize how complex the process would be. I resorted to begging to leapfrog through security checkpoints to make my flight. I ran sweating through a terminal only to find that my flight to Athens was actually delayed. Awesome.

But I made it. My family was waiting for me. We took public transport first and then walked several blocks to get to their apartment.

It smelled different there. The flora. I can’t say I loved it. The apartment was spacious and located downtown, which I love, but night hours were not quiet at all. I slept in the living room on a futon and could hear the motorbikes zooming through the streets most of the night.

I rallied for runs in the morning, even though my head was in a fog. We dined, had drinks, watched a sunset below the Acropolis. It was fantastic.

The outings they planned were all wonderful and impeccably executed. I learned through the process that jet lag is a real thing and you should probably not climb hundreds of marble steps you will need to descend later when you’re experiencing it.

I am not going to lie, I am a real brat when it comes to sleep deprivation and heights. Thankfully my sister did not disown me during the trip.

Visiting Greece and especially doing so with my sister was important to me. I grew up on Greek and Norse mythology - she was into it and shared the love with me. Clash of the Titans is still a favorite film from younger years.

Although I think everyone should experience it at least once, the real point in writing about this is a jump to the next phase of pet sits. When we were sunning in Hydra, my sister told me about a cool site they’d been looking into for inexpensive travel that would allow them to stay in someone’s home for several weeks while caring for cats. Because of my experience with Rover, they suggested I check it out. I took them up on that challenge when I returned home and so began a whole new adventure in pet sitting.

Cheers! Thank you for reading.

-Melanie ❤

When the pandemic crept in and gifted some of us introverts the luxury of remote work, it opened the door to a brand new world for me.

Note: I realize this is a touchy subject; even among my work peers, as we were all dealing with different variables, preferences and emotions at the time.

I was fortunate to work in a comfortable (albeit modest) home, alongside self-sufficient teen aged kids, having all of the tools and technology needed to stay connected to people throughout the work day. My workload was kind of bananas at the time, which also helped, both in engagement and repetition.

I could roll out of bed and start my day with a cup of coffee and yoga before signing into work. Take off for a run through the neighborhood at any time between scheduled meetings. Rake leaves and pull weeds outside while listening to conference calls I didn’t need to participate in. I felt autonomous, which is a sensation I place high value on.

We weren’t allowed to gather in groups but recreating outside solo was not an issue. I thoroughly enjoyed the peaceful roads that typically were full of cars racing to get from one point to another. I started to think about these things philosophically like, “why are we always rushing to get somewhere else, anyway”. I also began considering wind direction when planning my runs. Things were getting deep.

A close friend of mine had been boarding dogs on occasion through Rover. Angee has always been fiscally focused, working side hustles before they began trending. She is also a certifiable Dog Whisperer.

I am neither of those things. Money is a means to an end but it isn’t motivational for me. As far as dogs - I grew up with and raised a couple pups but was never a diligent trainer and kind of recoiled from slobber much of my life.

However, on the heels of my favorite fur girl’s passing the year prior and the abundant space I was given during the pandemic, I decided boarding dogs might not be the hardest thing for me to take on and might be kind of fun. I am an active person generally, so the exercise part of the role was not an issue. I figured it might even motivate me to do more of it.

Swift decision made, I posted my profile with a list of pet services for sale.

Without previous ratings and only a handful of recommendations from friends, my early starts came from dog owners that popped on the app two days before a week long trip when they realized a minor oversight in their planning. This was fine for me, because I didn’t know what the hell I was doing in the beginning, anyway (fake it until you make it!). Owners with rigid regimens came later, when I was better equipped to follow straight lines.

I intentionally left my rates at the app default. I never wanted this venture to be about money. That would make it a job. I more or less wanted to provide a safe and fun environment for doggos while their families were vacationing.

Many of the sits were one and done, either because it was not a good fit the first round or because I was booked with another when the second request arrived.

For dogs that stayed a week, I was a summer camp counselor. They were nervous the first day or two, but having the time of their lives 3-5 days in; eventually a bit melancholy toward the end. Homesick. Even though I’d never been to summer camp as a kid, I imagined it was the arc of feelings I would have had.

There was a plethora of doofy Goldendoodles (sorry, but true!) meandering through our house. Several anxious rescues. A sweet old incontinent Weimaraner. A healthy smattering of full and mixed breeds I was unfamiliar with. In fact, I still can’t identify most breeds with ease.

