Happy Mother's Day, Mothers

Feelings have a shady way of sneaking up on you unexpectedly.

My somewhat recent 30th birthday wasn't quite the epic life-changing terror I imagined it being. My first Mother's Day as a 30-year-old woman who is married and childless, however, is turning out to be surprisingly emotional.

I've never regretted my decision to wait to have kids… in fact, Mr. W and I took our sweet time deciding if we even wanted them.  Once we decided we did, we devised a secret plan. But like most of the plans Mr. W and I have made since meeting, it changed. And I'm glad it did, because the last two years of our lives have been an insane roller coaster ride a baby would've had no place on. In fact, even now as I sit here not getting any younger, I don't feel any sense of urgency. I'd go drink my face off at the wine bar up the street right now if I didn't have so much unpacking to do.

But I always thought with the waiting would come knowledge. I figured by the time I was 29 or 30 I'd have my life together. I would be that mom who had a killer career with a fat salary and time for a lengthy maternity leave, a perfect body, a focused mind, and a stock portfolio or something. But now that I'm there and nothing is as I thought it would be, I think I understand why people tell me you're never really ready to be a parent.

Then I think of my own mother. My mother, the one who went to a responsible college, got a responsible degree and a responsible and respected adult job at the ripe old age of 22. My mother, who settled down in the town where she attended high school and focused on her job, marriage and family. My mother, who worried about every single thing I did, who once pulled me into the cab of a truck through a tiny back window when she spotted a bear a mile away (and running away from us to boot).

I chose a different path, marrying young but not settling down, and not returning to my hometown after college (which still remains one of my worst nightmares). I worked for tips, then for commission, for myself and then finally for something related to my degree. I've traveled. I've socialized. I've enjoyed the man that I love without worrying about babysitters and diapers and late night feedings.

I used to think I was the brave one. I'm the one who once got lost in the ghettos of Mazatlan and just grinned, made eye contact, spoke Spanglish and strutted my way to safety like I owned the place even though I was peeing my pants on the inside. I'm the one who has taken personal and professional risks. I'm the one who has chosen a passion that's about as easy to master as winning the Powerball.

In fact, my mom recently told me she's proud of how strong I am. And I wore those words like a badge of honor. Because the more I think about it, it's my overly concerned, ferociously paranoid, anxiety-ridden "safety first" mother who is the strong one.

My mom took on this job of parenthood, the one I've been avoiding my entire adult life, willingly when she was only 23 years old. I can't even fathom doing something that ballsy.

And not only did she take it on, she excelled at it. My mom is one of the most stressed out people on the planet, to the point where she has one glass of wine and she pretty much falls head first into a coma. But when I was little, she was patient with my incessant babbling and 90 million questions about everything and my bullshit stories that made no sense. 

 And do you know how I remember that my mom was that patient? Because she did everything she could to make sure my brain developed properly. I was fed mostly healthy foods, even telling the doctor that my favorite food was broccoli when I was four. I've made nutrition a hobby as an adult, and now I know my mom's knowledge was advanced far beyond her time because she researched and she cared. My TV time was also limited, but my access to books wasn't.

My dad's job took him out of town sometimes, leaving my mom to juggle two kids and a demanding full-time job for weeks or months at a time. And she did it. That's braver than anything I can imagine. Mr. W's latest job has left me doing it all on my own at times recently. I barely manage, and all I have to worry about is a neurotic dog with separation anxiety. Two neurotic children who constantly beat the crap out of each other? I can't even imagine.

I am sitting here tonight in my nice new apartment in one of the most coveted neighborhoods in the city of my dreams. But I am sitting here alone. And my mom is at our house, no doubt frantically preparing for the end of her school year, with pictures of her grown children and a lifetime of memories. Our life paths diverted early on, and the results are showing.

 Instead of wondering who has had the better life, who made the better choice, I'm thinking that we've both been very blessed and pretty damn fulfilled in our different adventures. And while my mom never flew to Vegas and did over-priced tequila shots before dancing at a swanky nightclub in uncomfortable heels in her twenties, the fact is, there's a chance I may never experience motherhood which seems to be quite an adventure. I think she and I would both agree that we've had a pretty sweet go at life without dwelling on what could have been.

