danapop

I carry a lot of energy. I’m certain I possess more than the average person, and most times that tends to work in my favor and can be put to good use. But during my husband’s layoff last year I realized that without the proper tools for channeling that energy, it can turn into anxiety and worry in an instant.

Because of this, on recommendation from a dear friend, I joined an introductory meditation class. Leading up to the class there are several things that happened. One, the class got canceled. What does it mean when your four-week class to combat stress is canceled? Oh, and it was also scheduled during the holidays, helpful for those of us that might need meditation tools to not go ape shite on our family and have to send handwritten apology notes to everyone after a table gets flipped or something of that nature. Second, I happened to stumble across an article about a study released in a psychology journal about the grey matter of the brain physically changing with the practice of meditation. It’s a fascinating read, you can find it here.

At any rate, the four-week session finally began a couple of weeks ago. The first couple of sessions, I was thrashing around in my own head. My body physically went from hot, like I was engulfed in a warm blanket, to the next time feeling frigid, to my mind taking on other people’s burdens. For instance, a woman in the class who’d been practicing for years with Buddhist monks said they taught her to visualize what she wanted while meditating. Another woman walked into the class 15 minutes late all frazzled and explained that her father had just died (not the reason she was late) and she needed to find peace. So, of course the next trip into meditation I thought about being pregnant (something I want) and my own dad death issues surfaced (the irony is not lost on me that I’m doing this the month that is the ten-year anniversary of my father’s death). The mediator of the course explained that what shows up in meditation is similar to what you’re like in your life e.g., if you have chatter and thoughts in your head a lot that’s what’ll happen on the mat.

Mind you, there are many different types or meditation. There’s very structured do-not-make-a-sound-or-movement stuff, or mantra driven, and so forth. The one I’m taking is willy-nilly stuff, which certainly takes me far from my comfort zone. You can scratch your nose and cough and apparently leave your cell on vibrate loud enough for the entire class to hear that you’re very important and someone desperately needs to reach you because they are blowing up your phone. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to think. But you’re not allowed to create a story associated with the thoughts. So, I’m thinking me imagining that I turned into a talking unicorn with the horn coming out of my third eye and galloping around a grassy field and randomly speaking with a British accent is a no-no.

Someone described their experience as “delicious,” and I think maybe that same woman said being in the class was like “coming home,” and my how she had missed “the sweet nectar.” Um yeah. It sorta reminds me of one of the funniest experiences I’ve ever had with my sisters. This could be a “you had to have been there” situation, but it’ll make me cry from laughing to this day. While we were visiting my twin in California post-breakup with her boyfriend of eight years, the mood was a bit somber to say the least. We decided to make a nice dinner and went to Santa Cruz’s equivalent of Whole Foods (because even that’s too much of a chain) to get dinner. And by the way the store is ridiculous, because much like any Northern Cali grocery over half of the shelves are racks of local wine. Love it. Well, while walking back to my twin’s Subaru we notice a woman near the driver’s side of her car sipping tea out of a porcelain cup (I’m talking proper tea service cup, not a to-go coffee mug) having a chat with a bird perched in the tree limb just near her car. My older sister, needed to get in the passenger side, and the bird lady wasn’t budging, lost in her moment with, clearly, the feathered love of her life. My sister huffed around, shimmied into the car, slammed the door, locked it, and declared, “That fucking crazy woman is talking to a Goddamn bird.” And continued, “Gawd, I couldn’t live in California.” Then went on to question, “I wonder how long she’s been out here?” I sit somewhere (I think) between my two sisters. My guess is my twin, had we not been there, would’ve joined the lady and the fascinating philosophical meaning of life and might have even shared in her tea drinking. My older sister would’ve shooed Tweedy away, flipped the lady the bird, followed by a stern evil eye to both, then gone about her day.