A few of my boards became well-loved regulars:

• Charm: Gorgeous-But-Sadly-Deaf German Shephard

• Frank: Dachshund de Chill

• Sadie: Adventure Dog of Mixed Origins

• Charlie: Sweet Anxious Mutt

• Maxwell: Throw-Me-A-Ball Golden

• Hazy: Exception to Rule of Doodles (maybe its the Labrador genes)

Possibly something even cooler than the dog care experience itself, is that the app specifically targeted sitters near an owner’s home, something I didn’t realize in the beginning. Meet and greets and sits became an opportunity to meet new neighbors, some I count as friends now.

After we returned to office full time, I stopped taking new clients. I also turned down sits for regulars if it didn’t work into my schedule. It was time to move on.

A year ago last summer, a starving lost pup wandered up to my son’s girlfriend in an alley while she was emptying trash at the clinic. Her name is (De)Lilah (sorry Anna, but we are a family of L-word pets).

She’s an adorably lazy, golden-eyed, stinky lover dog that will hug you with both arms. And the first pit-mix breed I’ve cared for.

Much of the boarding chapter has come to an end. And that’s OK. It was time for a new challenge.

The experience benefited me in unexpected ways. Beyond learning about dog breeds and various levels of care, it was an opportunity to connect with people in new ways, during challenging times when community felt necessary. It required mindful presence, which resulted in personal growth. The experience both demanded and inspired me to draw firmer boundaries in existing (and new) relationships. This last point cannot be understated. I gained necessary strength and certainty during this period that led to positive changes I continue to profit from.

Thanks for hanging with me on this journey of self-discovery. I have one final chapter, nay, level to take you to in this thread.

-Melanie❤

This first story in this series is about our sweet Dobie, Lucy, who passed away at the ripe age of 12 in 2019.

Thank you, for encouraging me to keep going on my “essay project”.

She was a beautiful mess of a girl, all legs and neurosis. I had never considered myself a dog person, even though I grew up with several and she was our second dog. Really, I hadn’t wanted either of them but my was-husband insisted on having family dogs.

Post-divorce and six years into her life, I became Lucy’s person. She diligently guarded our house, pushed me to the edge of the bed with entitlement each night, tore up the carpet when I was away, and refused to run slower than a 7-minute mile when I exercised her. It was a tough transition at first. Not because I didn’t provide the same care to her before the separation, but I suppose because I was on my own with it all. In truth, I sometimes felt put out. Even though she was a wonderfully sweet dog.

The shift in our relationship happened following a massive windstorm that took down a crazy number of trees across town and left thousands of people without power. And especially concentrated in our historic, tree dense part of town. Right before a freeze set in ahead of Thanksgiving week.

We had lived in the house for 15 years without losing power for more than 24 hours. When it first went out, that was my expectation.

The next day I got ready for work and noticed an alarming number of cars driving down our non-arterial street. It wasn’t until I got in my car to leave that I realized why. There were trees downed across every side street outlet to the main arterial, making the roads impassable. It was like we were in a life-sized hamster maze heading down the hill that morning. Anxious to escape the surreal dream we were caught in.

One day turned to the next and we remained without power. The storm had nearly taken down the grid. The power was not going to be restored for everyone any time soon.

Luckily, there was minimal damage to our house and we were safe. In fact, the kids were able to stay with their dad in an untouched area of town and I was able to farm out the rodents to friends with power. That left me with the dog and two cats. Staying warm at night was not a problem.

Part of our fence had blown down so I had to walk Lucy every time she needed a potty break. It was highly inconvenient, especially since I did not work remotely at the time, but it was also a corner of solace. It was one thing I had control over, could do something about.

As we walked the dark block, I would hear the whirring of generators in small pockets, sometimes bright lights. It felt like hope, if only because I sometimes mistook the sounds for aid. Certainly they would restore power to our neighborhood soon.

The days wore on and the house got colder. I was running out of clean clothes to wear for work and even worse, out of the bottle of Fireball I shot at night to help me settle in for sleep.

On the last or second to last day, I was out for a walk and stopped to talk to a neighbor across the street to see if he’d heard any updates. He did not seem optimistic, as they had weathered a winter catastrophe years earlier that left them without power for two weeks. I started getting emotional and said that I had my dog and was worried about her staying warm when I was away. He told me I could always adopt her out. That sent me to a weird and dark place that afternoon.

I had some friends coming into town for the weekend and my house was 35 degrees. They insisted on staying, regardless and we went out for a couple hours the first night to escape the painful surroundings.

When we returned, there were street crews across from my driveway. One of the guys came over and asked if I lived there. He said, we’re about to turn you back on. I had to hold myself back from embracing him on the spot.

The truth was, it wasn’t a downed tree that caused my outage but because my switch did not resolve as many issues, it was de-prioritized.

