A letter of resignation...
Nearly five years ago, on a chilly spring morning, I pulled into the parking lot of a charming museum in a mansion on Lake Calhoun. I wasn’t sure where to enter the building, and the lot was a ghost town. I wondered if I had written down the wrong day. As I walked toward the delivery entrance, admiring the led glass windows, one of the garage doors opened—almost magically. A friendly man wearing a baseball cap appeared. “You must be Chris… I’m Chris,” he said with an outstretched hand. He confirmed that I had arrived on time for my first day of work at The Bakken Museum.
I have experienced a great deal during my time here. I have learned so many new things. There is so much that I will never forget. The squeals of delight from the kids who experienced the jolt of a circle shock during a school field trip. The look of excitement in visitors’ eyes as they discovered how the Electricity is Life machine worked during a Super Science Saturday. Seeing grownups giggle and wince as they anticipated how their mouth would feel when they took a sip of electrified wine during Bakken Evening Out. Watching an amazing volunteer charm a group of Red Hat Ladies during a house and garden tour. The beautiful book displays assembled outside the library. Smiling so wide that my cheeks hurt as I listened to kids tell funny stories about their inventions during a fundraising breakfast. Trying to contain my laughter as Birthday Party kids all hopped up and cake and electricity bounced off the classroom walls. Feeling so much pride that I thought I might burst as thousands of visitors came to see science theater, static demos, and dozens of super cool science activities from super cool staff and volunteers during 10 Best Days of The Bakken.
I will also never, ever forget the people who showed their support and love when I went through the most difficult time of my life last year—fighting the battle with ovarian cancer, and winning.
It is with a heavy heart that I tendered my resignation today. I will miss coming to this beautiful building every day, and working with the many extraordinary people here. Thank you for all you have done, and all you continue to do to make The Bakken a really amazing museum. I am proud to say I was a part of it during my time here.
Warm Regards,
Chris
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Social media is not your savior
My first "real job" was chasing ambulances. Sort of. I did PR and marketing for an air ambulance service. The coolest part of my job was directing photo shoots inside medical helicopters while hovering over the city. That was the 90s, and in my opinion, media was pretty simple. There was print. The oldest form of media. Anyone who took a "Marketing 101" course in college learned that print had been around since the 1500s. There was radio and TV, also around for decades. And a few others including grassroots or "non-traditional" media.
I feel ancient for saying this, but around that time the internet was just emerging. I'm not certain that anyone had a full grasp on what it was, what it could do, or where it would take us. Cell phones sort of existed--we had a "bag phone" at the company where I worked. It required that the user lug around a big black leather satchel that housed the guts of the phone, and the hand held receiver was tucked away inside. I refused to use it because the bag never complimented any of my outfits.
My second position was in broadcast media where I found my niche. A job behind the scenes at a radio station was by far the best way to learn how media works. While there may have been some science to it, most often we took what was successful for our advertisers and made it work for us. We used promotional inventory (separate from paid advertising inventory) and told listeners why they should keep listening. Everyone had A.D.D. Everyone loved to channel surf. Messages needed to stand out and be memorable.
But we didn't just use radio to promote radio, we relied on all traditional forms of media. And guerrilla marketing. It was possibly the most aggressive form of grassroots marketing. We would park our vans outside of various events and venues, hand out bumper stickers, can coolers and T-shirts, and blast music. We would show up and crash competitor's events with armies of interns, and give away CDs and concert tickets. We would put up banners on any unadorned wall or fence. We would use high powered projectors to flash logos on the sides of buildings. We would broadcast live from beaches, parking lots, nightclubs. The guerrilla marketing code: "Ask forgiveness, not permission."
What was great about working in media was that we were usually the first to recognize and test new forms of media. The digital media age had taken off and we were in the thick of it. We had in-house programmers who developed our own websites, and designed client sites too. We hosted online contests and advertiser promotions. We shared pictures. We streamed audio and video. We interacted directly with our listeners. And during my last year in radio, we added text message marketing to the mix, to promote exclusive contests and create cutting edge campaigns for our advertisers. Oh, and there was a little thing called social media. On-air personalities created profiles on MySpace, and looked for a way to get on Facebook, which was only open to students.
After more than a decade, I left radio, but I walked away a Media Guru. I took my vast and inside knowledge of media and went on to do PR and marketing for the nation's largest traveling museum exhibition. Naturally, social media was part of the plan. We infiltrated Facebook's then private student network with a team of college interns who posted messages about how the exhibit was a must-see attraction. Cameras were prohibited in the exhibit, but our student crew shared their "insider" photos on Flickr and it went viral.
There's a reason I don't refer to myself as a Social Media Guru, and it's not because I don't understand the power of social media. I'll be among the first to acknowledge that it has changed the way we communicate--especially how we relay information, and what goes public. But hasn't every form of media done exactly that in its own time? I also agree that any great marketing plan should include social media. Without it, the museum exhibit would likely not have had the "buzz" that it did. It certainly didn't hurt that our intern team had something buzz-worthy to share. People were curious about real human bodies that had been turned to plastic. But it definitely would not have happened if the exhibit hadn't spent millions of dollars on advertising--mostly in traditional media.
Being the self-proclaimed Media Guru that I am, I have to say this. It makes me cringe when organizations put all of their eggs in the social media basket. I get it. Times are tough, and funds are limited. Who has 10-digit marketing budgets these days? But without the foundation of traditional media, your marketing plan is doomed to fail. IMHO. There are ways to stretch your budget and achieve your marketing goals. Ask any Media Guru and they will likely provide you with dozens of options. But seriously, social media is not your savior.
I feel ancient for saying this, but around that time the internet was just emerging. I'm not certain that anyone had a full grasp on what it was, what it could do, or where it would take us. Cell phones sort of existed--we had a "bag phone" at the company where I worked. It required that the user lug around a big black leather satchel that housed the guts of the phone, and the hand held receiver was tucked away inside. I refused to use it because the bag never complimented any of my outfits.
My second position was in broadcast media where I found my niche. A job behind the scenes at a radio station was by far the best way to learn how media works. While there may have been some science to it, most often we took what was successful for our advertisers and made it work for us. We used promotional inventory (separate from paid advertising inventory) and told listeners why they should keep listening. Everyone had A.D.D. Everyone loved to channel surf. Messages needed to stand out and be memorable.
But we didn't just use radio to promote radio, we relied on all traditional forms of media. And guerrilla marketing. It was possibly the most aggressive form of grassroots marketing. We would park our vans outside of various events and venues, hand out bumper stickers, can coolers and T-shirts, and blast music. We would show up and crash competitor's events with armies of interns, and give away CDs and concert tickets. We would put up banners on any unadorned wall or fence. We would use high powered projectors to flash logos on the sides of buildings. We would broadcast live from beaches, parking lots, nightclubs. The guerrilla marketing code: "Ask forgiveness, not permission."
What was great about working in media was that we were usually the first to recognize and test new forms of media. The digital media age had taken off and we were in the thick of it. We had in-house programmers who developed our own websites, and designed client sites too. We hosted online contests and advertiser promotions. We shared pictures. We streamed audio and video. We interacted directly with our listeners. And during my last year in radio, we added text message marketing to the mix, to promote exclusive contests and create cutting edge campaigns for our advertisers. Oh, and there was a little thing called social media. On-air personalities created profiles on MySpace, and looked for a way to get on Facebook, which was only open to students.
After more than a decade, I left radio, but I walked away a Media Guru. I took my vast and inside knowledge of media and went on to do PR and marketing for the nation's largest traveling museum exhibition. Naturally, social media was part of the plan. We infiltrated Facebook's then private student network with a team of college interns who posted messages about how the exhibit was a must-see attraction. Cameras were prohibited in the exhibit, but our student crew shared their "insider" photos on Flickr and it went viral.
There's a reason I don't refer to myself as a Social Media Guru, and it's not because I don't understand the power of social media. I'll be among the first to acknowledge that it has changed the way we communicate--especially how we relay information, and what goes public. But hasn't every form of media done exactly that in its own time? I also agree that any great marketing plan should include social media. Without it, the museum exhibit would likely not have had the "buzz" that it did. It certainly didn't hurt that our intern team had something buzz-worthy to share. People were curious about real human bodies that had been turned to plastic. But it definitely would not have happened if the exhibit hadn't spent millions of dollars on advertising--mostly in traditional media.
Being the self-proclaimed Media Guru that I am, I have to say this. It makes me cringe when organizations put all of their eggs in the social media basket. I get it. Times are tough, and funds are limited. Who has 10-digit marketing budgets these days? But without the foundation of traditional media, your marketing plan is doomed to fail. IMHO. There are ways to stretch your budget and achieve your marketing goals. Ask any Media Guru and they will likely provide you with dozens of options. But seriously, social media is not your savior.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Premium greeting
 |
| Pony shares his bed with my first dog, Jake. |
I didn't meet Da Vinci until a month or so after Matt and I started dating. But Matt gushed about him all the time. And when we would talk on the phone, quite often I would hear loud "thud" noises in the background. When I finally asked what it was, Matt explained that Da Vinci was entertaining himself by pouncing on his toys like a kitten. At around 100 pounds, Da Vinci's jumping was far from graceful or cat-like.
I'll never forget the day I met Da Vinci. Matt surprised me one evening by showing up to my house with a bag of groceries, a six-pack of beer, a DVD, and his dog. As I opened the door, he announced that he was there to make dinner. A nice surprise! I immediately noticed a long white furry face that seemed to be at eye level with me. One blue eye and one brown eye. "You must be Da Vinci," I said as I opened the door. He quickly pushed his way past me and ran toward my 14 year old deaf wiener dog asleep on his bed. The height of his back came up to my waist. His head nearly reached my arm pit. "That's no dog, it's a pony!" I said to Matt. "You brought me a pony!" I immediately nicknamed him Pony.