Though I admit, it's something I do hope life has in store for me. The other day I was on a bus and looked over to see the most beautiful baby girl staring at me with giant hazel eyes. She looked out the window with so much curiosity and every time I smiled at her, she smiled. I want that, I thought. Then another mom boarded the bus with a bratty three-year-old boy who just would not shut up. There was a fit, followed my tears. The mom looked exhausted.

"Let me off this bus, mother!" he shrieked. "You've hurt my arm and I have to poop!"

I laughed. I could live with that too, I thought.

Happy Mother's Day, mothers. You are all so much braver and luckier than you know.

Capitol Hill. Population: Me

Last Saturday I stood in my friend's father's ultra-modern-chic kitchen, cooking my famous spaghetti sauce and praising her recent decision to pack up her things, leave her job and her vintage studio apartment on Capitol Hill and move to San Francisco to be with a boy she didn't even know a year ago. To others, it may seem impractical, but to me, it's the exact kind of bold "fuck it" move I wish I'd been adventurous enough to make in my twenties.

"I mean, I graduated college and I moved to Idaho and I bought a house there because I thought I was going to live there forever," I managed to spit out through my laughter. It's funny to me now because it's so ludicrous. I can see now that I'm just not the type of person who will ever want to stay in one place forever—at least, not in the foreseeable future.

My own impending move is proof of this. Just over a year ago I moved to Alki Beach and fell crazy in love, vowing never to part from its laid back atmosphere and unbelievable beauty. I was, and still am, enamored with that beauty. I've seen quite a bit of this great country and I believe nothing compares to where I live. Whenever I was having a bad day or suffered one of 2011's many emotional setbacks, I could take a short walk and see so many beautiful things I couldn't feel sorry for myself anymore.

And this is what I see when I cross the West Seattle bridge, my favorite view in the world that pics don't do justice:

I will miss you most of all.

I loved that it was fairly quiet, a little beachy oasis mere minutes from the city. I loved that I could be downtown in fifteen minutes but come home to my little piece of paradise. I loved everything about it.

But reality has set in. Yes, I'm close to downtown, but the commute is a bitch. I work a few miles from home, but I never know how long it will take me to get there because the West Seattle Bridge can be a nightmare. Then there are the trains in SoDo that fuck my world up on a regular basis, including one I have to beat every single night or sit there fuming for twenty minutes while it gets loaded. And when the viaduct is closed for some huge construction project that's going until seemingly the end of time, I can forget about going anywhere in a timely manner.

If I want to go downtown and have drinks (which, let's face it, I do often—I may as well take advantage of the fact that I am 30 and childless) I have to spend $60 in taxi fare just to get anywhere. Frankly, it's bullshit. That, and a variety of other factors, led to a decision to let our beachside apartment go. It was a tough decision, but as soon as it was made, I felt the overwhelming sense of relief I do when I know something is right.

West Seattle was an incredible place to spend our first year in the city. It was a great way to slowly immerse ourselves into city life and, quite frankly, it was a fabulous place to be broke. Running along the beach is always free, as is sitting in the grass with a good book on a sunny day.

 But we're not new here anymore, and we still have a lot of exploring left to do. There are restaurants I want to try, bars I want to drink in, coffee I have to sample and bookstores I need to browse. So I set out to find the impossible: an affordable living space on Capitol Hill (Seattle's most populated neighborhood) with all the amenities my spoiled ass is accustomed to, like a dishwasher.

I found the apartment complex doing a random search for "Seattle rentals." I was instantly enamored with the close proximity to a Trader Joe's, there's an Anytime Fitness on site, pets are allowed, and it's just far enough back on Capitol Hill to be a few blocks away from all the ruckus….but still close enough to walk to all the ruckus. In fact, I could walk pretty much anywhere. Better yet, the rent prices seemed to be in a range that wouldn't make us pee our pants.

I fired off an email with the subject line "I would like to live here, please." The apartment manager replied right away to tell me that, sorry, all she had were studios. She also told me that the rent prices listed on the website were incorrect (and not in my favor). My hopes of a spacious two bedroom were dashed. I looked at other places, but wasn't having much luck.