I still remember the furnace kicking on when we went inside and the newfound wonder and appreciation I had for overhead lighting.

Through it all and beyond that time, Lucy and I were thick as thieves. She weathered that storm beside me, providing me strength and courage I desperately needed.

We continued our regular walks, and by this time, she had settled into a more reasonable pace. People would often comment on her beauty and I loved it. In some ways, she became part of my identity. Because, prior to her, I had never walked the neighborhood several times in a day, had never said more than a polite “hi” to my neighbors in passing. She gave me license to open up this part of myself.

In her last year, she had been losing ability to stand from a sitting position, her back haunches becoming useless. She also refused help in these situations. I started her on pain/inflammatory meds long before things got bad but it was becoming more immune to the drugs. It was extremely difficult to make the decision to put her down. Her mental acuity and attitude were still so present.

After monitoring her decline for more than a week, we made the decision.

That last day, we watched Disney movies until the sun ceded to the moon. She laid on the couch with her head in my lap for most of it. By the time the mobile vet arrived, we were all gathered in the room with her, was-husband included. They gave me some kibble to feed her while they numbed her. She refused it at first but right as they were about to inject her, she lifted her head and gobbled every last bit from my hand before laying her head back in my lap. I let out a soft laugh, because it was just like her to do something like that. Moments later she was still. The vet let us know she was gone after checking for vitals.

When they carried her out, we heard her collar jangle and almost thought she had fooled us all. Almost.

The first walks following her passing were awful. I felt naked. Like it didn’t make sense for me to be out there like that, by myself. And because everyone knew me by relation, I also had to open the wound again and again, answering questions about her passing. It was painful but also therapeutic.

I continued walking every day, multiple times a day. Engaging with neighbors in a different way. It felt real and peaceful.

I passed all of her favorite sniffs, grateful for the memories we made together.

I started writing this with the intention to expand on what came afterward. I didn’t plan on making Lucy’s story center-stage. But she absolutely deserves it.

Thanks for reading!

Melanie ❤

P.S. not about my marriage.

Exiled from your throne to a hoarder’s shack

You found me in the garden one day

Singing a melancholy verse

My wing clipped in a foolhardy dive

In love with my beauty and sound, you said

Envious of my wings and spirit, the truth

You held me in your gaze

In a sleep walker’s dream

I was a golden bird in a tawdry cage

You reinforced the locks when I attempted to flee through the gate

You fed me only enough to sustain my heart beat

Vision narrowed

Sounds muffled

Feathers matted

Thoughts lunacy

But my voice and beak remained strong

I nibbled on my wires, as I’d seen mice practice in corners

I kept you distracted from my efforts

The sun shone brilliantly through windows the day I broke free

I wriggled through sharp edges of my tunnel

Through the cracked window I hobbled to freedom

You spent weeks after in the garden

Where I had hidden myself to heal

Watching for movement

Taunting me with words and cautionary tales

You fully revealed your darkness in those days

Your suffering only I could be responsible for, you said

But I was no longer under your gaze

No longer in that tawdry cage

Focus sharpened

Feathers vibrant

Thoughts whimsical

I flew toward the sun

Its warm rays buoyed me in flight

I struggle to remember details from that room

The construction of the cage

I lost precious time in that place

Days are spent traveling between trees

Visiting old friends; meeting new

I live with abandon once again

Thanks for reading ❤️

-Melanie

There was a period of time, when I was rebuilding my life that I started looking into ways I could channel extra time and energy in a way that wouldn’t overextend myself.

It was prior to the pandemic and I was in office all of the days but my company gifted us with 24 volunteer hours per year. Time we could bank as work hours, giving back to our community.

I decided to sign up for a light housekeeping gig through a local Catholic charity service. The client lived nearby and only needed help with laundry and a few other things once a week.

Mae was a firecracker. An independent metaphysical woman who had worked for the CIA in a past life and loved watching Ellen at 3pm every day.

I didn’t know that we would hit it off on the first day I arrived because of a sticker on her window that made me feel we had opposing political opinions.

I was wrong, she was great. Vibrant, verbose, and unfailingly optimistic. She taught me about runes, and name energy. Mae shared all of the hardships and goodships from her life. I spent more than two hours a month with her but it was well worth the trade offs.

Mae and I parted ways somewhere in the second year. She had suffered a couple falls and was becoming paranoid of her surroundings. She needed educated and dedicated help.

During the pandemic, I volunteered to provide cancer care transport. It was a flexible offering, I was working from home and had some bandwidth to help. I don’t have much to share on this effort. I didn’t get to know anyone well enough during that time. It felt transient. I don’t regret giving the time.