Despite his size, Pony is a very gentle dog. He runs as fast as lightning--an amazing sight to see. And he is clearly enamoured with Matt. In the morning, when he has to go outside, he comes to Matt's side of the bed and stares at him. Sometimes he makes a tiny squeaking noise. This dog is the only creature on earth that can get my boyfriend out of bed without any trouble. Their ritual begins with Matt sweetly saying, "Good morning, Buddy... Good morning, Da Vinci... How's my Buuuddy?" Or some version of it. Pony sighs and nuzzles Matt as he scratches his head. This goes on for a while and then Matt asks Pony if he wants to go outside. Pony lets out a big puff of air that makes his lips flap--just like a horse--and jumps around to confirm that he would like to leave the house. Quickly.
During this entire process, if I try to be a part of the ritual, I generally get ignored. At some point, I shared this observation with Matt, mocking the way he speaks to his beloved pet in the morning. It is what I now refer to as the "premium greeting." "I wonder if I'll ever get a premium greeting?" I ask in a syrupy voice. "Good morning, Sweet Pea... Good morning, Cricket... How's my Sweeeet Pea???" This generally doesn't work for me, since Matt is a bit of a bear in the morning, although it has gotten me a smirk or a headlock a handful of times.
Nowadays, I get woken up every morning by a super cute orange fluffy puppy. My dog Thor is seven months old, and he has already learned the art of the "wake-up-stare-down" from Pony. I don't mind though. Finally, my own premium greeting!
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Don't you wanna talk to your Cricket?
I recently stumbled across this journal entry about my dad and it made me smile. It was written a few days after I finished my final round of chemotherapy. He would have turned 70 this Sunday. I really miss him. Maybe it's time to make a call to heaven...
I had a dream about my dad this morning. I called his old number and he answered the phone--turns out he was answering from heaven. At first he was a little grumbly (my dad always had a grumbly side) but when I asked, "Don't you wanna talk to your Cricket?" he perked up and said of course he did. I asked what he was doing and he said he had to work. It was a Sunday in my dream and I said I was surprised he had to work--I thought for sure there would be no work in heaven on Sunday. He said there was always work to do and asked if I wanted to go out for Chinese food later. I asked if I could invite my friend Nicole. He said yes and we talked about where to go.
I woke up feeling like I had really talked to him. It was so nice to hear his voice--deep and calm and even a bit grumbly. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and called his old phone number. I knew I wouldn't reach him but hoped his voicemail would pick up and I would really get to hear his voice. I got the standard operator greeting saying the number had been disconnected. I hung up and felt a strange craving for Chinese food.
I got out of bed and brought the dogs outside. My heart felt so full of life. What a beautiful day! I sat on the steps and felt the sun and breeze on my bald head. It felt amazing. When I looked up at the cottony white clouds in the vibrant blue sky, I knew that my dad was there, he was everywhere. I had an overwhelming feeling that today was the start of something new, and that everything was going to be OK. No more chemo, no more cancer, no more pain. And although I couldn't reach my dad by phone, he would always be with me, helping guide me through my journey.
I had a dream about my dad this morning. I called his old number and he answered the phone--turns out he was answering from heaven. At first he was a little grumbly (my dad always had a grumbly side) but when I asked, "Don't you wanna talk to your Cricket?" he perked up and said of course he did. I asked what he was doing and he said he had to work. It was a Sunday in my dream and I said I was surprised he had to work--I thought for sure there would be no work in heaven on Sunday. He said there was always work to do and asked if I wanted to go out for Chinese food later. I asked if I could invite my friend Nicole. He said yes and we talked about where to go.
I woke up feeling like I had really talked to him. It was so nice to hear his voice--deep and calm and even a bit grumbly. I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and called his old phone number. I knew I wouldn't reach him but hoped his voicemail would pick up and I would really get to hear his voice. I got the standard operator greeting saying the number had been disconnected. I hung up and felt a strange craving for Chinese food.
I got out of bed and brought the dogs outside. My heart felt so full of life. What a beautiful day! I sat on the steps and felt the sun and breeze on my bald head. It felt amazing. When I looked up at the cottony white clouds in the vibrant blue sky, I knew that my dad was there, he was everywhere. I had an overwhelming feeling that today was the start of something new, and that everything was going to be OK. No more chemo, no more cancer, no more pain. And although I couldn't reach my dad by phone, he would always be with me, helping guide me through my journey.
Friday, October 21, 2011
First best friend
I have a brother Bill who is a year younger than me. I was born small so as toddlers we were the same size. Strangers often mistook us for twins. I remember clearly one evening when I was around four years old, and Bill was three. We were hanging out with my dad at a Chinese restaurant, waiting for our take-out order to be ready. Another customer commented how we were adorable twins. I didn't get it then, but looking at pictures later I could see it.
I'm pretty sure Bill and I had a secret language long before we could speak English. And we often mimicked each other. My brother dragged around a raggedy security blanket that was referred to as a "nightie" and sucked his thumb. I did too. I wore a spiky ponytail at the top of my head that I called a "tree." Bill insisted on having one too. A natural athlete, Bill played hockey from the time he could walk. A klutzy girl who fell down regularly, I begged my parents to let me play on his all-boy team despite my balance issues. We followed each other everywhere, exploring every corner of our house, yard and neighborhood together. We made believe that we were sailing on a ship or managing a department store in our basement or attic. We constructed elaborate forts out of furniture and blankets. We created cities in the dirt for our Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars. We had picnics of graham crackers and mini marshmallows in the back yard. We cruised around on anything that rolled--Big Wheels, bikes, go-carts, skateboards. He was my best friend and confidant. We were inseparable.
As we got older, Bill began to torture me by crashing every sleepover I ever had from the time I turned 12. He, and sometimes his friends, would pull practical jokes on me and the girls, or try to scare us. Often he would just barge in my room and start punching me in front of my friends. At that time, it was just plain annoying. Who knows, maybe he was mad that I abandoned our friendship to hang out with my other friends and do girlie things like put on makeup, create new hair styles, and talk about boys. But our relationship was definitely changing.
In junior high and high school, my brother started to get in trouble. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker, always getting into something "extreme" that often involved crashing, breaking or taking something that didn't belong to him. I remember my parents yelling at him a lot, but I was busy doing my own thing, and it generally did not include violating any laws. I moved into my first apartment when I was 18 and I was so busy trying to be independent and grown up, that I barely noticed when Bill did time in jail. We had long since drifted apart, our best friend status no longer in tact.
I would see my brother during some holiday get-togethers, and other times my parents would fill me in on what was going on with his life, but as adults Bill and I didn't talk very often. It wasn't until he and his wife divorced a few years ago that we reconnected. He moved back to the Twin Cities and in with my dad, and for the first time since we were small, I saw glimpses of the Bill who was my best friend as a kid. He seemed grown up. He seemed responsible. He seemed like he cared about his family and friends. We hung out and talked, we grabbed dinner or a beer, he helped me with a couple of projects around the house, I helped him put an ad on Match.com. I was happy that he was in my life again.
When my dad died, everything changed. We didn't agree about what to do with my dad's dog (formerly Bill's dog). We didn't agree about what we should do with the house my dad left us. We didn't agree about my dad's memorial service. We didn't agree about anything. And there were many times when I was pretty sure if we had been kids, he would have hauled off and started punching me, like he did at my pre-pubescent slumber parties.
Bill stopped being angry for a while when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a few weeks after we lost my dad. He visited me in the hospital a couple of times and even checked on me once or twice after chemo. But it didn't last. He was focused on my dad's possessions and what they were worth. I was focused on kicking cancer's ass. Bill stopped speaking to me shortly after I finished my last round of chemo. He even "unfriended" me on Facebook.
Until he sent me an email last week, I hadn't heard from my brother in more than a year. During that time I did a lot of reflecting. I often wondered why, when we reached a proverbial fork in the road as teens, Bill and I went in completely different directions? I wondered about my older brother and sister too, and how four kids who all grew up in the same house, during the same period of time, with the same parents, could be so different?
I have worked through many of my feelings about my relationships with family members. They are who they are, and I am who I am, and that is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. I will love them and care about them, whether or not we are a part of each other's lives. And if any of them ever face a battle with cancer or a life-threatening illness, I will be there for them in a way they were not able to be there for me.
As for my brother Bill, his email did not include an apology for the way he treated me when I was sick. Or even a simple "I love you." Instead, he asked a question about my dad's property. I'm not sure how or if I will respond. I don't care about the material things my dad left us. But I will always love my brother Bill more than he could possibly imagine. He will always hold a special place in my heart.
He will always be my first best friend.
I'm pretty sure Bill and I had a secret language long before we could speak English. And we often mimicked each other. My brother dragged around a raggedy security blanket that was referred to as a "nightie" and sucked his thumb. I did too. I wore a spiky ponytail at the top of my head that I called a "tree." Bill insisted on having one too. A natural athlete, Bill played hockey from the time he could walk. A klutzy girl who fell down regularly, I begged my parents to let me play on his all-boy team despite my balance issues. We followed each other everywhere, exploring every corner of our house, yard and neighborhood together. We made believe that we were sailing on a ship or managing a department store in our basement or attic. We constructed elaborate forts out of furniture and blankets. We created cities in the dirt for our Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars. We had picnics of graham crackers and mini marshmallows in the back yard. We cruised around on anything that rolled--Big Wheels, bikes, go-carts, skateboards. He was my best friend and confidant. We were inseparable.