Just when I'd resigned myself to living in a hole-in-the-wall and hauling my clothes to a Laundromat, I got an email from the manager. Someone was moving out of a one bedroom with den unit, which is apparently a very rare occurrence. The rent, while still a lot higher than our current rate, was just low enough to get me to show up for a building tour. I was enamored, both with the building and the apartment manager who's a burlesque dancer on the weekends and more hip than I could ever hope to be. I was really sold when I saw the view from the rooftop deck:

OMG, you guys

It's a fabulous apartment. At last I will have two bathrooms again to store the ten million towels I own. I will have a lovely balcony view, a place to put guests (I thought no one would want to stay with us once we downsized from a house to an apartment…how wrong I was), and a walk in closet.  I mean, just, yes.

But this time, I am older and wiser. I am not going to declare that "this is it." I know I will not want to live on Capitol Hill forever. I know there will come a day where I grow tired of the hipsters, tired of the endless crowds, the lack of parking, the noise and the constant commotion. But that doesn't diminish my excitement. It just makes me excited to appreciate every single day that I will be immersed in the depths of the city I love so dearly, taking it all in.

In Defense of Starbucks

I've been a fan of Starbucks since they opened a store in my hometown of Yakima, WA many years ago. A more youthful, more robust, less bothered by the presence of calories and sugar version of myself was pumped to learn the coffee shop would blend my beloved Frappuccinos, making them more like a milkshake rather than the watery substance I'd been purchasing at the grocery store.

Yakima is rather devoid of culture. When a chain restaurant opens there, the locals treat it as a momentous occasion and cram its doors until the novelty wears off and they realize the Applebee's they were so excited about is just another mediocre menu with entrees crammed full of sodium and they'd be much better off going to local gem Miner's for a burger.

So, needless to say, I received no flack for my love of Starbucks while living in Yakima. In fact, it may have been the only thing that earned me any cool points at all. When I left, however, I started getting different reactions to the infamous Mermaid cup in my hand.

"Ugh, their coffee tastes terrible." "Those drinks are so overpriced." "You should really support local coffee shops instead."

Well, guess what? Now I live in Seattle, and Starbucks is our local coffee shop. The very first store opened a few miles from where I live. And while I've got plenty of delicious mom and pop shops here to select from (and I admit that I prefer some of them to Starbucks), I still spend plenty of time and cash on Mermaid cups. And I always will. And here's what I have to say to the nay-sayers' comments:

1)      Starbucks coffee tastes terrible. This is a matter of personal tastes, of course. And I admit that, while I brew a delicious pot of Sumatra roast at home, sometimes their in-store brew isn't awesome. But I happen to think their Americanos, lattes and frappuccinos are fantastic. And even better than that, they're consistent. No offense to local coffee shops, but I have yet to find one that will give me the same exact damn mocha every time. I like to know that my beverage I am spending $5 on will be a tasty one.

Disclaimer: It's true that Starbucks tends to taste better in Washington State and the further you get from Washington, the more risk you take with your beverage. I'm looking at you, Florida.

2)      Starbucks is overpriced. The expression "you get what you pay for" applies here. Most frilly fancy coffee drinks are expensive, and Starbucks is no exception. And it's true that CEO Howard Schultz is an ultra mega billionaire who rakes in the profits off his coffee beans. BUT. Guess where else your money goes? To the employees. They're paid more than minimum wage, they're treated well (for an example of a company that treats employees like shit, Google all the dirt on Forever XXI), and they're given health insurance benefits if they work 30 or more hours per week. In fact, Starbucks spends $300 million a year on health benefits. I'll happily pay an extra 50 cents for my Americano for that, thank you very much.

3)      Local coffee shops should be supported. Starbucks is local to me now. But even when it wasn't, they were still my first choice. Why? Let's be honest. Most little espresso stands on the side of the road do not have employees who were carefully trained on how to properly make a shot of espresso (it's an art, people). The result is a drink that tastes like moldy ass. I'd really rather not gamble with my coffee. I take my caffeine seriously. Everyone has a choice on what they drink. I will choose Starbucks.

Now, I realize that Starbucks is a corporation and the entire coffee business is far from ethical, about one step above blood diamonds, and needs to be reformed. But I don't think this company is even close to the worst offender. Here are other reasons why I think Starbucks is getting it right:

Their baristas are friendly. Since moving here a year ago, I have not once walked into the Starbucks by my home or work and not been greeted with a seemingly sincere smile. Not once have I been given an attitude for asking a question or received anything short of stellar service. Even if they're having a bad day and secretly want to punch me, they don't show it.