I had thought about hospice care previously. My father died of cancer, my mother volunteered at some point. I learned a neighbor friend had taken a nursing position with a local hospice organization. I respected her much and was inspired to take the next step.

My first client lived three blocks from my house and I agreed to visit every Friday for an hour. Her husband had an appointment each week that took him away from the home and she was a fall risk. I didn’t really understand how hospice played a part at the time because they were both vivacious people and lived in a nice facility.

She didn’t often leave her chair and was on oxygen but I didn’t know she was ailing in some regards because she wore such a beautiful and engaging smile. We talked like girlfriends while he was away. She told me exactly what it was like to grow up in the Midwest post WW1. And there were black and white photos surrounding us to amplify the stories.

I really miss Ruth. She was so cool. I met her immediate family through the roughly six months I spent with her and they were all great. She was ready to go when it was her time. It was kind of beautiful. I only hope I am in a similar place when it’s my time.

After Ruth, my assignments were transient again. I met people once or twice before they passed away. I won’t say those experiences were disappointing, merely lacking in connection.

Then one day, an email went out to ask volunteers for help. There was a baby girl needing vigil care for a short period of time at the hospice center. They asked volunteers to sign up for two hour shifts from 8pm-8am during the first week. The assumption was that she wouldn’t need care beyond that first week.

All we knew was that she had suffered a traumatic brain injury and that her parents weren’t in the picture.

Hospice isn’t only for cancer or elder patients.

It was honestly difficult to get on the volunteer schedule. If you didn’t respond to the email before end of day, you were on the waiting list for the week. I took an early shot in the first round and met baby Michelle in her first week at the home. She was a beautiful healthy girl, eight months old. She needed to be held. It took a pillow behind my back and under my left arm to hold her comfortably for two hours.

She had the most beautiful eyes and lashes. She couldn’t see me but I could see her. I could smell her also. Babies have such an innocent and transcendental scent.

I honestly silently cried so much for the first hour I didn’t try to find comfort in a physical position.

At some point, I decided to play music. I tried to think of what might sound familiar to her and selected Frozen because I’m that out of touch with her generation. She hated it and I was happy for that. I switched to Guardians of the Galaxy. She stopped fussing and fell asleep.

So that kind of became our thing. I visited Michelle several times during the 9 1/2 weeks she spent in hospice care.

Every week was potentially her last week. She held on, we held on. Sustaining each other. Not wanting to leave the space.

At some point, we collectively wondered. Will she beat all of the odds? And even if she did, what was waiting for her? What would her life look like?

And then I think we realized the truth.

I visited her in her last morning here. She was serene. She was ready.

I hope we all go this way.

Deep mid-week thoughts❤️

-Melanie

I have never been hot. If you read an earlier post about my childhood, you might recall my family nickname was Spaz. I used to put rocks in my pockets and mouth when I was young because I loved them so much.

Cute, sassy, silly, sweet, fun, impulsive, confident, fit, sensual. These adjectives feel more true for me.

I am often in my own moment, self and spatially aware but mostly unconcerned with how my whimsy is perceived by others.

I have accumulated several nicknames throughout the years and I love them all. They tell me I left an impression. None of them communicate hot (besides Melanicious).

Favorites list, in order of chronological assignment:

• Melanis

• Malamute

• Lenny

• Mells

They all carry special meaning for me. And none of you can call me any of them (kidding).

One of my beloved mates in recent years compared me to a bowl of spicy nuts, in that he did not realize I was packing heat when we first met. BTW, I don’t think he also meant crazy, there was a literal bowl of nuts in front of us.

I am something many people do not see when they first meet me in person. I can be reserved, even fiercely private until there is trust. I also dress that part, mostly. At least, I cannot be bothered with trends or with being a provocateur. Even if I was, it would not make me hot.

Hotness is an attitude, an outward display of a particular inward authenticity.

The older I get, the more comfortable I feel in my own niche/skin. It’s truly liberating.

Oh, and I display my favorite rocks in glassware these days.

Cheers to all you hotties here!

thanks for reading❤️

Melanie

I have been waking up at 3am the last few days, unable to fully get back to sleep. Call it Halloweenhead or creative sparks, either way, it is ruining my sleep score. I couldn’t lull myself back to sleep this morning so I cranked this out while I was waiting to leave for work.

Thank you (Jimmy) for sharing the musical inspiration behind this post and for reinforcing the idea of fire jumping in a recent audio note. I chose LCD Soundsystem’s version of the song because of course I did.

I am prone to escapism and have a voracious appetite for discomfort.

Exhibits A & B:

I broke up with my first-love boyfriend toward the end of my Sophomore year, and he refused to acknowledge my existence forever afterward. Forever!