I can’t get mad because people see the beauty in things I find a distraction. For me, it’s never been about stopping and smelling the roses, so perhaps it’s about not judging the person having a ten-minute conversation with a robin and being okay with whatever shows up in meditation—pregnant bellies, dead fathers, third eyes and unicorns with British accents—sweet nectar and all.

The couch in all its glory--so comfy, yet so unattractive.

When we were just friends, I remember my husband missing a day of work because he had to have a couch delivered. I wondered what this couch that required a request-off-of work even looked like. I wondered what his apartment looked like … his bedroom. Shortly, I would find out that the apartment was minimal, at best. His bed had a black (or charcoal grey, I can’t remember which) duvet, and his bathroom a clear plastic inner liner working as a curtain–you get the picture of a guy just out of college, working really long hours and badly needing a woman in his life to make something of this blank (or clear plastic) canvas.

Interestingly enough, the only color to speak of came in the form of his couch a neutrally-hued sage green fabric with a black weave pattern throughout, which he paired with (gasp) black throw pillows. The fact that he even had throw pillows should say something, but wow, not pretty. In the couch’s defense, structurally, it’s really comfy and cozy and something you want to sink into, which is certainly criteria for a living room and TV-watching sofa. The practical man he is thought to buy a sleeper sofa, which to me says just as much as the throw pillows. We spent a lot of time on that couch. It’s since made two moves, from his old apartment to our first apartment together in Midtown, to our first house in Ormewood Park. It’s slept countless visitors and sometimes even us when I beg to do a slumber party in the living room and watch movies and let the dog hop up, or one of us feels awful and turns it into a makeshift hospital bed.

The dog gets it confused with his bed.

But, this couch, it’s not us. It’s a dude living in a barren apartment sofa. And I’ll just say it–it’s ugly and has been since its purchase ten years ago. Enter my friend, my savior, design guru Heather Hogan Roberts, one half of H&H Home. I’m obsessed with everything the girls at H&H do. I’ve written about H&H here and here. Anywhoo, my friend Heather offered to get me a quote on a custom slipcover for this eyesore, then kindly went with me to pick out fabrics, and even sweeter, let me use her trade discount for what turned out to be a really reasonable fix. And then, had the generosity to gift me the Ikat throw pillow beauties to boot, natch.

I can't believe I get to sit on this everyday.

The end result is this. I like the idea of still having that old, ratty, dependable thing under there, but surrounded in a sophisticated update. I’ve now fallen back in love with this couch and the boy who crashes on it. The before and after is pretty nice, yes?

Someone's not allowed up any longer.

I forget sometimes that danapop has readers outside the confines of Atlanta. There’s a whole world of folks out there that don’t receive the rounds of professional chatter, twitter, facebook, or a chance to catch up at events in person. That things might be happening and before I know it two months go by and I realize I’ve left you with a bomb tease of 2011 starting with a bang and you’re just left wondering what exactly I’m talking about. To circle back, the bang is me leaving a freelance job (DailyCandy Atlanta editor) I’ve had for almost three years and starting a new one (community manager for MSN’s portal called Postbox), which officially began this week.

It’s a great fit all around, but sometimes change is quite difficult with the overlap of duties, learning curves, and settling in to a new routine. But, all of it was sort of my own doing. You see, back in December after reflecting on the past year professionally, I merely mentioned to my husband that maybe this year I should think about another steady gig to do alongside my existing one (or if the offer was strong enough, replace the old one all-together). That little whisper, that little lion’s voice, started the ball rolling and within days I was thrown into the ring of applicants for a job I didn’t even know existed. The Mumford & Son’s performance at the Grammy’s the other night sort of sums up the beautiful chaos I’m feeling these days. Man, I love those guys. So here’s to gathering the lion’s roar and settling into new adventures.

Our holiday card last year said something about 2010 going out with a bang, and it featured the above photo. We felt like we were really giving the shite year (husband’s layoff, mom’s cancer) a proper sendoff. The beauty of it all is that without last year, we wouldn’t fully appreciate the wonderfulness that is now. You have to have scary to have sweet, heartbreak to have joy, life’s simple balancing act. Ah, therapy, you work wonders.