They go above and beyond. One of my Facebook friends recently said the people at the local coffee shop he's frequented for years still don't know or care who the hell he is, while he can walk into Starbucks on any given day and be greeted by name with his drink started. Recently, my building lost power and all 398734875 of us had to stand outside in the pouring rain while maintenance tried to figure it out. The Starbucks employees across the street rushed out right away with free coffee (with cream and sugar) and pastries for us. Are you kidding me? I dare you to find any other business that would do that.

In 2008, when Howard Schultz returned at the Starbucks CEO, he recognized the problems the company was having as the economy was tanking. He took an enormous profit loss, shut down every single store for half a day, and re-trained every single employee. He also lost more millions when he flew every single store manager out to a conference to give them a pep talk, where he shed tears. There's not a lot of love for Schultz here in Seattle because of the way the Sonics deal was handled. I respect that. But I also respect Schultz. I've had the pleasure of seeing him speak when he came to our company one day to give us an amazing Q&A, and I truly believe he's doing a lot right.

No high fructose corn syrup or hydrogenated oils are used in their products. Now, have enough frappuccinos and scones and you'll be an unhealthy fatty. Sugar and fat are no bueno. But knowing that my occasional white chocolate Americano won't give me a heart attack on the spot is kind of nice.

So go ahead, fling your Starbucks hatred at me and preach to me about locals and values and what constitutes crappy coffee. I'll hold up my Mermaid cup with my delicious brew and toast my local coffee shop, Starbucks.

Snowflakes in Seattle

On March 17, 2011, I sat inside the house I thought I'd live in forever but has just signed off to new owners. All of my worldly possessions had been packed, sold or given away. I had a new apartment awaiting me in The Emerald City, but no job and no prospects. My savings account had less money in it than when I was in high school and Wells Fargo had just ripped me off of money I desperately needed.

To say the least, I was terrified. I knew the move to Seattle was the right choice, and it was something I'd wanted for most of my life. But to say I was about to leap out of my comfort zone was an understatement. I sat on my couch, staring out my beautiful bay window at the ugly Wal Mart across the street. When my couch was given away to the neighbor, I sat on the floor and did the same thing.

Early in the afternoon big, fat snowflakes began to fall. They dropped from the clouds and plop onto my car, the yard and the street. They didn't stick, but it sent off a whole new string of worries about the conditions of the pass and maneuvering the moving truck.

Great, I thought, watching the flakes  fall through a scowl. I don't know where we'll be next year, what our lives will be like or how much of this mess we'll still be in, but at least there won't be snow. At least these bullshit winters will be over.

I got excited then, despite my fear. I longed for a fresh start and decided to make a fresh start when it came to who I was as well. I'd been struggling with some traits I didn't like and some bad habits I wanted to change. I set an intention to change certain things about myself and maybe meet new people who reflected the positive qualities I wanted for myself. Moving at the cusp of spring made it even more beautiful… new city, new jobs, new life, new me. No snow.

Exactly one year later, I woke up in my cute little apartment on Alki Beach in the heart of my new life. I managed to drag myself to a morning hot yoga class up the street. I'm no stranger to hot yoga, but I'd never been to this studio. They offered a free class for first timers, something I wasn't about to pass up.

The class was intense. The little room was heated to 95 degrees and the male instructor showed no mercy. It was power yoga and we powered through it. I started sweating almost immediately and was dripping wet within 15 minutes. I love this part of class. It feels like I'm shedding more than water weight. It feels like I'm ridding myself of bad food choices, toxins and even bad habits. Each class is like a mini fresh start.

Halfway through class, I tilted at the waist and lifted my arm toward the sky in a perfect Triangle pose. I looked toward the sky and saw I was positioned exactly below the room's only skylight. And I almost fell over when I saw the big, fat snowflakes falling from the sky. Snow isn't unheard of in Seattle, but it's not common. And it's definitely not common to see big, giant fat flakes on St. Patrick's Day in the city.

"Is it snowing?" asked the woman next to me.

I smiled. "It sure is."

"I've lived in Seattle most of my life, and I've never seen snow like this so late in the year! This is crazy!" remarked our instructor.

Sorry, I thought. Apparently it followed me after all. The irony, the symbolism and the beauty of that moment did not escape me.

The flakes continued to fall, dusting the city in a beautiful white coating before disappearing as quickly as they came. I caught the final few moments of it as I stepped out of the studio, and the flakes felt remarkably refreshing against my skin after being in that scorching room for 90 minutes. I tilted my head to the sky and caught the flakes on my face instead of scowling at them through the window. Instead of wishing them away, I enjoyed them.