My solution? Unceremoniously switch high schools the following year.

I was tired of living in my boring ass, conservative town post high school.

My solution? Quit college and my job and move to Denver with my jerky, underemployed boyfriend two weeks after a week long visit there together.

This kind of self-inflicted trauma ensures you forget whatever current emotional pain you are suffering from.

There are a handful of other examples I could embarrass myself sharing but the two above were extreme pivots I made relatively early in life. Both are comical in the rear view; anything but when I was passing through.

The latter story evokes the most cringe and horror-riddled memories for me, so I’ll go to there.

I met Robbie through my coworker (his mother) when I worked at Sally Beauty Supply. He had just returned from four years’ active duty in the Marines. He was 5’4” and everything they say about small dogs.

We had recently broken up when he suggested we travel to Denver to see his military buddies that moved there after transferring out. I hadn’t traveled much outside of the Pacific Northwest and was intrigued by the idea of living in/near a big city. We drove 21 hours down to stay with Johnny and Jason for a week. They showed us around and two days in, we were looking for a house to rent together. Oddly, this house was on a street called Idaho, a state 30 minutes from my home town.

Side note: The best roommates in the world are military trained, wholesome southern boys.

When I told my mother I was moving to Denver in two weeks, she was not surprised. Perhaps my earlier radical jump prepared her for the announcement. She even helped me sell my car and pack up the U-Haul. Sometimes I don’t give my mom as much credit as she deserves for not only putting up with me but for sending me through the hardest transitions in life with a down comforter.

My first job was technically as a receptionist at a day spa, however, a bank in the same neighborhood offered me a job the same day I finished orientation there. It seemed like a better choice long term, and I quit the other job at once.

I was a bank teller at a branch near a bougie area of Denver called Cherry Creek. Our branch was traditionally interesting (inside) and quiet. Most clients were business or private banking accounts. There wasn’t any riffraff coming through the doors. The location had never been robbed.

I barely made ends meet as a teller and my boss was a pain in the ass but really, I had it good for being young and new to a big city.

Not long after I started, they hired three new tellers close in age (I had been the youngest employee there until then). I was tasked with training them, alongside my lobby and vault teller responsibilities. They were my first friends outside of the house and overall cool. Cami was a pretty, slender girl with a young child from a man she dated in high school. Kristie was a friend of hers and the other guy a friend of Kristie’s. I don’t remember his name but he chewed tobacco and snacked on Tums all day.

After some time, the branch made another hire. She was blonde and bubbly. She had a flirtatious giggle I initially found annoying. Her name was (Aurora) Dawn and she was a former dancer at a gentleman’s club. She was married and barely pregnant at the time. Her husband worked in construction and was male revue talent on the side. The more secrets Dawn revealed to me, the more interesting she became. Not only was she intelligent and well read, she was coyly exotic and edgy. I was fully drawn into her spell.

There are a few strange memories in the vault from the few months of our friendship. Including when I briefly considered a stripper side hustle (boyfriend shut that down), and how her husband was perversely interested in the prospect of Dawn and I becoming lovers (she was bisexual). But all in all, it was a normal platonic friendship with some perks.

In our branch, there was a long hallway that connected the lobby stations to the drive thru. Because it was a quiet branch, we often huddled in the drive thru listening to the radio and spilling tea. The branch manager installed one of those round mirrors between the spaces so we wouldn’t miss foot traffic in the lobby.

One day, a guy appeared in the mirror at my station (it was closest to the drive thru) asking for assistance. Three of us had been in the midst of an entertaining conversation. Dawn was closest to the lobby and offered to help him at the station next to mine (hers). Kristie and I remarked on his good looks before we continued gabbing. Moments later, Dawn reappeared around the corner, gasping and generally losing her shit. At nearly eight months pregnant, she’d just been robbed at gunpoint.

Coincidentally, this happened on the day Dawn and I had committed to attend a hiring conference after work downtown. I can’t believe I asked her if she was still interested after the bank closed and we were excused from work. But I was 19.

I decided I was going, anyway. ESPECIALLY after what had just happened. I hopped in my Toyota Tercel, wearing my teenage-professional dress, sheer white nylons with high heeled shoes and headed down the road from Aurora to the city center. We didn’t have cell phones or GPS back then, so I must have used a map to navigate. Just as I was turning a corner into the city, my tire slammed into a pot hole. I continued driving until a pedestrian motioned toward my tire, confirming what I had briefly denied. As I was searching my brain for the next best step, I began looking for street parking in front of the closest public building. A library. I went inside to find a pay phone. I called the house and Jason answered. No, Robbie was not home. I’d have to call back but not sure when.

