Down the Ladder of Success

Inspirational song: Unlove You (Jennifer Nettles)

Not sure I have a whole lot to write about today. Things are happening behind the scenes, not all of them fun. My past successes are proving to be fleeting. I spent today climbing back down the ladder, so to speak. I'm still learning things, it's just that those things include how to undo what I put together. I'll survive the lessons. I just don't feel like talking much on a day like this.

Regarding tonight's photos, a couple are leftovers from being on the CU campus yesterday (turtles and irises at Varsity Pond), a couple are of the truffula-tree themed flowers planted in the Unless circle (and it happens that there are six different dahlias planted there, one for each letter in the word Unless), and the last couple are of the dogs and cats bonding (staring at squirrels and rolling belly-up in the sun). 

Forgive me my rotten moods. All will be revealed soon, I promise.

Be Boulder

Inspirational song: Heroes (David Bowie)

Every Memorial Day, I have tried very hard to use my words just so, to express all that I feel about those who serve or have served our country mean to me. It's very difficult to put something so powerful in just a few short paragraphs. It's especially difficult to write it in such a way that didn't scream "I've spent most of my life in military families." I think it's okay now to stop hiding behind vague language and metaphors. That phase of my life has altered somewhat. I don't have to keep that secret anymore. I always get very choked up at Memorial Day, knowing it was just a quirk of fate that kept those I loved most in the world coming home from deployments and TDYs safe and whole. Not every military child and spouse was so lucky as I, and my heart aches for them. Not every service member came home with all of his or her friends, and I know by watching how it affects them every single day. They do not forget. They never will be able to. There is little I can do to ease their pain, other than understand and accept that it is legitimate, beyond my reach to help, and deserving of my eternal respect. Memorial Day offers a chance for us to pay tribute to those who did not make it home, and I do so by recognizing those who feel their absence most keenly.

I moved to Boulder the first time in 1985. In all the years I lived there, and in all the years I've been going back, I have never once gotten within spitting distance of the annual 10k race, the Bolder Boulder. This event draws tens of thousands of athletes from around the world, many of them elite runners, but most just people looking for a good time in the mountain air. This year I expected maybe to watch it on television, from my couch in my cool basement, miles away. But on Saturday, Mr S-P announced that he had gone and signed up for it, even though he had done nothing to train. Okay, then I guess I'll go along and take pictures, I said. I didn't know what I was in for. We parked well away from the starting line, at our daughter's condo, and we walked down to the gaggle of runners near where the new Google campus is being constructed. I waited until he started running, while wave after wave of participants stepped out. I saw hundreds of people in tutus, a couple kids dressed in balloons like bunches of grapes, superheroes, Waldos, a left shark, military folks, college athletes (including Chip the CU mascot running in costume), old people, young people, disabled people, and healthy people. More people wore American flag regalia than I expected, although I really should have. Many people were offered secondary bibs to wear on their backs, on which they wrote the names (and in some cases photos) of whom they wanted to honor on this Memorial Day event. The Mr wrote the name of one of his colleagues who was killed in Afghanistan in 2012, whose funeral we had attended at Arlington Cemetery four years ago.

As we walked to the starting line, Mr S-P had a severe stitch in his side. Right before his wave of runners lined up, he discovered that he was suffering from a kidney stone. But he was already there, already committed to running, so he did it. He set off, and discovered that running eased the pain somewhat. Maybe it moved it farther along, as it had to do. He took the course at what he considered an easy pace, so he could enjoy the sights and sounds, take pictures, and have a good time. As it was, I barely made it to the finish line before he was entering the stadium, and I took a phone call from our daughter right as he was running around the final loop of the track. I missed getting his picture. Dammit. Our daughter picked us up from the far west side of CU (the finish line had been in the stadium, as usual), and by the time we got home, my step counter in my phone announced that I had walked exactly 6 miles. For someone who didn't think she could possibly participate in the race, I ended up going almost the entire distance on foot, in the sun (with sunscreen, long sleeves, and a giant floppy hat). I didn't handle it with quite the good grace of the man who ran a 1:06 race with a kidney stone, but I didn't have a total breakdown or lose my temper in the heat. I call that a victory. Our daughter suggested that next year she and I should plan on walking the actual race. I have to admit I'm tempted. Let's see how the next year goes. I won't match Mr S-P's time, but if I complete the whole thing, it will be something to be proud of.