As we got older, Bill began to torture me by crashing every sleepover I ever had from the time I turned 12. He, and sometimes his friends, would pull practical jokes on me and the girls, or try to scare us. Often he would just barge in my room and start punching me in front of my friends. At that time, it was just plain annoying. Who knows, maybe he was mad that I abandoned our friendship to hang out with my other friends and do girlie things like put on makeup, create new hair styles, and talk about boys. But our relationship was definitely changing.
In junior high and high school, my brother started to get in trouble. He was a bit of a thrill-seeker, always getting into something "extreme" that often involved crashing, breaking or taking something that didn't belong to him. I remember my parents yelling at him a lot, but I was busy doing my own thing, and it generally did not include violating any laws. I moved into my first apartment when I was 18 and I was so busy trying to be independent and grown up, that I barely noticed when Bill did time in jail. We had long since drifted apart, our best friend status no longer in tact.
I would see my brother during some holiday get-togethers, and other times my parents would fill me in on what was going on with his life, but as adults Bill and I didn't talk very often. It wasn't until he and his wife divorced a few years ago that we reconnected. He moved back to the Twin Cities and in with my dad, and for the first time since we were small, I saw glimpses of the Bill who was my best friend as a kid. He seemed grown up. He seemed responsible. He seemed like he cared about his family and friends. We hung out and talked, we grabbed dinner or a beer, he helped me with a couple of projects around the house, I helped him put an ad on Match.com. I was happy that he was in my life again.
When my dad died, everything changed. We didn't agree about what to do with my dad's dog (formerly Bill's dog). We didn't agree about what we should do with the house my dad left us. We didn't agree about my dad's memorial service. We didn't agree about anything. And there were many times when I was pretty sure if we had been kids, he would have hauled off and started punching me, like he did at my pre-pubescent slumber parties.
Bill stopped being angry for a while when I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer a few weeks after we lost my dad. He visited me in the hospital a couple of times and even checked on me once or twice after chemo. But it didn't last. He was focused on my dad's possessions and what they were worth. I was focused on kicking cancer's ass. Bill stopped speaking to me shortly after I finished my last round of chemo. He even "unfriended" me on Facebook.
Until he sent me an email last week, I hadn't heard from my brother in more than a year. During that time I did a lot of reflecting. I often wondered why, when we reached a proverbial fork in the road as teens, Bill and I went in completely different directions? I wondered about my older brother and sister too, and how four kids who all grew up in the same house, during the same period of time, with the same parents, could be so different?
I have worked through many of my feelings about my relationships with family members. They are who they are, and I am who I am, and that is neither good nor bad. It is what it is. I will love them and care about them, whether or not we are a part of each other's lives. And if any of them ever face a battle with cancer or a life-threatening illness, I will be there for them in a way they were not able to be there for me.
As for my brother Bill, his email did not include an apology for the way he treated me when I was sick. Or even a simple "I love you." Instead, he asked a question about my dad's property. I'm not sure how or if I will respond. I don't care about the material things my dad left us. But I will always love my brother Bill more than he could possibly imagine. He will always hold a special place in my heart.
He will always be my first best friend.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Stalker confessions
My name is Chris, and I'm a Facebook Stalker...
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Most of my career has been spent in radio, which in my opinion, was the original form of social media. Decades before Mark Zuckerberg and/or his minions coined the term, radio listeners often thought that the voice coming out of the speakers was a friend. Many would call in for a chance to talk to their favorite radio personality, ask a question, share an opinion, participate in a contest. Some deejays even had stalkers. Radio allowed for two-way communication when other forms of media did not.
And then Facebook came along and changed the definition of social media. Yes, it too allowed for two-way communication. But the difference was that imaginary friendships on Facebook were sort of consensual. The connections were real-ish. (Yes, I'm telling you that the friendship you thought you had with your favorite radio announcer was probably not real.)
Not a lot of my friends and family had Facebook accounts at that time I created my page, and it was often the topic of conversation. I would encourage them to get on Facebook because I had heard from long lost classmates. I had connected with relatives that I hadn't seen since my mom's funeral years earlier. While many people I knew were being cautious about putting their personal business out there for the world to see, I couldn't think of a good reason not to do it. Sure, I got some friend requests from people I had no interest in rekindling relationships with, and some I didn't know, but I wasn't too concerned about stalkers. Perhaps it was because I had mastered the privacy settings. Or maybe it was because I thought the whole idea of stalking someone on a networking website was crazy. Who had time for that?
Me, apparently.
Last week I was bored and checking out the news feed when I noticed that one of my "friends" commented on the post of an ex coworker (who is not my Facebook friend). The last time I saw her was when she left the organization to have a baby. I was curious, so I clicked on the photo. It wasn't private. There were a few more shots of a cute baby, and then I clicked on the "albums" link to see if there were more. There weren't. But there was a video that she had been tagged in.
I clicked on the video and became entranced. It was a memorial for a 28 year old who died in a freak kayaking accident. The video was a tribute to the handsome young man, and included scenes of his whitewater adventures, he and his girlfriend cross country skiing, and the two of them teaching their puppy to swim. For almost 10 minutes the video played, and my heart broke at the thought of a life ended much too soon. I felt genuinely sad. I spent the next half hour feeling blue and looking for more information about a man I didn't even know.
Then it hit me. I had become a sort of Facebook Stalker. Not the kind that some of my friends and family feared (someone with an obsession for one particular person). I was more of a passive stalker. Someone who stumbled upon something intriguing, like interesting photos of a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend, and got sucked into the life of a stranger. I'm not sure whether or not the person who posted the video memorial intended for everyone on Facebook to see it. It was beautiful, but it really wasn't any of my business. And an open door is not always an invitation inside.
The video incident was quite an eye-opener for me. I will no longer be spending my free time clicking mindlessly through the pictures of people I don't know. Instead I will be attending Facebook Stalker Anonymous meetings, and hosting webinars for former victims on how to master privacy controls.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Like home
I worked in radio for more than a decade. Nothing high profile, like a morning show host or anything. My job was more behind-the-scenes, and mostly entailed planning and managing events and promotions. My first gig was at Cities 97, a Minneapolis "adult album alternative" radio station, when I was in my twenties. The playlist included a lot of music from local bands, and one of my favorites was The Jayhawks. They had been around since the 80s, but I didn't really discover them until the 90s, when I saw them perform live. I copped their "Tomorrow The Green Grass" CD from our music director--free music was one of the perks of the job--and played it over and over. I quickly fell in love with every song, and got to see the band play live again on several occasions (another job perk).
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
As time went on, my taste in music evolved, but The Jayhawks remained on my top 10 list. I never forgot the lyrics to "Blue"--my favorite song--or any of the other songs on the album for that matter. And every now and then I would come across the CD and rediscover that familiar rock-country-folk sound I loved all over again.
Sometime in the early 2000s, I transferred all of my CDs to iTunes. Thanks to my long career in radio, I had over a thousand discs. Many of them didn't make the cut, mostly because I got tired of copying all those files. "Tomorrow The Green Grass" did. But something strange happened once my entire music collection was on my computer. When I could no longer hold a CD in my hand, look at the artwork, or read the liner notes--I could no longer remember what I had in my collection. I forgot about many of my favorites, and for around five years, I forgot about The Jayhawks.
That was until 2006, when I was living in Dallas and working as the marketing director for the Body Worlds traveling museum exhibition. I was on my own, and aside from an old friend who moved back to Texas around that time, I really didn't know anyone there. At first, it didn't matter. I was working a lot and spent most of my free time exploring with my dogs, and taking long walks on the Katy trail. After a couple of months, I began to miss my friends and family back home. I was finding it challenging to relate to many of the people that I met in Dallas. I longed to be near people who were down to earth, and not obsessed with cars and clothes and credit cards. As I walked the trail one chilly January morning, listening to my iPod on shuffle, the song "Blue" began to play. The lyrics hit me the way the heat of the sun does after it pops out from under a big cloud... "Where have all my friends gone? They've all disappeared. Turned around maybe one day. You're all that was there..." A warm feeling washed over my entire body, and tears came to my eyes. Hearing my favorite Minnesota band at that moment made me forget that I was a thousand miles from home. The Jayhawks were like home.
Two years later, when my boyfriend Matt and I were getting to know each other, I learned he loved The Jayhawks too. I shared my Texas story with him during one of our phone conversations. On our first official date, he surprised me with the then latest CD from one of The Jayhawks' original band members, Mark Olson. He waited until the end of the date, and as he walked me to my car, stopped at his car to retrieve a neatly wrapped package. I opened it and fought back tears. Again, that warm feeling washed over me... like home. I have teased Matt about how he waited until the end of the evening to give it to me (like a prize for having a better than expected first date), and joked often that I may have fallen in love with him at that moment. Even now, when I am bored or need cheering up, we get in Matt's car and take a tour of his favorite country roads in Wisconsin. I ramble on about the clouds and how big the sky is, and he plays The Jayhawks on the car stereo.