I must have looked acutely panicked, or cute, or both, because the security guard swiftly took me under his wing. However, he didn’t actually help me fix anything. He assured me I was safe. In the conference room with the door closed, just the two of us. I was definitely not feeling safe in those moments. At some point, I got a hold of Robbie and he reluctantly agreed to drive in and change out my tire. When I went out to my car to wait for him, a policeman was writing me a ticket for being parked at the meter in the wrong direction. I instantly began bawling my eyes out, sputtering the day’s events through snotty sobs. He looked at me and paused before telling me he’d already started writing the ticket and therefore couldn’t stop.

Dawn never returned to work. The rest of us were counseled and a security guard hired to sit near the front door. The guy was likely near retirement and not at all threatening but hey, they say a bank almost never is robbed by the same person twice. The odds of us getting robbed again given our history alone, was comforting. Dawn disagreed. The guy had gotten away with the crime and she was certain he’d be back. It had been too easy. Goddamn it if she wasn’t right.

Once again, I was in the drive thru. This time counting/banding money to sell to the federal reserve. Richie happened to be doing something along the teller line, although she was a new accounts rep and not a teller. He walked up to the empty booth she was in and asked if she was open. As soon as she said “sure”, he began pulling out the plastic grocery bag and gun. She backed up slowly and ran for the drive thru. Pulling every available alarm. He stood in front of the mirror and yelled for her to return. I was terrified he was going to jump the counter and reacted by hiding in the night drop room.

The guy took off running, passing the ATM operator on his way out. The ATM guy decided to be a hero and chase after him. Thankfully nobody died that day but also, the hot robber was also not caught.

I had other reasons to tuck my tail between my legs and return to college in Spokane but I think others might admit, this one reason alone is compelling.

More than anything, I missed my friends, I loathed Robbie, I worked seven days a week to live comfortably and was at a breaking point. I also wanted to finish college while I had federal annuity at my fingertips.

In one year, I had more misadventures in that town and on my return home than at least a decade after. It makes my head spin sometimes.

I don’t miss Denver. I never really belonged there. I also don’t regret the ridiculous decision I made to move there at 19.

Cheers!

Melanie

Thanks to for the musical inspiration to revisit childhood memories.

My biological father passed away in the winter of 1978. I was on the cusp of turning three years old, my sister nearly eight. He was diagnosed with cancer more than a year before his passing and after surviving gut-wrenching, intensive chemotherapy, it was not in the cards for him to survive the ravaging effects of the disease and treatment.

We were in Southern California then, my father worked for the Border Patrol. My mom says he had finally secured a job he enjoyed, as an educator. After long years of night work and school, things were finally coming into view. Until they weren’t.

My mom moved us back to Eastern Washington following his death. All of our immediate family lived in the area. Besides a single revisit to Chula Vista and Disneyland when I was four, my earliest memories are of my mom reading the bible to me and swim classes at the YMCA. My sister teaching me things I would later teach other peers in a classroom.

At 30 years old, my mom was alone. Lonely. Devastated. I knew nothing of this then. She shielded us from her mourning.

I remember a babysitter. She had long red finger nails. It was not a regular thing. My mom was dating but I don’t think I knew that then. When I was four, maybe five, we had a new housemate. I don’t remember much about him in the early months, besides the fact he now inhabited our home. And he brought strange kids with him on occasion. When I was six, my mom bought us nice clothes to wear to their wedding.

I didn’t appreciate John. He was Italian. Boisterous. And not very kind to me. I didn’t understand what had happened. In short order, I belonged to a new family, ruled by a man I did not know or like and new siblings with no respect for my mother. He punished me for really dumb things, when everyone else got off scot-free. At least this was my perception. My family nickname was Spaz. Had I not been socially popular in grade school, I may not be able to laugh about this now or have become resilient in later years.

I was never a latch-key kid. My mom was a homemaker and a member of the PTA at my school. I watched The Flinstones and The Jetsons when I got home from school. But our home life was often chaotic. John was frequently laid off from the aluminum plant where he worked. They sometimes fought, likely about finances.

When I was nearing puberty, John decided I was attractive, and potentially an ally to him. He purchased a family membership to the local gym and he and I were often the only members of the family to use it. We started to get to know each other. To be friends. And for the first time in my life, I became active. I was the goddamn queen of the stair-stepper after six month’s time. I developed confidence at an age everyone needs it.