Unless

Inspirational song: Jar of Hearts (Christina Perri)

Growing up, in completely different situations in different parts of the country, Mr S-P and I both seemed to consider The Lorax our favorite Dr Seuss book. If you've read even a single other essay in this blog, you know how it affected both of us. There isn't a place we have lived that we haven't planted something in the ground, one way or another. We've invested in trees that we left behind in rental properties. We refer to plant nurseries and outdoor sections of big box stores as "Danger Zones." We looked at the wide expanses of freshly-placed sod in Park West as a blank canvas. And we have been racing against the clock to transform the front corner of the yard into a brightly-colored flowerbed-cum-privacy screen. Granted, most of my effort has been purchasing plants and pointing at where they go. But several times now I have participated in the dirt clod removal from the clumps of grass (mostly crabgrass) that is being removed in favor of all the flowers. Yesterday and today we spent time on the central focal point of the bed. We have new watermelon-sized rocks collected from recent cross-country travels, and buckets full of smaller rocks we saved over the years. There are even some from the rural vacation property my grandparents had in Oklahoma. There is now a big ring of boulders in the center of the bed. It's filled in with reclaimed dirt, and we will plant a few feature plants up on it. As the last third of the rocks went into place, I looked at it and said one word. "Unless." The man totally knew what I meant. It's the key point to the Lorax. "Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, it's not going to get better. It's not." I might come up with a sign of some sort, either painted or carved wood, and put that word there. It might be my new slogan.

I'm still in limbo. I have to sit and wait for other people to make decisions on their own schedules. So I took the day to try to heal a little. The first night of melatonin last night didn't do me much good. It took until 1 am to fall asleep, and I was mostly done with it by 5. Maybe it's like all the other things I take, and it doesn't really do you much good until it's built up in your system a bit. Whatever it takes. I will sit and enjoy my flowers while I don't have the power. And I'll enjoy them again later, when I do.

All I Had Left

Inspirational song: When the World Is Running Down, You Make the Best of What's Still Around (The Police)

QOTD: "It's all I've got left. Don't take this away from me." -Anne

I'm trying to make do. I really am. I'm having a crappy weekend, and I am struggling to maintain the few pieces of sanity I have left. I thought it might be nice to grill hamburgers, since it is one of those holiday weekends when such things are done. I asked for Against the Grain rolls to use as hamburger buns, and got ridiculed for the fact that they aren't a traditional bread product. I said, look, this is all I've got left. Don't take this away from me. When you haven't gotten to eat a "hamburger" in years, you work with whatever "bun" you can eat and still survive.

Very little is going right these days. I still can't open up about why, but trust me. I'm heading down a dead end alley and it's all going to hurt very soon when I hit a brick wall. I'm trying hard to focus on the good things I still have around, and make the best of them while I have them. I sometimes have to be reminded of what they are. At times like tonight, they seem pretty far out of reach.

I tried to soak and relax out in Melody Pond this evening. The weather was perfect, the different colored lights were entertaining, and there was a fire off in the corner that maintained impressive height for a remarkably long time. But now I'm inside, my mood has returned to foul, and I'm about to try my first melatonin ever. I haven't slept like I'm supposed to in more than a month, and I'm sure that's contributing to my inability to roll with the punches lately. I hope this stuff works. I suppose I'll let you know.

Storm Wall

Inspirational song: Bringin' on the Heartbreak (Def Leppard)

Karma has me dead in its sights. I'm getting a big dose of my own medicine. I have been a nervous homebuyer, who was totally freaked out by things revealed in an inspection. For that matter, I've been freaked out by the very process of an inspection. I've been the upset one declaring deals blown up and dead. So now I get to be on the other side of the equation. I'm now the agent, watching a reflection of my previous feelings and statements coming from my clients, and now it's my turn to try to be the calm one. I'm quite a bit more impressed by the agents who handled my fears and demands with aplomb. I'm new at standing in their shoes. I don't think I fully appreciated how well they treated me when I was throwing my hands in the air and calling sellers mean names. I don't think my current clients are out of line or unreasonable at all. But I can see how scared they are, and I totally get it. The house that was inspected today is old. Very old. And with an old house comes a torrent of necessary repairs. Some are urgent, some are not. Many will be expensive. Having them pointed out all in the span of two hours is flat-out terrifying. I tried to stay completely out of the way today. I only wanted to be available for questions and moral support. It wasn't my job to inspect, so I didn't. It wasn't easy to keep my mouth shut and be impartial, especially when people I care about were getting increasingly stressed out. I don't know what's going to happen from here. It isn't my call. I have to wait and see what their decisions are over the next few days. Waiting is going to be difficult.

We tried to have an evening off and attend the Creek Festival. Apparently the heavy rains that rolled through this afternoon delayed the setup, and only a few tents were up and running. And those were primarily the beer tents, which didn't really speak to my needs. Instead, we had dinner at the Tea House, and then wandered over only long enough to see a Grateful Dead and Phish cover band for a few minutes, and then we left. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day to relax.

Shut It Off

Inspirational song: Eight Days a Week (The Beatles)

I counted. Apparently today is the eighth day in a row that I've been working, and while my job is not strenuous physically, it is definitely strenuous mentally at times. I think I sprained my brain. Boss asked me this morning to write down statistics for the marketing I did three weeks ago. I seriously do not remember three weeks ago. I sort of remember having a couple mopey days in my basement while I was here alone and the man took the dogs off on their adventure. That's it. Anything I did or said beyond that I truly don't remember. So remembering how many phone calls or emails I sent that week is absolutely beyond me.