This past Tuesday night, thanks to a good friend who still works in radio, I got to see The Jayhawks perform for the first time in more than a decade. Hearing them live brought back a flood of memories. It's amazing how music can evoke such emotion and make you feel so good. I think for me, The Jayhawks will always be like home.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Julo's Journey
As a child, she loved art, sewing, archery, swimming, and rollerskating--all passions that stayed with her throughout her life. When she graduated from Humbolt High School in the late fifties, she went on to get married and start a family. She had four children--two girls and two boys--and was a stay at home mom who devoted most of her time to volunteering at her kids’ schools, scouts, and church. She also had her own business as a tailor, and made beautiful clothes for several clients, including me. She taught me to sew when I was around 12 years old, after my custom clothing requests became too elaborate for her patience. But she was always willing to repair my sewing mishaps. I think one of her favorite spots on earth was her sewing room--a warm and cozy place with a straw mat on the floor, an old family trunk full of hundreds of pieces of fabric (a trunk that I have in my living room today), and walls covered with photos of her favorite things.
My mom joined the workforce when my brothers and sister and I were in junior high and high school, and found her niche in the health care field. She worked at a few hospitals before she ended up at Abbott Northwestern, where she worked for nearly 15 years. Although she enjoyed her job, she only worked so she could do the things she loved when she wasn't at the hospital. She had a free spirit and was very independent (something she instilled in me as well). She cherished life and appreciated nature, especially being in the woods walking, camping, or painting the beautiful scenery she surrounded herself with. She kept her camping gear in the car year round, so she could take off on a whim, and head for the forest. She also enjoyed just sitting on her deck, feeling the sunshine on her face, and admiring the beautiful gardens she tended to so lovingly.
Her sense of adventure led her many places, not just in travel, but hunting for treasures at antique shops and flea markets, finding the perfect pottery or jewelry at the Renaissance Festival, or discovering just what she was looking for at an art show. Her love of children inspired her fun spirit--she roller skated into her fifties, dressed up in costume every Halloween, and collected antique toys.
Something I really admired about my mom was that she found pleasure in simple things like putting handmade bows on Christmas packages, sending Valentines to her kids, and decorating her house for every season. Her warm smile, laugh, and gentle nature drew people to her. She had a lot of class, an artistic sense of style, and often wore vibrant colors that mirrored her personality--her favorite was purple. She was good to her children and her friends, and was always willing to lend an ear, a shoulder or her time. She always gave so generously of herself. She made the people she was near feel special.
She was diagnosed with Stage 4 ovarian cancer in 1997. For 23 months she fought with a strong will and brave spirit. She never gave up, even in the end when her body could no longer serve her beautiful soul. When the nurses told her she shouldn’t walk, she’d muster up all the strength she could to get up and walk across the room. She hated being cooped up in the house and would ask to be taken out for a meal, even though she barely ate a thing. She was determined to care for herself and although she had always been so generous, she found it difficult to accept help from those who loved her. She didn’t want to burden anyone. She didn’t know she was giving them a gift--especially me. I had the pleasure of being my mom's caretaker for the last months of her life, and was finally able to give back to her what she had given to me from the day I was born.
My mom’s wish was to spend her last moments surrounded by the comforts of home. Thanks to a wonderful team of hospice nurses, health care workers, volunteers, friends, and family, we were able to give her greatest gift of all. She died with dignity and was surrounded by the people, pets, and things she loved. On November 29, 1999, my mom Julo’s journey took her back to the beauty of nature that she respected and loved so much.
I will never, ever forget my mom, and I think about her every day. She was a role model in many ways, and I see so much of her in me, especially as I get older. This past year has been the most difficult of my life, and I often compare my own journey with cancer to hers. She is one of the reasons I was able to make it through, because she was with me every step of the way. She is in my heart always.
Happy Mother's Day.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Cancer time capsule
While I was battling cancer, my friend Lisa suggested that I keep a journal on CaringBridge, so that friends and family could track my progress, and show their support along the way. I am so happy that I did. The last few weeks, I have found myself revisiting my posts there to see what was happening in my life just one year ago. What's strange is that although I have recalled some of the milestones (surgery to remove the tumor, starting chemo, etc.), I had forgotten how I felt during that time. I have very little memory of how horrible the chemotherapy drugs made me feel--the physical and psychological side effects. And how despite the dark times, I always managed to find the silver lining. Reading those entries is a true testament to the human spirit.
Last year at this time, I had finished my second of six chemotherapy sessions and was struggling through a nasty bout with infected hair follicles on my scalp. I was still working at the museum full time, taking the week of chemo off, and returning to my marketing director duties for two weeks until the next treatment. I was so happy it was spring, and that green was bursting all around me.
A springtime memory from the cancer time capsule...
Monday, April 5, 2010
I am still having trouble sleeping, so I thought I would update my journal.
Easter was lovely. As a child Easter meant getting a new spring dress and coat (that matched my sister's) and going to my Grandma and Grandpa Olsen's house to hang out with my family. We would have ham and all of the fixings. If it was a warm, sunny day like yesterday, we would spend time in the back yard. The adults sipped on iced tea while the kids played. My grandparents had a big wooden double glider swing in their yard. To me, that white painted swing represented summer. It sat four adults comfortably, but up to five or six of my siblings and cousins and I could pile on it and pretend we were on a ship, rocking with the waves at sea, or some other adventure.
This Easter was reminiscent of my childhood. Although I didn't get a new dress and coat, I decided to wear a spring dress, just like old times. The hair on my legs had not fallen out, so I even shaved my legs (well, that was not something I did as a child). I threw my dog Jake in the car, picked up a strawberry pie and I was off to my aunt and uncle's house. As I was driving, all I could think about was how great I felt, how great the sun felt, how happy I was to be over the first hump of chemo side effects, how life was truly amazing. I told myself to remember exactly how I felt at that moment--to bank the memory for the times when I wasn't feeling so great.
When I arrived, my cousins and their young children were in the midst of an Easter egg hunt in the back yard. As I walked through the gate, and heard the laughter and excitement of the kids, I was transported back in time to my grandparent's back yard. All that was missing was the swing.
My aunt made an incredible amount of delicious food! She cooked a ham, green bean casserole, croissant rolls the size of my arm--and my favorite cheesy potatoes. She even channeled my grandma a couple of times, in particular when she was carving the ham and making commentary.
The day also included watching five happy wiener dogs run around the yard (my cousins, aunt and uncle and I all have dachshunds), watching my cousin Amie's husband Scott get pooped on by a passing duck, and listening to my cousin Alisha obsess about the plans she had for transforming my aunt's garden into a grove of various fruits and berries.
It may have been just another Easter to the rest of my family, but to me it was really special. I appreciated it more. I'm not sure why it took cancer to make me appreciate the little things so much, but I know for sure, I will continue to take note of these little things every single day. It was a perfect day!
Last year at this time, I had finished my second of six chemotherapy sessions and was struggling through a nasty bout with infected hair follicles on my scalp. I was still working at the museum full time, taking the week of chemo off, and returning to my marketing director duties for two weeks until the next treatment. I was so happy it was spring, and that green was bursting all around me.
A springtime memory from the cancer time capsule...
Monday, April 5, 2010
I am still having trouble sleeping, so I thought I would update my journal.
Easter was lovely. As a child Easter meant getting a new spring dress and coat (that matched my sister's) and going to my Grandma and Grandpa Olsen's house to hang out with my family. We would have ham and all of the fixings. If it was a warm, sunny day like yesterday, we would spend time in the back yard. The adults sipped on iced tea while the kids played. My grandparents had a big wooden double glider swing in their yard. To me, that white painted swing represented summer. It sat four adults comfortably, but up to five or six of my siblings and cousins and I could pile on it and pretend we were on a ship, rocking with the waves at sea, or some other adventure.
This Easter was reminiscent of my childhood. Although I didn't get a new dress and coat, I decided to wear a spring dress, just like old times. The hair on my legs had not fallen out, so I even shaved my legs (well, that was not something I did as a child). I threw my dog Jake in the car, picked up a strawberry pie and I was off to my aunt and uncle's house. As I was driving, all I could think about was how great I felt, how great the sun felt, how happy I was to be over the first hump of chemo side effects, how life was truly amazing. I told myself to remember exactly how I felt at that moment--to bank the memory for the times when I wasn't feeling so great.
When I arrived, my cousins and their young children were in the midst of an Easter egg hunt in the back yard. As I walked through the gate, and heard the laughter and excitement of the kids, I was transported back in time to my grandparent's back yard. All that was missing was the swing.
My aunt made an incredible amount of delicious food! She cooked a ham, green bean casserole, croissant rolls the size of my arm--and my favorite cheesy potatoes. She even channeled my grandma a couple of times, in particular when she was carving the ham and making commentary.
The day also included watching five happy wiener dogs run around the yard (my cousins, aunt and uncle and I all have dachshunds), watching my cousin Amie's husband Scott get pooped on by a passing duck, and listening to my cousin Alisha obsess about the plans she had for transforming my aunt's garden into a grove of various fruits and berries.
It may have been just another Easter to the rest of my family, but to me it was really special. I appreciated it more. I'm not sure why it took cancer to make me appreciate the little things so much, but I know for sure, I will continue to take note of these little things every single day. It was a perfect day!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Goodbye, Big Pig
On special occasions, we'd all pile in the car and go out for burgers. There wasn't a burger in the Twin Cities that my dad hadn't tried, and he did not discriminate. His favorites included 'Gut Bombs' from White Castle, and cheese-filled Jucy Lucys from Matt's Bar. But his top choice for a good old fashioned hamburger was Porky's Drive-in on University Avenue. It was the 70s, so carhops actually brought platters piled high with burgers, fries, onion rings and shakes, right to the car. I loved how the tray rested on the partially rolled down window, and how my dad would divvy up the food. I would sit in the backseat, munching on the greasy goodness, imaging that Fonzie and the Happy Days gang were going to show up at any moment. I would stare up at the Porky's sign, watching the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, as he winked his neon eye at me from high above the parking lot.