Somewhere in the midst of this, I was sexually abused by John. Only specifically on one occasion. When my mother was in Europe visiting my sister. He had given me and my step-sister alcohol. We were excited because we felt like adults. I can’t tell you about that night because it was the only time in my life I blacked out and can’t remember anything besides the alarm I felt waking up naked with him next to me in a robe. I knew nothing “serious” had happened between us because I had lost my virginity to my boyfriend before the event. However, he did take advantage of me and that evening altered the way I experienced life afterwards.

I don’t really want to go into the aftermath other than to say, John left my mother when I was 17. I was equally immensely sad for her and relieved for myself.

It took years for me to get past the pain and to appreciate the positive things that came from cumulative experiences. Now, more than ever, I see those years from multiple angles. I have to. None of us are one thing and not another.

There is a lot more that I could say about the experiences and impacts in those young years. The disturbing moments realizing I was being watched during sleep hours, the eating disorder I developed in my sophomore year that lasted until college. It isn’t what I want to dive into here.

There were plenty of moments of joy in our weird little family. Singing aloud during family walks and car trips to the Oregon coast (cue Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show). Creating art on a tablecloth together. Making up ridiculous games and plays.

My step-father was a lot of shitty things and also not. Had it not been for his presence/influence:

• I wouldn’t have experienced the joy of performance. John was a technophile. Although we wore primarily thrifted clothes throughout my childhood, we had a Betamax video camera when I was in first grade, and a library full of pirated films. We LOVED watching silly movies on loop and taping ourselves lip synching to Michael Jackson, Madonna, etc., playing it all back later.

• I wouldn’t have eclectic musical taste. John had a large collection of vinyl and loved sharing sounds. He was also open and interested in modern sounds of the day. Related to the first bullet, we were early adopters of CD player. To this day I’m grateful for that first gateway.

• I wouldn’t be as mentally or physically strong as I am. John taught us how to handle rifles properly, light fireworks without injury, ride dirt bikes and catch chopped wood to haul inside for the wood stove. The darker experiences made me street tough. I could have been the most helpless of humans without some of the discipline we experienced.

  

(I know this)

be free little bird.

(he knows my truth)

I vividly remember the night we met.

Me, fresh off work. Wearing a turtleneck top with Levi jeans because I couldn’t be bothered to change.

Nobody cared what anyone was wearing at this place, anyway.

The weirder, the better, really.

They played the best dance music.

No techno remixes of Cher. No medleys. Plain, raw Gen-Xer fun.

I saw you standing outside the dancefloor, but you were no flower.

Clearly into the scene, albeit cool and guarded.

Your style and mannerisms made me wonder if I had stepped into a dream.

Come On Eileen played, and I danced with abandon, wondering if your eyes were on me.

We didn’t talk, but my friend told your friend.

The dance floor closed but that was never the end of a night back then.

People exchanged after party plans.

I suggested the one to my friend I thought would be most fruitful (for me) and away we went.

You told me your name on the porch but I told you I wouldn’t call you by your initials.

I thought maybe it was not a match but you followed me and my friend to her car at the end of the night/start of the morning and after exchanging digits, you embraced me and kissed my lips like we were middle school-aged kids with nothing to lose.

Although I kept the piece of paper with your phone number, I really didn’t know if I would hear from you. Two days later I did.

Your parents wouldn’t call you by your first name, you hated your middle name, and your friends only knew the initials. Everyone was confused by the banner I posted at our wedding.

It was never about them, only about us. We were a formidable team. Snobby individualists that took a shine to each other. Supporting each other and splitting chores fairly. Enjoying the noise of our age.

Marriage changed us.

Buying a house changed us.

Having children changed us.

And the latter two things happened shortly after we said, “I do”.

The balance shifted and resulted in insecurities for you and resentment in me. I no longer felt we were aligned in spirit and also felt stifled.

However, we had so much respect for each other that to bring attention to either thing felt traitorous.

The crack widened and the dirt filled it in.

Abandoning our union was one of the most excruciating periods of my life. But everything we had imagined in the beginning had faded to dust. It had to be rebuilt.

The day you asked and I was required to confirm my decision was possibly the hardest day of my life. This, coming from a woman; someone who has experienced some level of sexual abuse and childbirth, among other traumatic events.

The early separation years were the worst. I missed your daily phone calls at work (we really had the world’s best phone relationship). And I hated that you talked to me like a whore when we did communicate.

But I knew how much you were hurting. I knew how much I had disappointed you.

The truth is that I grew in the space we abandoned. Because I had nothing but the floor and four walls to start with.

I found peaceful and pleasurable surroundings to ensconce myself in. What I truly needed to feel whole. Both figuratively and literally.

What has kept me here all this time is that I continue to realize your love for me, in the deepest ways.

You are concerned for me when warranted; you meet me halfway on important decisions. And I feel and do the same for you. It is a compromise. Our compromise.