But, I didn’t realize that what we thought was sending 2010 out, is actually bringing 2011 in with a bang. I’m on the brink of change—and with any shift, I automatically go into scared shitless-manic mode, but trying (really, I am) to roll with it all and live each day fully and not worry about the rest—easier said that done. I may have broken a personal record last week for how many days in a row one can pass off yoga pants and a little girl’s-sized kung-fu fighter anime t-shirt as work attire, how many nervous belly trips to the bathroom one can take, and I’m pretty sure even my twin sister is dodging my anxious, talk-until-I’m-out-of-breath phone calls. Last week did not compile my finest days.

Unfortunately, all of this is too premature to write about, but hopefully, soon, I’ll be able to tell you about it all. Until then, I’m dodging bullets.

Last week, many parts of the country came to an abrupt halt because of ice, snow, and the harshness of winter. It’s reported that 49 states had packed powder on the ground (including, phenomenally enough, Hawaii). I could write about the ridiculousness of how long it took to get streets plowed in neighborhoods and argue the points of city verses state roads and whom highways officially belong to, but I’m beyond over the political rhetoric and yelling, so the discussion seems unnecessary.

We were snowed in for days with rather ill preps (no wine on the rack and no beer in the fridge), milk and eggs dwindling. But, it allowed us to take a pause, which for me, was the point. To weed through the bare essentials, the work that truly needed to be done–the phone calls, the e-mails, the rainy day list of items on the metaphoric shelf to be done another time.

The snow days of last week allowed a wintry pause to just slow down. And for that, I’m not complaining.

Courtesy of smartglass

The concept of a vision board has become a bit trite, but I do think it works. I wholeheartedly believe that if you dream it and focus your energy on what you want, you can get it. Everything on my board for 2010 came true in some fashion whether it was better communication skills, laughing until my belly hurt with girlfriends and my sisters, beachy and European vacations, taking time to just stop for a moment, or growing my business and in turn making more Ben Franklins. For the past year, the collage of photos lived on my to-do list, making me face those goals daily, which I found as a helpful reminder of the path up ahead.

This year’s board is more of the same, but slightly deeper, despite the superficial feel–ahem, Rolex. Truth be told, that was my late father’s watch, and this year he and I have some healing work that I’ve needed to put a close on for some time now. Each item on my board represents a feeling or something I hope to accomplish. Whatever you believe for 2011, here’s to a fresh focus–may everything you envision manifest.

My marriage survived a bathroom renovation.

Demolition Day

Let me rephrase–my marriage survived showering at the gym for a week with a cold the size of Texas taking up my chest, allowing a grown man who likes to be called Plug into my home to install a toilet, putting my contact lenses in at my kitchen table (since that’s where the contents of our medicine cabinet lived for the better part of a month), watching my father-in-law and husband install over-the-sink lighting and both live to talk about it, and blow-drying my hair in the dark while waiting for my husband to install those same vanity lights. Good times.

We live in a two bedroom, one bathroom 1940s bungalow that we bought just over four years ago. We love it, adore it even. Except for the one part … the bathroom.

Vanity lights that came with the house--one word: horrific.

I suppose the bathroom trouble really started at move in, so let’s back up. There were parts of it we liked … the pedestal sink, the vintage tiled floor, but the shower, my word, that was a different situation entirely. It had always been an eyesore, just awful to look at, let alone shower in. Moldy cracked tile which I made worse in an incident I try to not bring up, but I will here–I was shaving my legs with one propped on the tiled soap tray and it ripped off the wall. I blame it on the shoddy wall and cracked tile, not the weight of my gam, but, what ensued was my husband doing a tile patch job so horrific and non-matching that I never brought up a renovation again for fear of what the end result would be if he starting thinking laying tiles himself was a good idea.

Cracked moldy tile--the dog can't even look at it because it's so ugly.