Later that afternoon, the sun began to shine beautifully and I walked with my friend down Alki toward our destination of happy hour at a seafood restaurant. As we talked, I took a good look at her (which isn't hard, she's a beautiful girl) and realized she's exactly the kind of person I was hoping to meet. She's got the good qualities I have been trying to cultivate in myself. And some of her "bad habits" are also ones that I share. But, as it turns out, those qualities are not things I am ready to give up like I thought I was last year. And put in perspective, they aren't "bad" at all. Instead of desiring to change them, I've learned to embrace them, just as she has.

We were later joined by other friends I've met this year, from work and life, whom I feel the exact same way about. We celebrated St. Patrick's Day at a Mexican bar together as if we were best friends who hung out every weekend. If I could have looked a year ahead as I sat in my empty house the year before, I know I would have been both pleased and relieved.

Life changes when you move locations. But who you are as a person stays with you. You can't run from problems, and you can't run from who you really are. But that's not a bad thing. It's a blessing. Because odds are, who you are is who you should embrace being. 

Sorry, I was busy living.

My blog has suffered from serious neglect. And it's not because I don't have anything to say.

Actually, I've got plenty to say. I've got something to say about this, a few things to say about that, and you can bet your sexy asses I've got a mouthful of things to say about this right here.

No, it's not writer's block that has kept me away. I've been absent because I haven't slowed down for five minutes since my 30^th birthday. I've been working, playing and enjoying myself. Basically, I've been rocking this 30 thing

It started with my party on February 4^th. The entire weekend was a beautiful blend of old friends and new friends, and having so many people I love around me was the most incredible gift I've ever received. People flew to Seattle for me. People took long road trips and spent money all to make sure I had a good birthday.

And I did. The party started on Friday the moment my best friend since junior high Yennifer stepped off the plane. "I'm the stunning brunette standing under the Horizon sign," she said when I called from the car. We had Mexican food and margaritas on Alki Beach and stayed up too late putting together a picture collage and reminiscing about the amazing times we've had over the last decade.

Pretty cool, right?

 Saturday's party started with cupcakes and lemon drop shots at the sexy Barca Lounge on Capitol Hill and ended with the remaining partiers belting out Garth Brooks' "Calling' Baton Rouge" at a karaoke bar in perfect harmony (at least, in my mind) before one of my good friends passed out and barfed everywhere, just like old times. It was glorious. We were back at it again on Sunday, watching the Superbowl from a classy sports bar before the last of the lot flew home with angry livers and empty wallets.

We had a makeshift photo booth with props.

I barely had a week to recover from the festivities before hopping on a plane with my other best friend Sydney and her other best friend (my bff by association, we decided) for a much-needed weekend getaway to San Diego. Holy shit. San Diego is America's finest city. It's gorgeous, it's clean, it's classy and it's warm… even in the cold seasons. Though the weather wasn't as warm as it was supposed to be, it was a tropical paradise compared to Seattle in early February. After a brief workout, we donned our swimsuits and enjoyed happy hour by the pool before putting on our dresses and eating sushi at a restaurant with a DJ. Seattle is my life partner, but San Diego is my sexy little mistress.

San Diego also has a place called Pacific Beach that is home to some of the cheapest alcohol in California. I'm not a day drinker, and on our second day in the city I remembered why. I indulged in some mimosas with brunch, a glass of wine at happy hour and champagne while getting my hair blow dried that led to a roughly 13 hour bender, luckily with plenty of breaks and coconut water—but still. I was trying on an impractical, too tight, and too short dress (just for fun) at a boutique when I learned about the untimely death of Whitney Houston. I rushed out of the dressing room to tell Sydney.

"That dress is hot, baby, dang!" said the flamboyantly and fabulously gay owner of the boutique. "You totally have to get it! It was made for you!"

 I looked at the price tag (cheap). I looked in the mirror (cheap). Screw it, said the alcohol. I bought it. This is what drunk shopping got me, a dress I never would've dared to wear at 25:

Clearly I'm the sluttiest one in this pic, and that was fine with me.