As time went on, and my brothers and sister and I grew older, burger nights were history, and our family outings to Porky's became a thing of the past. My dad's visits there continued, but it became less about food, and more about tradition. He would jump in his 1950 Ford pickup truck, cruise up and down University Avenue, and meet up with his hot rod buddies in the parking lot. They would pop open their hoods, compare parts, and 'shoot the shit' for hours and hours. Almost every time I saw my dad, he had a story to share about something that happened at Porky's. It was such a big part of his life that at his funeral a year and a half ago, dozens of his classic car cohorts came to pay their respects, and share Porky's Drive-in stories with my family.
This past weekend, Porky's closed its doors for good after 53 years. I drove by one last time, and the memories came flooding back. I thought of my many childhood trips there, but mostly I thought of what a special place it was for my dad. I recalled the last time I was there, three years ago. It was a warm summer evening and I had tried numerous times to reach my dad on his cell phone. When he didn't answer after several hours, I began to worry. I called my older brother to find out when he had last spoken to him. He asked if I had checked Porky's. I drove up to the restaurant and didn't see my dad at first. But then I heard his laugh and spotted him at a picnic table with four or five of his friends. There were several empty red plastic burger baskets in front of them. As I got out of the car and approached the table, he didn't think it was at all unusual that I was there. He invited me to join him and the gang. I sat down on the bench and his friends immediately started cracking jokes about my dad. I will always remember that night, how happy he looked, underneath the Porky's sign, with the Big Pig in his top hat and bow tie, winking his neon eye.
Goodbye, Big Pig. Thank you for making my dad smile, and for bringing my family many years of joy. You will be missed.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Big gulps or tiny sips?
My boyfriend Matt and I have known each other for a couple of years, but officially started dating last October. There were a few things that he said and did when I was battling cancer that made me fall for him. The first was after I shaved my head before starting chemo. He made a point of telling me that he thought I was cute bald. Of course, I didn't believe him, but it was nice of him to say so.
As my journey continued, Matt wasn't afraid to actually talk about cancer, or the fact that it affected my reproductive organs. Most of my guy friends disappeared when I went through surgery and chemotherapy. My own brothers left my hospital room when the surgeon said the word ovary. I know many men are wired differently than women when it comes to dealing with illness and death. But Matt had no fear. He asked questions, he checked in on me, he offered to help in any way he could. He'd offer to take me to lunch, or bring me food, but always understood if I wasn't feeling up to it.
In late June, as I was gearing up for my final round of chemo, he sent me a picture of a bike. An avid cyclist, vice president of a mountain bike club, and bicycle shop manager for many years, Matt came in contact with a lot of bikes. So at first I didn't get why he was sending me a random photo. As it turned out, the bike was for me. He made it. If I hadn't been going through chemo and my brain wasn't in a perma-haze, I probably would have figured it out sooner. Matt was not so subtle about asking me bike-related questions. Nonetheless, I was at my aunt and uncle's house when I got the picture message and my cousin Alisha suggested I date Matt. I recall explaining to her that we were just friends, and her matter-of-fact "so what" response.
At summer's end I started to feel good again, and I started to spend more time with Matt. We went out to eat, we went to movies, we went for walks. We talked a lot. We had a lot of deep conversations. During one of our conversations, I shared that I was sad because it seemed that I would never feel like myself again. Matt said the nicest thing. He said he talked to a friend whose wife had been through chemo. He said he knew without a doubt that I would feel healthy and happy and whole again... soon. His words touched my heart. He had talked with someone who had been through a similar journey because he wanted to better understand what I was going through, and to offer his support and love. It overwhelmed me. A few months later we decided we should "date" but looking back, we were sort of dating the whole time. Granted, we never even made it to first base, but we were getting to know each other--really know each other.
Matt and I still have a lot of deep conversations, and the time when we are sharing who we are, and discovering what we might become, is my favorite time together. The other day, we were having a discussion about how I tend to make decisions quickly and act on them, and Matt takes more time to think through things and weigh out all the options, before he makes a decision. I wondered how it would be possible for two people who were so different in this way not to drive each other crazy. Would I become annoyed every time he discouraged me from diving into something without first considering what could go wrong? Would my pushing him to take risks and follow his gut instead of his head always get on his nerves?
Once again, Matt's words touched my heart. He said, "Chris, you take big gulps of life, and I take tiny sips. But that doesn't mean one tastes better than the other." And he was right. Either way--whether you gulp it, or sip it--life is really good.
As my journey continued, Matt wasn't afraid to actually talk about cancer, or the fact that it affected my reproductive organs. Most of my guy friends disappeared when I went through surgery and chemotherapy. My own brothers left my hospital room when the surgeon said the word ovary. I know many men are wired differently than women when it comes to dealing with illness and death. But Matt had no fear. He asked questions, he checked in on me, he offered to help in any way he could. He'd offer to take me to lunch, or bring me food, but always understood if I wasn't feeling up to it.
In late June, as I was gearing up for my final round of chemo, he sent me a picture of a bike. An avid cyclist, vice president of a mountain bike club, and bicycle shop manager for many years, Matt came in contact with a lot of bikes. So at first I didn't get why he was sending me a random photo. As it turned out, the bike was for me. He made it. If I hadn't been going through chemo and my brain wasn't in a perma-haze, I probably would have figured it out sooner. Matt was not so subtle about asking me bike-related questions. Nonetheless, I was at my aunt and uncle's house when I got the picture message and my cousin Alisha suggested I date Matt. I recall explaining to her that we were just friends, and her matter-of-fact "so what" response.
At summer's end I started to feel good again, and I started to spend more time with Matt. We went out to eat, we went to movies, we went for walks. We talked a lot. We had a lot of deep conversations. During one of our conversations, I shared that I was sad because it seemed that I would never feel like myself again. Matt said the nicest thing. He said he talked to a friend whose wife had been through chemo. He said he knew without a doubt that I would feel healthy and happy and whole again... soon. His words touched my heart. He had talked with someone who had been through a similar journey because he wanted to better understand what I was going through, and to offer his support and love. It overwhelmed me. A few months later we decided we should "date" but looking back, we were sort of dating the whole time. Granted, we never even made it to first base, but we were getting to know each other--really know each other.
Matt and I still have a lot of deep conversations, and the time when we are sharing who we are, and discovering what we might become, is my favorite time together. The other day, we were having a discussion about how I tend to make decisions quickly and act on them, and Matt takes more time to think through things and weigh out all the options, before he makes a decision. I wondered how it would be possible for two people who were so different in this way not to drive each other crazy. Would I become annoyed every time he discouraged me from diving into something without first considering what could go wrong? Would my pushing him to take risks and follow his gut instead of his head always get on his nerves?
Once again, Matt's words touched my heart. He said, "Chris, you take big gulps of life, and I take tiny sips. But that doesn't mean one tastes better than the other." And he was right. Either way--whether you gulp it, or sip it--life is really good.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Hair!
Hair is a blessing and a curse. Especially for women. Also maybe for men who have balding heads along with bodies covered in fur like Silverbacks. I never realized how much I loved my hair until I went through six sessions of chemotherapy and it all fell out. And I never realized how much I hated it until I began experiencing the 'growing back' stages that followed my final treatment.
After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ. I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo. Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed. Seriously. They didn't want my hair. What woman is sporting her natural hair color? I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky. I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time. I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?
I purchased a wig before I shaved my head. It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob. Classic yet sassy. I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed. Steroid folliculitis. Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head. It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.
You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end. By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair. At first I loved it. I was so happy it was back. It was so low maintenance. Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk. I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy. I decided a 'brightening up' might help. I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist. I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet. Sexy.
My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way. She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began. She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head. But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.
This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day. Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace. My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back. But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification. As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me. I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were. I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen. I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.
Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great. It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume. I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s. Only blond. And maybe less glamorous. But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it. Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again. Well, maybe not 'normal.' Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.
After my cancer diagnosis and surgery I took on my impending drug-induced hair loss like a champ. I cut off my 10+ inches and donated it to Locks of Love before I even started chemo. Only LOL wouldn't take it because it had been processed. Seriously. They didn't want my hair. What woman is sporting her natural hair color? I couldn't help but wonder how many more wigs the LOL people could make for kids with cancer if they weren't so picky. I got compliments on my faux golden locks all the time. I mean really, what kid wouldn't want a full head of beautiful blond hair complete with dark roots?
I purchased a wig before I shaved my head. It was a pretty good one and looked a lot like it was my real hair if my real hair had ever been a dark brown inverted bob. Classic yet sassy. I stopped wearing it after a few weeks when I developed a rash on my tender bald scalp from all the steroids I was prescribed. Steroid folliculitis. Ahh, what wonderful memories I have of playing Scrabble with my cousin Alisha and a bag of frozen corn niblets on my head. It was then that I switched to hats and never looked back.
You can imagine how happy I was when I started to sprout peach fuzz at summer's end. By mid-December I had a full head of half-inch dark blond hair. At first I loved it. I was so happy it was back. It was so low maintenance. Every morning I'd step out of the shower, give it a shake, and it somehow dried itself into a mini faux hawk. I soon realized it was a great look for David Beckham or a six foot tall super model, but I was being mistaken for a 12 year old boy. I decided a 'brightening up' might help. I ended up with a bleach and tone at the hands of my well intentioned but somewhat careless stylist. I still looked like a pre-pubescent male--just a weird one with a baby chick yellow mullet. Sexy.