It's not that I'm complaining about being busy. I'm thrilled, quite honestly. To recap, I got my first sales contract. It's exciting as hell. Plus I have other buyer clients who are keeping me busy with searching, and I'm still working and learning up at the brokerage. But I haven't given myself time to breathe, much less fit in that "sleep 6-7 hours at night and nap 2-3 hours every day" business that the doctor asked me to do. I think I tried to nap once a week or so ago. I lay in the bed for an hour stressing until I couldn't lie still anymore (not that I was still to begin with, tossing and turning) and I gave up and went back to work. Last night, while I was trying to make sure all the ducks were in a row with this first contract, I was still working at 10 last night, and after a quick blog, I went out to the hot tub, and sat rigid and tense with my brain still freaking out about whether all the emails and phone calls were made. This is not conducive to finding better health despite autoimmune disease. I need to remember to shut it off. Didn't I write about that just a few days ago? Well, I'm not taking my own advice yet. Too much on the line.

Way back when we lived in Barstow, California (in town for two months, and then way out in the desert for a few years after that), I remember trying to explain what stress does to me. The man had slammed on the brakes of the car at a busy intersection, and I hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings. I had a brief rush of stress hormone, like a sharp shock of electric poison flooding my veins, all the way down to the tiniest capillaries. Frankly, that reaction hurts. I don't always float through it with good grace. Sometimes I shout a little, which I probably did that day. Frequently I shout obscenities, which I might have done then too. When stress is ongoing for me, I have a smaller reaction like that, but it just never stops. My hands and feet and face tingle with the cortisol that won't stop flowing. At least, I assumed that's what it was. Who knows. Maybe this is yet one more bit of unpleasantness to lay at lupus' door. My attempted explanations have always fallen on deaf ears. "No, Anne, just you," they always say.

I got to network at a Rotary social this evening. It was well-attended and a lot of fun. But I couldn't just let myself turn off and relax for it. Instead I decided that my potluck contribution would be an hors d'oeuvre that takes effort. I filled dates with flavored goat cheese and tiny slivers of fresh sage from my garden, and painstakingly wrapped each one with prosciutto. I spent almost two hours making finger food for a party that only lasted two hours itself. Granted, I got a lot of compliments on them (and there were even other stuffed dates, these just with blue cheese and nothing else), but I obviously don't know how to make it easy. I think I'll just look for the off switch and go to bed early. I'll tell myself to dream of the gorgeous antique dental cabinet that I coveted at the home of tonight's Rotary host, and see whether that makes me calm down. (I bet it won't, but the reason why is a story for another day.)

Quirky

Inspirational song: Celebration (Kool & the Gang)

I know some of you who read this have been in marching band at some point in your lives. Some of you may have done it so recently, you could still pick up your instrument and play your school's fight song from memory. For others, it's a hazy memory, like it is for me. It was one of the best times of my life, but there were a few things that got old about it very quickly. One of the things I hated was that for every time the team made a first down (and back then CU actually did that fairly often), we played a tag from the song "Celebration." It was a song I'd tolerated when it first came out, but after four years of marching band, I hated it. Yet here I am, on a milestone day, using it as my song. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

On Saturday I showed a quirky older (much older) home to my clients. We all fell in love with it on sight. It has the potential to be a showpiece, with love and attention. Better yet, it has the potential to be more than just a house for this family. It can be a real home. We all got way too emotionally invested, and tied in knots about whether we would win the bid, and for days I've barely been able to eat or sleep or focus on anything. This morning, when I was just sure we'd lost out, I texted the listing agent to find out what happened, and I am fairly certain the tone of my text sounded like Eeyore was doing the writing. When she told me that the decision wasn't final yet and that she thought the seller was viewing our offer favorably, I got giddy. But still I had to wait. By the time we finally got word, I was already getting ready for another showing this evening, and I had to scramble to get all the pieces going in the right order. I made a couple stupid omissions, but I think I have most of them handled. But what it comes down to is that I got one! Finally!

The showing this evening was a lot of fun. It was an older house that was built in the 1940s and probably added on to. It was in great shape, also quirky like the above house, and also a joy to tour. The grounds showed the influence of a master gardener who really knows how to create drama and vignettes, and also one who loves to grow food. There was a sunroom that was so lovely I coveted it unabashedly. And the place was filled with glorious antiques. Everywhere we turned, there was some cool old object, like a gramophone, a pedal operated whetstone. cast iron chocolate pot, and wooden airplane propeller. When we lived in Charleston, we went on house tours of the fancy residences down on the peninsula. Once we toured Frank Abagnale's house (the guy the Tom Hanks/Leonardo DiCaprio movie "Catch Me If You Can" was based on). This place reminded me a lot of his home, with all the cool furnishings and details. I can't say I've gone into too many houses where I kept looking at the listing sheet thinking, "All they want for this is HOW much? It's worth twice that!" Don't know whether the clients want to make an offer, but I sure do. Too bad I don't want to move again.