After dinner we went to an incredible high class rooftop bar where I met up with my Days of our Lives friend William from LA and his friends. The long island iced teas dulled my memory of the rest of the evening, but pictures indicate I had a great time. And the best part was, I woke up on Sunday feeling OK despite having shocked the crap out of my normally healthy food, moderate-levels-of alcohol- consuming body. What can I say? 30 agrees with me.

Note the vacant look in my eyes. Thankfully William is a professional and a gentleman.  He now knows all my secrets, too.

I'm even handling bad news better. Mr. W has had a hell of a time finding good work since we've been here. In the Spokane/North Idaho area, he found plenty of work while I struggled. Our skill sets are totally different and mine are simply more suited to this area…his, not so much. He finally found something, but it's something that means opposite schedules and tons of time apart for awhile. Unfortunately, we're not in a financial position to be picky right now, so he accepted.

We've done this before, and it wasn't easy. This time? We're totally rocking it. Don't get me wrong, it breaks my heart seeing so much less of the love of my life whose company I enjoy so much, but it's made us realize just how strong our bond is and appreciate the time we do have. We've come so far since we've last been apart, and we've totally got this.

I believe in fate, and I believe the Universe's timing is perfect. I've recently gotten closer with someone here who is in a similar spot in life (in a long distance relationship with a man she loves) and it's been a blast.

I keep the prettiest company ever.

She's smart, funny, beautiful, kind, and loves many of the same things I do. She has introduced me to so many things that I never knew existed in my own city, such as chocolate martinis from Dilittente's which are the best replacements for sex ever (sorry Mom):

This changed my life.

And about my city… have I mentioned lately how much I love living here? There's so much to do, I have not been bored for one second since I arrived. I've been meaning to get back to Spokane to visit people and places I miss, but it's so hard to pry myself away from The Emerald City. I love the nightlife, I love the people and I love the beauty. Yes, it has its downfalls, the traffic sucks and Belltown is a bit heavy on the crackheads. But it's still my home, and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else—except maybe San Diego, but I need to sell millions of books first.

I'm going to try and blog more. But I didn't slow because I ran out of topics. I slowed down because for the first time in a very long time, it feels like I am living every single day. A year ago I felt like I was "missing it" but I couldn't quite explain what "it" was. Now I know.

It was this.

The one where I turn 30

The moment I thought I made peace with turning 30 came, like much of my twenties, in an unexpected way. Having thought about the impending end of my youth since my 29^th birthday last year, I imagined a sudden moment of clarity when I would let go of all my reservations about getting older, which would magically prevent me from ever aging and allow me to reach every goal I ever set, growing my bank account in the process.

Instead, I was in a no-frills sushi joint on Queen Anne hill sharing a beer with one of my oldest friends. This was no ordinary day. For one, I do not drink beer. The friend, P, lives in Washington DC. Her unplanned but well-loved infant daughter was back at the house where they were staying receiving a bath from P’s unexpected (and quite gorgeous) boyfriend. Pretty much nothing about the evening was normal.

“Tell me about 30,” I said cautiously as I sipped the beer and watched my unagi being  rolled in rice.

P explained that, yes, it was a hard birthday and yes, you do spend a little time thinking about your lost youth and all you wanted to accomplish and haven’t. But, she asked me, would I really even want to be 22 again, anyway?

As soon as she asked me, I realized that no, I don’t. I don’t want to go back and re-live my twenties because frankly, I’m exhausted. All the crappy job interviews, the crappy jobs, the trying desperately to sell myself to potential employers and clients and bank managers convincing them that yes, I can do this job or have that loan or write that piece despite my age. The getting stabbed in the back time and time again because I didn’t trust my gut. The relationship issues, the body image issues, the plethora of personal issues. No, thank you. I’m exhausted and I’m ready for a decade where I can just be me.

So there it was, or so I thought. I made my peace with it. We finished the beer, went back to the baby and the boyfriend and enjoyed our feast. And then the actual last week of my twenties hit and it was the worst week I’d had in a long time.

Here’s a downer of a fact in my normally positive blog: my twenties started out like shit, and they basically ended like shit too. Quite frankly, I’m pretty much as lost at 30 as I was at 20. I feel confused, depressed, like I’m living my life in a fog. I haven’t felt this shitty about myself or my life since I was in high school, and that’s saying a lot.

The good news is that in between the decade’s shitty beginnings and their shitty endings is that I had nearly a decade of pure awesome sandwiched in between. And that is one of the things I’m choosing to dwell on. The lessons were hard, and unfortunately I’m still paying for them at 30. But there were a lot of beautiful, amazing, wonderful and hilarious moments and I can honestly say I wouldn’t trade any of the bad for one precious moment of the good.