My favorite aunt, an old school cosmetologist, helped me manage my hair dilemmas every step of the way. She presented me with a kick ass leather Harley Davidson cap when my treatment began. She spent our hours together at the cancer clinic crocheting custom beanies for my bald head. But most importantly, the woman who gave me a bubblecut on the front porch when I was a little kid, modified my bi-level disaster into a thing of beauty.
This past weekend I decided it was time to splurge and treat myself to a salon day. Although my hair was growing quickly, all areas were not growing at the same pace. My sideburns were having trouble keeping up with the top and back. But it was finally long enough for foils, and I was eager for low lights and another mullet modification. As I sat in the stylist's chair, I realized it had been over a year since I had the full salon experience--putting on a gown, sipping on sparkling water, paging through gossip magazines, eavesdropping on the stylist/girl chat going on around me. I had forgotten how wonderful the head and neck massage were. I had forgotten how long it took to go through this beauty regimen. I had forgotten how important it was to do nice things for myself.
Two and a half hours and $280 later, I had a fabulous new color and a cut I was pretty sure was great. It was just difficult to see its exact potential because the French-speaking stylist misunderstood when I said NO volume. I felt like Liz Taylor in the 80s. Only blond. And maybe less glamorous. But in the end, my day of pampering was well worth it. Because you can't put a price tag on feeling normal again. Well, maybe not 'normal.' Maybe just the way I felt before cancer.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Guilty pleasure
I was raised on television. My parents never restricted my viewing time and I watched whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. My TV addiction continued as an adult. Reality shows were my guilty pleasure. I loved watching weekend marathons of MTV's Real World, Road Rules and Making The Band. But something happened a few years back when I got rid of my clunky big screen. I found other things to do with my time, other simple pleasures--reading, writing, cooking, walking my dogs, spending time with friends. When I finally purchased a TV again, I didn't want to get hooked, so I decided not to get cable or satellite. I would only watch the movies that I had missed in the theater and past seasons of my favorite shows on DVD--Lost, Weeds, Entourage, Dexter. Oh, and occasionally an episode or two of Dancing With The Stars with my friend Nicole. But that was it. Really. I had no idea what shows aired when.
Things started to change a year ago after I had major surgery for ovarian cancer. I was laid up for quite a while. During my recovery my girlfriends Nicole and Austine would come over, they'd help me take care of things around the house, we'd have food delivered and then we would hang out, eat and watch television. Boy, was I thankful for my TV! Once I started chemotherapy, our viewing nights continued and evolved into a Monday night tradition that we now call Girls' Night.
Even though chemo is a distant memory and I have fully recovered, Girls' Night is still my favorite time of the week. I cook dinner and my friends and I settle in and chit chat about whatever comes to mind. We talk about men, we talk about work, we talk about each other. As soon as the clock strikes 7, we stop talking and get completely caught up in our current guilty pleasure--The Bachelor. OK, so it's not really reality, and the premise of the show is ridiculous. But my friends and I can't get enough of it.
Monday night was the season finale, and hot 38 year old bachelor Brad Womack was forced to choose from two beautiful women. I guessed he would propose to Emily, the sweet 24 year old blond single mom who lost her fiance in a plane wreck before she knew she was pregnant with his daughter. From around episode three, every time Brad was around this woman, he could barely speak. It was clear to me that he was smitten with her. I was so sure she would win, I bet a coworker a sandwich.
The other finalist was Chantal, a 28 year old divorcee, who was fun and sassy. She slapped him in the face during the season premier (coached by the producers, I'm sure). She was the opposite of Emily in every way. Brad and Chantal's dates were amazing--everything from zip-lining through the jungles of Costa Rica to swimming with sharks in South Africa. It would have been difficult for them NOT to have a good time together, given the activities they shared.
In the end, he did indeed propose to Emily, and my friends and I were pleased. That was until we watched 'After The Final Rose'--the show that featured Bachelor Brad and his bride-to-be reunited in public for the first time since the taping of the final episode. Suddenly the woman who seemed so confident, poised and unshaken by any of her former competition was insecure and whiny. Apparently she had not considered the possibility that her fiance had shown other women his affection when he wasn't stuttering and stammering his way through picnics and walks on the beach with her. Even though she signed up to be on a game show for a chance to win a husband, somehow the fact that the other women were there for the same reason slipped her mind. And I guess as she watched the show every Monday night, and what really went down, her feelings were hurt. So much so that she called off the engagement more than once.
I have to say, I felt a little sorry for Brad as he continued to ogle this chick and rub her finger sans engagement ring while she went on about how he hadn't gotten anything right. She was completely hung up on how if she was really 'the one' from the moment they met he would not have given anyone else the time of day. He was completely hung up on her. He couldn't change what had happened, and she was not going to let it go. She eventually announced that they were still engaged, but my friends and I weren't buying it. Poor Brad. The bottom line was that it was a competition, and he treated it as such, taking advantage of the time he shared with all of the women. He did his best to get to know them and decide who he thought was right for him. He did what he thought he was supposed to do. He selected a woman with whom he was most compatible and shared many common interests. A woman he connected with intellectually and spiritually. A woman that shared his priorities, values and goals. Oh wait, that's not how it works on The Bachelor. All that couldn't possibly be squeezed into 10 episodes. The truth is, Brad Womack did what any man who was nearly 40 and finally ready to settle down might do. He chose a Southern Belle who was 14 years his junior and looked like a real-life Barbie.
Good luck, Brad. We'll miss you on Monday nights.
Things started to change a year ago after I had major surgery for ovarian cancer. I was laid up for quite a while. During my recovery my girlfriends Nicole and Austine would come over, they'd help me take care of things around the house, we'd have food delivered and then we would hang out, eat and watch television. Boy, was I thankful for my TV! Once I started chemotherapy, our viewing nights continued and evolved into a Monday night tradition that we now call Girls' Night.
Even though chemo is a distant memory and I have fully recovered, Girls' Night is still my favorite time of the week. I cook dinner and my friends and I settle in and chit chat about whatever comes to mind. We talk about men, we talk about work, we talk about each other. As soon as the clock strikes 7, we stop talking and get completely caught up in our current guilty pleasure--The Bachelor. OK, so it's not really reality, and the premise of the show is ridiculous. But my friends and I can't get enough of it.
Monday night was the season finale, and hot 38 year old bachelor Brad Womack was forced to choose from two beautiful women. I guessed he would propose to Emily, the sweet 24 year old blond single mom who lost her fiance in a plane wreck before she knew she was pregnant with his daughter. From around episode three, every time Brad was around this woman, he could barely speak. It was clear to me that he was smitten with her. I was so sure she would win, I bet a coworker a sandwich.
The other finalist was Chantal, a 28 year old divorcee, who was fun and sassy. She slapped him in the face during the season premier (coached by the producers, I'm sure). She was the opposite of Emily in every way. Brad and Chantal's dates were amazing--everything from zip-lining through the jungles of Costa Rica to swimming with sharks in South Africa. It would have been difficult for them NOT to have a good time together, given the activities they shared.
In the end, he did indeed propose to Emily, and my friends and I were pleased. That was until we watched 'After The Final Rose'--the show that featured Bachelor Brad and his bride-to-be reunited in public for the first time since the taping of the final episode. Suddenly the woman who seemed so confident, poised and unshaken by any of her former competition was insecure and whiny. Apparently she had not considered the possibility that her fiance had shown other women his affection when he wasn't stuttering and stammering his way through picnics and walks on the beach with her. Even though she signed up to be on a game show for a chance to win a husband, somehow the fact that the other women were there for the same reason slipped her mind. And I guess as she watched the show every Monday night, and what really went down, her feelings were hurt. So much so that she called off the engagement more than once.
I have to say, I felt a little sorry for Brad as he continued to ogle this chick and rub her finger sans engagement ring while she went on about how he hadn't gotten anything right. She was completely hung up on how if she was really 'the one' from the moment they met he would not have given anyone else the time of day. He was completely hung up on her. He couldn't change what had happened, and she was not going to let it go. She eventually announced that they were still engaged, but my friends and I weren't buying it. Poor Brad. The bottom line was that it was a competition, and he treated it as such, taking advantage of the time he shared with all of the women. He did his best to get to know them and decide who he thought was right for him. He did what he thought he was supposed to do. He selected a woman with whom he was most compatible and shared many common interests. A woman he connected with intellectually and spiritually. A woman that shared his priorities, values and goals. Oh wait, that's not how it works on The Bachelor. All that couldn't possibly be squeezed into 10 episodes. The truth is, Brad Womack did what any man who was nearly 40 and finally ready to settle down might do. He chose a Southern Belle who was 14 years his junior and looked like a real-life Barbie.
Good luck, Brad. We'll miss you on Monday nights.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Candy coated crack
I was never a fan of plain M&Ms. I never craved a plain M&M. I never purchased a package at the store or at the movies. I never rummaged through the Easter or Halloween candy belonging to the children of friends or relatives hoping to score a 'fun size' pack of plain M&Ms. Peanut or pretzel M&Ms? Different story. I've got a thing for the salty sweet combo. But plain M&Ms? I just never thought they had that much to offer.
At the museum where I work, a tradition of having an endless supply of plain M&Ms available for staff was started a few years back by a teacher-in-residence. This particular educator was a bit of a pack rat and brought in random stuff that he collected during his off time to 'share' with the rest of us. For example, one day he showed up with a few dozen hard plastic Pillsbury Doughboy dolls and gave them to everyone on staff. Why he thought we would all like a personal Doughboy that didn't even giggle "Hoo-hoo!" when its belly was rubbed was beyond me. Anyway, the M&M tradition began when this teacher brought in one of his yard sale finds--a dispenser in the shape of a couple of M&M guys. He placed it on his desk, filled it with plain M&Ms and announced that he and future teachers-in-residence were responsible for keeping it filled.