But, the conversation did come back up. We decided that since I work from home and would spend a good deal of the summer and fall traveling, wouldn’t it be great to get that bathroom redone on one of my trips out of town? Fabulous. Now, my husband and I operate on very different speeds of the spectrum, which most the time meshes into a semi-sane person working at a semi-sane pace. During my first trip away, I believed I was leaving and coming home to a surprise new bathroom situation. Come to find out the phone call to suss out contractors hadn’t even been made. I’m not saying I would’ve been slinging the sledgehammer (more like I would’ve swung it once and sat in the mess I made crying hysterically wondering how to fix it all); yet something would’ve been done.

Two walls with subway tiles, one to go.

Clearly men and women look at very different things when doing any sort of renovation project. Ours went something like this:

Me–Trying to rationalize a $128 shower curtain purchase because it’s pretty and convincing him that the color scheme of blue, steel and yellow is the way to go. PS–the shower curtain for that price was a no-go.

Him–Wondering about plumbing pipes, caulking and sealing, toilet with eco-friendly flushing, and non-chemical paint.

Our lovely bathroom. New lighting, toilet, paint, and entire shower. Swoon.

So, here’s the before and after bathroom renovation. It should be noted that I’m certainly grateful I’m married to a man who’s strong enough to know when to call in reinforcement and not just scream frantically “shut off the water!” while I scurry for a stack of beach towels.

Siesta Key, Florida holds a special place in my life. My husband and I fell in love there, for one. Well, we likely were before that, for certain on my end, but it was there that I figured out I was in it for the long haul. We made the trip about five months into dating, our first vacation together as a couple, and after spending a week playing house at his parent’s condo, I still wanted to be around him. And better yet, he still wanted to be around me.

I celebrate two anniversaries in October. The first, my wedding anniversary, which Monday, was seven years. The second, the anniversary of my first danapop post, two years ago on October 14. Both, my loves. My husband and my work, and completely coincidental that both milestones occur the same autumn month. And both hit me like a ton of bricks in Siesta Key; the name and concept behind this website coming five years into my marriage while on a trip to that same beach. It’s pretty fitting that’s where we chose to mark our anniversary this year–it is still the one place that best defines us.

Sometimes I can be go, go, go, check, check, check; off lists, off life, and just the thought of somewhere called Siesta makes you want to change your pace a bit. To wander and just be. My husband and I met and married within two years. I’m sure people in our lives (though no one has ever said) likely thought we were absolutely nuts, but we knew. What’s it that lady says in When Harry met Sally? “You know like you know a good melon.”

I can’t say I know how to pick a proper melon, but I do however know that when I met my husband I was done with dating. I’d had my heart ripped out of my body in more than one way (my father had died nine months prior, I had just gone through a horrific breakup with a really bad boyfriend) and was ready to be on my own for however long it took to be okay with me. And when I took that moment to step away, that afternoon nap on my life and let whatever was going to happen just happen, I went and landed myself a love.

Here’s to remembering to take a Siesta every once in a while to reflect and soak in … so, a toast to another year of writing, and above all, to love.

Cin cin,

The concept of a weekend is ancient, dating back to Biblical times; the idea behind it began as a day of rest for the soul and reflection (ahem, no boozing). It was modernized in 1926 when Henry Ford was the first factory owner to close for both Saturday and Sunday, allowing workers time with family to balance out the grueling five-day work week (or to spend their hard earned money on things like cars, how Machiavellian of him).

Throughout my adult life my relationship with Friday night until Monday morning has always been of the tortured variety. You see, I’ve worked at places like 24-hour cable news networks, and boutique public relations firms whose idea of a weekend off on a regular basis is pretty much non-existent. And for the most part, I was fine with that. At the time, I dealt with on-call situations like, say, a space shuttle blowing up and me spending an entire weekend down in the tapes library looking through archival footage of congressional testimony from the Rodgers Commission to locate the portion where o-ring erosion is described on the record by theoretical physicist Richard Feynman, searching for the five-minute portion that isn’t an absolute snooze-fest, as if it were the norm.