I spent the second to the last day of my twenties bawling my eyes out and feeling like a loser. I had plans to spend the weekend alone in a lodge in Western Washington’s wine country, shut away from the world on a romantic getaway we both needed. I had to cancel because I’ve been fighting a cold for what seems like a year and quite frankly I really don’t have the cash right now. That, among a lot of other stupid shit led to me feeling like a loser. I had a meltdown. It wasn’t pretty. 

Then came the unexpected, unanticipated and overwhelming displays of love. I went to work on Friday and my co-workers had decorated a table with tasty treats. From the freshly baked cupcakes to the frosted animal cookies to the plate of strawberries, everything was pink, because they know I love pink. One of the copy leads brought me flowers. My best friend showed up at lunch with balloons and gifts, also pink. And to top it off, one of my co-workers drew me an awesome sign and another one left pink tinted chapsticks and cupcake body spray on my desk.

Maybe it’s because I’ve never worked a 9 to 5 office job before, but I have never been spoiled like that by people who don’t owe me a damn thing but to co-exist with me peacefully for 40 + hours a week. And it didn’t end there. After work I attended the company’s birthday party (that’s right, I share a birthday with my company!) where I was treated to endless compliments and entirely too many drink tickets. Then Mr. W picked me up, took me to dinner and treated me to a pep talk I desperately needed. I cried that night, too, but not out of sadness. I cried out of gratitude.

The spoiling continued on Saturday. I received three more bouquets of flowers. My dining room table looks like a hospital room right now. I got cards, texts and phone calls and I got over 100 posts on my Facebook wall. Instead of being cooped up in a lodge, I explored more of my beautiful city including a celebration of the Chinese new year. I drank alcohol out of a boot with another awesome co-worker. And my night ended with one of the best meals I have ever eaten in my entire life, hands down, and a sexy and beautiful burlesque show.

My unplanned “winging it” birthday turned out to be far better than the plans I’d made and cost me half the money I would’ve spent feeling sorry for myself isolated from the world. And this weekend some of my best friends are flying in or driving over the pass for a belated birthday party, spending their hard-earned money and time just to see me.

This leads me to the first lesson of my thirties: this time, I am not alone. The last time I was lost, depressed and confused, I felt that I was. I didn’t have anyone I trusted enough to confide in or to ask for help. I worked my ass off alone and I pulled myself out of it, made a lot of changes, and spent the better part of a decade truly trying to be a good person, a good friend and eventually a good wife.

Apparently it paid off. You don’t get shown the level of love that I was shown unless you’re doing something right. The people in my life have no idea how much they saved me last weekend, and how much they showed me that they care and therefore I must be worth caring about. Just like before, I’m going to face my demons and battle this slump I’m in, but this time I’m going to do it in the city I love with the man I love and a fuckton of incredible people by my side. Suddenly, 30 seems like no big deal.

A story about Karma

This is a little story about karma and the universe that I’ve been waiting to tell until I could do so without any anger or smugness popping up… it’s long, but aren’t the best tales?

Just after I got married six years ago, I got a new car. I decided to sell my old Chevy Corsica myself because a car lot would’ve given me roughly $4 for it. To make a long story short, I was approached by a random girl whose nickname was Karma… yes, Karma. Karma was down on her luck, her own car had just died an untimely death. She needed a vehicle, mine was perfect, and please oh please, could she make payments on it?

I’ve learned a thing or two since then, most importantly how to spot a fake bitch and how to say “no.” Those were two things I did not know at 23. I was hesitant, but this girl was a professional pathological liar who convinced me she was trustworthy.

I drew up a contract, we signed it and had it notarized, and I told her $200 per month would be just fine. She was grateful and gave a huge speech about how I was really helping her get back on her feet. Of course, everything went to shit right away and I had to hound her and hunt her down for every payment. She became hostile. And when she finally killed the car (she blew up the radiator), she still owed me $700. She quit paying me. I took her to court, and I won, but turns out you can’t garnish someone’s wages when they get paid in cash (Karma, it turns out, was a stripper and a drug dealer, evidently not successful at either by her since she couldn't pay her bills). So I was in the right, morally and legally, but that lying little snatch ended up with my car and the money.