People were drawn to to the dispenser. Every day, at least a dozen times a day, someone would walk by, press the lever and take a handful of M&Ms. At first the noise was annoying. There were many interesting responses to the dispensing of the candy. Some people acted surprised when candy came out. "Oh! There are M&Ms in here!" Others did not want to call attention to their candy consumption and attempted to dispense quietly. When that didn't work they seemed almost irritated and would say things like, "Wow, that's way too many... does anyone want some of these?" The best reaction was always from the people who acted as if they had hit the jackpot on a Vegas slot machine. "Woo hoo! M&Ms!!!"
During the first year of the dispenser, I rarely indulged. But the following year brought a new teacher-in-residence and a second dispenser--one that was filled with peanut M&Ms. I helped myself to this candy once or twice a day. I have to admit, it was addicting. And not just for me. Many of my co-workers loved the peanut M&Ms as well. And occasionally there were peanut butter or dark chocolate M&Ms. The fancy flavors always went quickly. It got to the point where the dispensers were no longer being used and people were just digging their hands into the super size bags of candy that were kept on a shelf nearby. Honestly, I don't recall who started this. It may have been me. All I know is that the germaphobes in the office were freaking out and my clothes were getting tighter by the minute. I had to do a self-intervention. I quit cold turkey.
I was M&M free for over a year. And then something happened a couple of months ago. I was having a bad day and as I walked by the teacher-in-residence desk, I took a handful of plain M&Ms from a bag on the shelf above the dispenser. There were none of the peanut variety, otherwise I surely would have selected those instead. At first I was dissatisfied and wondered why I bothered eating candy I didn't even like. But then the sugar rush hit me. My mood improved. I was bubbly and happy and started making noise in our otherwise mostly quiet office--thinking out loud, singing whatever song popped into my head, sharing celebrity gossip, cracking jokes. The M&Ms brought me joy. So much so that almost every time I walked by the bag, I grabbed a handful.
A month or so ago I had one of my regularly scheduled visits to the oncologist. He shared the results of my quarterly CT scan and blood work--still cancer-free! My incisions had healed well and all my vitals were outstanding. There was just one issue. Weight gain. I knew it was coming and at first I blamed cancer. It was the heavy duty steroids administered before each chemotherapy treatment that helped fuel a 15 pound weigh gain over the summer. But that was more than seven months ago and there was no longer a trace of steroids anywhere in my system. I thought about how my eating habits had changed. It was true, I was indulging in some M&Ms, but I questioned how a couple of handfuls of candy a day could lead to such a fast and significant increase in weight. So I conducted an experiment. I put three of my 'handfuls' of M&Ms into a measuring cup and calculated the calories. I practically fainted when I realized I had been eating around 400 calories a day in M&Ms! An additional 2,000 calories a week! It was at that point that I had to be honest with myself and admit that I was packing on the pounds because of my candy coated crack addiction.
It's amazing how you can mindlessly pick up such a bad habit and not completely grasp what you are doing to your body. And how when faced with reality, it is still so easy to deny it. Thankfully, I have entered into a treatment program for sugar addicts and I am happy to say that I am once again M&M free.
At the museum where I work, a tradition of having an endless supply of plain M&Ms available for staff was started a few years back by a teacher-in-residence. This particular educator was a bit of a pack rat and brought in random stuff that he collected during his off time to 'share' with the rest of us. For example, one day he showed up with a few dozen hard plastic Pillsbury Doughboy dolls and gave them to everyone on staff. Why he thought we would all like a personal Doughboy that didn't even giggle "Hoo-hoo!" when its belly was rubbed was beyond me. Anyway, the M&M tradition began when this teacher brought in one of his yard sale finds--a dispenser in the shape of a couple of M&M guys. He placed it on his desk, filled it with plain M&Ms and announced that he and future teachers-in-residence were responsible for keeping it filled.
People were drawn to to the dispenser. Every day, at least a dozen times a day, someone would walk by, press the lever and take a handful of M&Ms. At first the noise was annoying. There were many interesting responses to the dispensing of the candy. Some people acted surprised when candy came out. "Oh! There are M&Ms in here!" Others did not want to call attention to their candy consumption and attempted to dispense quietly. When that didn't work they seemed almost irritated and would say things like, "Wow, that's way too many... does anyone want some of these?" The best reaction was always from the people who acted as if they had hit the jackpot on a Vegas slot machine. "Woo hoo! M&Ms!!!"
During the first year of the dispenser, I rarely indulged. But the following year brought a new teacher-in-residence and a second dispenser--one that was filled with peanut M&Ms. I helped myself to this candy once or twice a day. I have to admit, it was addicting. And not just for me. Many of my co-workers loved the peanut M&Ms as well. And occasionally there were peanut butter or dark chocolate M&Ms. The fancy flavors always went quickly. It got to the point where the dispensers were no longer being used and people were just digging their hands into the super size bags of candy that were kept on a shelf nearby. Honestly, I don't recall who started this. It may have been me. All I know is that the germaphobes in the office were freaking out and my clothes were getting tighter by the minute. I had to do a self-intervention. I quit cold turkey.
I was M&M free for over a year. And then something happened a couple of months ago. I was having a bad day and as I walked by the teacher-in-residence desk, I took a handful of plain M&Ms from a bag on the shelf above the dispenser. There were none of the peanut variety, otherwise I surely would have selected those instead. At first I was dissatisfied and wondered why I bothered eating candy I didn't even like. But then the sugar rush hit me. My mood improved. I was bubbly and happy and started making noise in our otherwise mostly quiet office--thinking out loud, singing whatever song popped into my head, sharing celebrity gossip, cracking jokes. The M&Ms brought me joy. So much so that almost every time I walked by the bag, I grabbed a handful.
A month or so ago I had one of my regularly scheduled visits to the oncologist. He shared the results of my quarterly CT scan and blood work--still cancer-free! My incisions had healed well and all my vitals were outstanding. There was just one issue. Weight gain. I knew it was coming and at first I blamed cancer. It was the heavy duty steroids administered before each chemotherapy treatment that helped fuel a 15 pound weigh gain over the summer. But that was more than seven months ago and there was no longer a trace of steroids anywhere in my system. I thought about how my eating habits had changed. It was true, I was indulging in some M&Ms, but I questioned how a couple of handfuls of candy a day could lead to such a fast and significant increase in weight. So I conducted an experiment. I put three of my 'handfuls' of M&Ms into a measuring cup and calculated the calories. I practically fainted when I realized I had been eating around 400 calories a day in M&Ms! An additional 2,000 calories a week! It was at that point that I had to be honest with myself and admit that I was packing on the pounds because of my candy coated crack addiction.
It's amazing how you can mindlessly pick up such a bad habit and not completely grasp what you are doing to your body. And how when faced with reality, it is still so easy to deny it. Thankfully, I have entered into a treatment program for sugar addicts and I am happy to say that I am once again M&M free.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
There's a hole in my heart
I got my dog Jake when he was eight weeks old. He fit in the palm of my hand. A short-haired red mini Dachshund, his disposition was sweet and mellow from the start. I was told by the breeder that he wouldn't weigh more than 12 pounds but he quickly grew to around 15. He wasn't fat, just solid. I didn't care if he was too heavy to be registered in the "mini" class at a dog show. Although he supposedly came from a proud bloodline, he was no show dog. He loved to wrestle with other dogs, he rooted around in the dirt, chased after squirrels and chewed the squeaker out of every toy he encountered in less than five minutes.
He loved to go for car rides and walks. We would walk for miles and miles and his little 3-inch long legs rarely got tired. It was during a 5K charity walk that an apparent dog expert approached us with two small Dachshunds and commented that he hadn't seen many of the full-sized variety. "Oh, he's a miniature," I said. The man scoffed at me and looked at Jake like he was a mutant. "He's much too big to be a mini!" I didn't know dog classifications were such serious business. "Don't listen to him," I told Jake and we headed in the opposite direction of the man with his two perfect 8 pound wieners.
I often thought Jake was one of my childhood dogs reincarnated--a big black Labrador Retriever named Zeke. Jake was like Zeke in many ways. Both had big brown soulful eyes and very expressive eyebrows. When they stared at you it felt like they knew exactly what you were thinking. Both loved the outdoors. In the summertime, Jake would stay in the back yard all day if he could. He always found a sunny spot in the grass where he would sleep for hours. Both lived through their noses and if allowed to set the pace of a walk, Jake would likely only make it a few blocks with his face to the ground the entire time. Both were intensely loyal. Given the opportunity to escape a fenced-in yard on many occasions, Jake chose to stay where he was most familiar.
He was my first dog, my best friend, my trusty companion. He was by my side through everything--the ups, the downs, the zigs and zags. Everything life brought my way. He loved me unconditionally for nearly 14 years. I adored him. Today, after several weeks of contemplation, I put Jake down. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done.
My fondest memories of Jake...
As a tiny puppy, just a few months old, he was left out of his crate while I was at work and chewed the arm off a chair almost completely.
He was obsessed with toilet paper as a puppy, and if he could reach it, would undo an entire roll and sleep in a nest of it on the bathroom floor.
His smile was crooked because he only had three canine teeth--the forth never came in when he lost his milk teeth.