You said during the separation that you wanted to do this “our way”, not anyone else’s. Not a traditional divorce. This was all I needed to know things would be OK.

We strong armed control of the Thanksgiving holiday, because we claimed that one as our own from the first year we were a couple. Nobody could tell us we couldn’t continue to make it our own holiday. When family warned us it was unhealthy, we told them to fuck off. Politely.

For several years it was painful. But we kept chipping away at it and here we are, 11 years later. Road tripping to our oldest child’s graduation, cracking jokes. Celebrating other smaller moments. And just hanging out when its been too long without.

It isn’t perfect but it is awesome, nonetheless.

Time has shown, we are still a formidable “couple”, doing things the way that makes sense to us.

One never really knows what to expect when you meet online. Pictures might be doctored or dated. In J’s case, he really didn’t have many that showed a clear view of his face. They were mostly outdoorsy photos. I must have swiped right based on an assumption he was active - and well, because he’s an Aries. That last part might seem superstitious - kind of like my relief when text threads are blue and not green - but I have a good physical track record with Aries men. The masculine fire energy really does it for me. Our more recent conversations seemed to confirm my suspicions. We decided to meet for lunch near his house. Of course I was hung over that day, because I self-sabotage.

He arrived at the agreed location with an air of confidence and a fun demeanor. We had a quick meal and a drink while we fumbled through some small talk. Before I could order a second glass of wine, he asked if I wanted to see the place he was renting. I’d picked up a few clues from selfies and mentions of amenities but really had no idea how idyllic the house would be. It was a modern property near the end of a stretch of a lakefront drive. J was living there while the owner wintered in Arizona. There were two wings in the house, joined by an expansive living room and kitchen space, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake. There was also an indoor hot tub and steam room - the latter had been a focal point in our escalating conversations. Anyway, we arrived and he poured a glass of wine for me. Our first kiss was electric and what played out next fully matched the desire built between us in those days leading up to our meet. I left the house feeling slightly dumbfounded.

The months that followed were nothing short of a dream. I remember pinching myself after a long night of sleep - more than once. Mornings I stayed over, he would ask if he could make me coffee and if I was hungry for avocado toast. It was so dreamy, I find it difficult to find any other way to describe it. And then we parted for the week, wishing each other a great day. Realistically, the word day meant week. J and I rarely messaged in between visits. And we rarely planned the next visit, but it was once every weekend, like clockwork.

Almost two years later, things are a bit different. There is no more lake house. We’ve weathered some challenges, independently and inter-dependently. But we still fall a little bit in love with each other every week.

And luckily, most of my life I have felt the presence of my father; not physically but also physically. Like a lightning bolt of energy through my body when he is nearby. When I am in dire need of comforting and/or counseling. It does not happen often, especially now that I am older and less prone to seriously bad decisions, but it is incredibly powerful when it does. (Unfortunately, I am naturally prone to whimsy and could certainly benefit from practical guidance and stern glances on occasion.)

I long for him. And I long for men to serve as his proxy. Paternal figures who care about me to my core. It is why I married the man I did and why we are still close allies. Although, it is a little disingenuous to sidestep the fact that I also took that care for granted and blew up our marriage in a truly heinous way. Which perhaps makes this idea a conundrum.

I jokingly referred to myself as an outdoor cat when I was on a date several months ago. It felt like an apt metaphor, even if it sounds silly (I am this too). It was an easy grab to explain my disposition and relationship goals. That I enjoy being solo. That although I am far from celibate, I do not desire a monogamous relationship structure. Since I discovered this about myself few years ago, I have been working on my elevator speech. I find that my intentions are often misunderstood. I am not hiding and I have not been in a series of “bad” relationships. I am also not casual with intimacy. In fact, I have been quite fortunate to have logged several successful long term relationships with men. Almost all of my closest friends are men. Their care and attention for my well being matter tremendously to me. More so than from women. But why plural and not one? I suppose the collective feels more secure and safe than the singular. The reason is clear to me given I suffered such a major loss at a young age.

Returning to the metaphor, because I like it. I am an outdoor cat, one wise enough to maintain a certain level of dignity and coat sheen, which affords me to be welcomed inside for a delicious meal and a warm lap to sleep in for a while. I want the things I wrote above, and I want them on my terms. As much as I want the security of a full meal and a warm lap, I also want to go back outside and wander the streets. Learn the rhythms of nature, engage with everything and everyone around me. Some people want the rush of adrenaline; I want to feel unadulterated flow and full autonomy. But I want to feel that my collective will search for me to exhaustion if I go missing. Maybe it is unfair. I only know that it brings me joy.