It was my first time being screwed over by someone on that level, but Russ had been around that block a time or two. He assured me that one day Karma would get her karma. And I believed him. But I was so angry. I was furious that she’d spit in my face when I truly was trying to help her. I was pissed that she took away my ability to trust other people. Of course time heals everything and I’ve learned to trust in the kindness of strangers again, but I could never fully let it go. I was permanently pissed off.

A few months ago, completely out of nowhere and for the first time in years, Karma came to mind. I was on Facebook at the time and looked up her name out of sheer curiosity. To my shock, I found her right away. Her profile was completely public and I noticed she hadn’t made any updates since July. Reading the comments, a slow smile of realization spread across my face.

I Googled her name, “Spokane”, and “arrest”. Turns out Karma hadn’t updated her Facebook because she was in jail.

Apparently Karma and her boyfriend (whose Facebook profile I also found and who lists his job as “Broke” and his hobbies as “drinking alcohol” and “smoking blunts”) broke into a car and stole a woman’s purse, then hit up a bar the next night and racked up a $117 tab on the stolen debit card. When the card was declined, the happy couple said they’d go over to the motel they were staying at to get cash for the tab. When they didn’t come back, the bartender called the cops. The cops ran the name on the card, realized it was stolen and tracked Karma down. At the motel she was staying at. That she’d booked with the stolen card. Smart!

You may think it can’t get better, but it does. When the cops found Karma’s room, she opened the door drunk and stoned. Mr. Alcohol and Blunts was nowhere to be found. At first, she pretended to be the owner of the debit card. Then she swore to the cops she had a prescription for the weed and invited them in to search her stuff. Of course they found no medical card, but they did find her actual driver’s license, the woman’s purse and a shitload of stolen mail.

The more I got to know the girl, the more I realized she was a pathological liar and a terrible one at that. I have no doubt she was so drunk and high she was convinced she did have a medical card for the weed—or perhaps she figured that if she invited the cops in, they’d assume she must be telling the truth, pat her on her head and tell her to have a wonderful night. A Rhodes Scholar she is not.

I sat open-mouthed in front of my laptop for awhile. Then I called my friend V, who’d been with me through it all (she ever served Karma with the court papers). We laughed until we cried. We made a ton of karma jokes. Then I felt guilty for feeling happy for someone’s suffering, so I called my good friend G who told me to feel whatever I wanted because “she’s a bad person and she hurt you and you are allowed to feel this way.” So I allowed myself to feel giddy and smug for awhile. I don’t regret it. It felt great.

When Mr. W arrived home, I was dancing an interpretive victory dance in the living room. I told him the story with glee.

“Should we send a ‘Thinking of You’ card?” he asked.

I barely had time to bask in my delight, though, when another Google search about a month later told me Karma’s fate. She pled guilty to everything, but she’d only been given 62 days for her crimes, which is exactly how many she’d served. She only had six months’ probation and the restitution she had to pay was small. I knew exactly what had happened. The judge had fallen for her wide-eyed crocodile tears and bullshit, the same way I did six years ago.

But then I thought about what I’d done for the sixty two days she’d been locked up. I thought of all the afternoons I spent soaking up the sun at Alki, enjoying my new city, tasting wine on a limo tour of wine country and hanging out on Whidbey Island. I thought of the time I spent with friends, the fun I’d gotten to have and the food I’d gotten to eat while she spent her days peeing in front of other people and eating mechanically separated chicken and mystery loaf. And I thought of how awful it would’ve been to lose even that much time in your life to a tiny cell.

I can honestly say that I hope she learned her lesson and left jail a changed woman. My friend who works at a prison in California tells me this probably won’t be the case. Once you’re in, she says, it’s hard to stay out. So though I truly don’t wish it for her (once my smugness faded I realized wishing bad things on anyone just hurts everyone), it will be incredibly hard for her to escape that life.

And during my limited Facebook stalking, I noticed she’s now back in a relationship with Mr. Alcohol and Blunts and she's working part-time at Burger King to support them both. And I realized I shouldn’t hate this girl. I should pity her. She doesn’t even have the intelligence to walk away from her shitty life, to go to school or strive for anything better. I am so damn grateful that, while I'm far from a scholar myself, I’m not that person. And that realization is worth far more than $700. It’s priceless.

What goes around comes around. Sometimes it just takes awhile.