He never barked or wagged his tail until he was a year old. He scared himself and jumped when he first heard the sound of his own voice. As a pup, his version of tail wagging was wiggling his entire body, hoping his tail would follow.
He loved buttons and chewed them off numerous comforter covers, pillows, shirts and cardigans whenever he got the chance.
Like most Dachshunds he loved to burrow under blankets and pillows, and could often be found asleep under his dog bed instead of on top of it.
He hated wearing doggy clothing. Whenever I tried to dress him in a winter coat, he would convulse and wiggle like he was possessed until he made his way out of it.
He was a small dog who loved big dogs. He thought big dogs wanted to play with him and whenever he saw a big dog, any big dog, he would let out a little grunt, wag his tail and get really excited. If the dog wasn't interested, he would just stare it down, wagging his tail happily, hoping to get some play time.
He was almost always mellow but when he wanted attention he became very intense and would nudge your arm or shin repeatedly with his powerful little nose.
He never whined to go outside, he never whined for food, he only whined when his water dish was empty.
His favorite place to sleep was squeezed between my hip and the arm of the sofa or chair. Even if there wasn't enough room to accommodate him. His second favorite place to sleep was on my side whenever I laid on the sofa.
After a bath he would roll and wiggle around on the floor like a bug on its back for what seemed like hours until his fur was almost completely dried.
He loved popcorn. As it was popping he would just stare up at the microwave wagging his tail.
Every day, for most of his life, he would dance in circles the first time he saw me each morning or when I came home after being gone a while. He was always happy to see me.
I will miss him every day.
He loved to go for car rides and walks. We would walk for miles and miles and his little 3-inch long legs rarely got tired. It was during a 5K charity walk that an apparent dog expert approached us with two small Dachshunds and commented that he hadn't seen many of the full-sized variety. "Oh, he's a miniature," I said. The man scoffed at me and looked at Jake like he was a mutant. "He's much too big to be a mini!" I didn't know dog classifications were such serious business. "Don't listen to him," I told Jake and we headed in the opposite direction of the man with his two perfect 8 pound wieners.
I often thought Jake was one of my childhood dogs reincarnated--a big black Labrador Retriever named Zeke. Jake was like Zeke in many ways. Both had big brown soulful eyes and very expressive eyebrows. When they stared at you it felt like they knew exactly what you were thinking. Both loved the outdoors. In the summertime, Jake would stay in the back yard all day if he could. He always found a sunny spot in the grass where he would sleep for hours. Both lived through their noses and if allowed to set the pace of a walk, Jake would likely only make it a few blocks with his face to the ground the entire time. Both were intensely loyal. Given the opportunity to escape a fenced-in yard on many occasions, Jake chose to stay where he was most familiar.
He was my first dog, my best friend, my trusty companion. He was by my side through everything--the ups, the downs, the zigs and zags. Everything life brought my way. He loved me unconditionally for nearly 14 years. I adored him. Today, after several weeks of contemplation, I put Jake down. It was the most difficult thing I have ever done.
My fondest memories of Jake...
As a tiny puppy, just a few months old, he was left out of his crate while I was at work and chewed the arm off a chair almost completely.
He was obsessed with toilet paper as a puppy, and if he could reach it, would undo an entire roll and sleep in a nest of it on the bathroom floor.
His smile was crooked because he only had three canine teeth--the forth never came in when he lost his milk teeth.
He never barked or wagged his tail until he was a year old. He scared himself and jumped when he first heard the sound of his own voice. As a pup, his version of tail wagging was wiggling his entire body, hoping his tail would follow.
He loved buttons and chewed them off numerous comforter covers, pillows, shirts and cardigans whenever he got the chance.
Like most Dachshunds he loved to burrow under blankets and pillows, and could often be found asleep under his dog bed instead of on top of it.
He hated wearing doggy clothing. Whenever I tried to dress him in a winter coat, he would convulse and wiggle like he was possessed until he made his way out of it.
He was a small dog who loved big dogs. He thought big dogs wanted to play with him and whenever he saw a big dog, any big dog, he would let out a little grunt, wag his tail and get really excited. If the dog wasn't interested, he would just stare it down, wagging his tail happily, hoping to get some play time.
He was almost always mellow but when he wanted attention he became very intense and would nudge your arm or shin repeatedly with his powerful little nose.
He never whined to go outside, he never whined for food, he only whined when his water dish was empty.
His favorite place to sleep was squeezed between my hip and the arm of the sofa or chair. Even if there wasn't enough room to accommodate him. His second favorite place to sleep was on my side whenever I laid on the sofa.
After a bath he would roll and wiggle around on the floor like a bug on its back for what seemed like hours until his fur was almost completely dried.
He loved popcorn. As it was popping he would just stare up at the microwave wagging his tail.
Every day, for most of his life, he would dance in circles the first time he saw me each morning or when I came home after being gone a while. He was always happy to see me.
I will miss him every day.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Where do I begin?
My first blog. Sort of. I kept a journal on CaringBridge for about 10 months--the story of my battle with ovarian cancer. I am now cancer-free and while it was very therapeutic to share my journey with friends and family, it was time to move on from CaringBridge. Something really great came of it though. I rediscovered how much I loved to write. And my followers encouraged me to keep writing. Some have even said I should write a book. Baby steps.
So where do I begin? With a story about the person who gave me the nickname Cricket. My dad.
It's been a little over a year since my dad passed away. He had lung cancer from around 50 years of smoking cigarettes. He had stopped several years earlier, but there was already a large mass in his lungs. It wasn't discovered until it was too late. Partly because my dad was tough as nails. He drank his coffee black and a lot of it. He rarely wore a winter coat during freezing Minnesota winters. And he never missed work. In fact, I only have a couple of memories of him being ill, but even then he didn't take a day off.
I'm not sure why it was a surprise that we didn't know he was sick. He wasn't a complainer. But it was quite a shock when he was admitted to the hospital for tests and we were told he was in renal failure. His body was already shutting down. The doctor pulled my older brother and I out of the room and told us to "start making plans." Plans for what, I remember thinking. He died three days later.
My dad was smart, funny, quick-witted, sharp-tongued, someone who didn’t mince words. A man who was respected by his friends, co-workers, neighbors. He was a man who often lent a hand, or offered advice. He may have acted like a tough guy, but he was a softy deep down. When I was a little girl, he could get me to smile by singing to me. While he was in the hospital, during a quiet time with just the two of us, we were interrupted by a nurse who came in to take his vitals. After getting a low blood pressure reading, she asked him to sit up straight and sing a song while she took a second reading. The song he sang was, 'Say Say Oh Playmate'--a song I had long since forgotten, but that guaranteed no more tears when I was small.
I was legally named Christine by my mom, but nicknamed Cricket by my dad when I was around a year old. I never asked how I got the nickname, I just assumed there was a sweet moment when he looked at his cooing baby girl and decided she sounded like a chirping insect. Or perhaps he saw how enamored I was with Jiminy Cricket, the cartoon host of Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday evenings. In my early thirties I finally asked him to share his inspiration for the name and all he said was, "I guess 'cause it sounds like Chris." A typical response from my dad--no sugar-coating. "Are you sure it wasn't because I made cute little noises like a cricket when I was a baby?" I asked. He paused and said, "No, you were a quiet baby. You never made much noise."
As I lamented about what to call my blog, I settled on 'Cricket Chirps' because, well, while I may not have made much noise as a baby, I have a lot to say now. In loving memory of my dad.
So where do I begin? With a story about the person who gave me the nickname Cricket. My dad.
It's been a little over a year since my dad passed away. He had lung cancer from around 50 years of smoking cigarettes. He had stopped several years earlier, but there was already a large mass in his lungs. It wasn't discovered until it was too late. Partly because my dad was tough as nails. He drank his coffee black and a lot of it. He rarely wore a winter coat during freezing Minnesota winters. And he never missed work. In fact, I only have a couple of memories of him being ill, but even then he didn't take a day off.
I'm not sure why it was a surprise that we didn't know he was sick. He wasn't a complainer. But it was quite a shock when he was admitted to the hospital for tests and we were told he was in renal failure. His body was already shutting down. The doctor pulled my older brother and I out of the room and told us to "start making plans." Plans for what, I remember thinking. He died three days later.
My dad was smart, funny, quick-witted, sharp-tongued, someone who didn’t mince words. A man who was respected by his friends, co-workers, neighbors. He was a man who often lent a hand, or offered advice. He may have acted like a tough guy, but he was a softy deep down. When I was a little girl, he could get me to smile by singing to me. While he was in the hospital, during a quiet time with just the two of us, we were interrupted by a nurse who came in to take his vitals. After getting a low blood pressure reading, she asked him to sit up straight and sing a song while she took a second reading. The song he sang was, 'Say Say Oh Playmate'--a song I had long since forgotten, but that guaranteed no more tears when I was small.
I was legally named Christine by my mom, but nicknamed Cricket by my dad when I was around a year old. I never asked how I got the nickname, I just assumed there was a sweet moment when he looked at his cooing baby girl and decided she sounded like a chirping insect. Or perhaps he saw how enamored I was with Jiminy Cricket, the cartoon host of Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday evenings. In my early thirties I finally asked him to share his inspiration for the name and all he said was, "I guess 'cause it sounds like Chris." A typical response from my dad--no sugar-coating. "Are you sure it wasn't because I made cute little noises like a cricket when I was a baby?" I asked. He paused and said, "No, you were a quiet baby. You never made much noise."
As I lamented about what to call my blog, I settled on 'Cricket Chirps' because, well, while I may not have made much noise as a baby, I have a lot to say now. In loving memory of my dad.
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