But, now I’m the boss of me. As a freelance writer, I get to pick and choose how I spend my time, and I want my weekends back. Or better yet, I want to create the weekends I’ve rarely had the pleasure of experiencing fully. I think these things happen when you start to pick up the rubble. This past year has felt a bit like a building imploding, starting in September 2009 with my husband’s nine-month layoff, and heading directly into June 2010, when my mother’s second battle with cancer began.

My weekends, for both of these monumental life changes, shifted tremendously. With the layoff, I worked a ton on the weekends. I got a part-time job for about eight months, and I also picked up a lot of side writing projects. One, in fact, had me moonlighting on the weekends a ton at a neighborhood bar (ahem oldest operating strip club in Atlanta) for a coffee table book on which I’m collaborating with a photographer about The Clermont Lounge (side note–you’ll be hearing much more about this project in the near future). To currently—I’m traveling on the weekends to be with my mother during treatment … all of us are. My brother, sister-in-law, two sisters, close friends of our family, and aunts are all taking turns to be with my mother to ensure she’s not alone in her fight.

But, what I’ve found is that once you pick up the pieces and start rebuilding, it all sort of fits in a different place than it did before. More often than not, it has a stronger foundation and the layout has changed significantly. Our family certainly has … we’ve weeded through an ocean of superficial distractions and gunk this past year, for sure. But, I’m ready to integrate a tiny semblance of normal back. Or at least what will be our new normal. One that likely includes more Sunday Suppers (ours are called Sunday Night Dinner or SND) with our closest friends making way for molasses-paced Monday mornings. Or maybe our weekends will be filled the way my brother’s are, as he and his family make big breakfasts and pour over The Dallas Morning News and stacks of pancakes.

Or the way my twin spends hers, going to gallery openings, working at a charming bakery, running along the Pacific coast with her roommate’s Labrador. When I was single (barring previously said breaking news situations), my favorite way to start a weekend was to pretzel myself for 90 minutes in ridiculously intense yoga classes every Saturday morning. For now, I’m okay with letting it take shape, to see how this puzzle fits together and how the architecture unfolds.

So, what do your weekends look like?

Chemotherapy. Just the word sounds like napalm or terrorist. It’s so gross sounding (and feeling from what I’ve been told). Though it’s some of the hardest stuff in the world, I’m grateful for the time I have with my mom right now and the beauty of taking care of her in such an important and meaningful way; just as she does for us.

I’ve just returned from an amazing week in Krakow, Poland. I won’t be able to go into full travel details here per usual, as I’ve been assigned that piece for a mortgage paying publication and they get first dibs, but I can tell you a few general things, first … go.

No huge surprise here, like most eastern European countries, in Poland, the dollar gets you far. The old town section of Krakow (the best part) is built around a central square, so if you start there, you’ll be in excellent shape. Park it at a café, sip coffee with steamed milk and just soak it in. Later in the day, add some sight seeing and prosecco, and by gum, you’ve got a vacation from everyday American life.

The overarching theme I walked away with was taking time and allowing myself the space to just be. For us, this year has been one of twists and turns, and sometimes it has taken me a minute (or months) to integrate them into my life. To take time to fully grasp and appreciate the concept of the life I’ve built filled with close friendship, a supportive and loving family, and creative work that inspires me.

This trip allowed me the space to wander, think, write, and observe. The women in Europe are so chic. You’d never catch one in mom jeans looking haggard. No sir, even on long flights minding children and loads of luggage they still manage to put on mile high heels and lipstick. Affection is displayed quite openly and I found myself nostalgic about romance and those little moments I may not notice in my Atlanta life. It could also be because of the reason we were there … love was in the air.

We made the trek to Poland for a dear friend’s wedding, which was, without question, the nicest wedding I’ve ever attended (and like most people in their thirties, I’ve attended many). Planning my own wedding years ago, I made decisions merely to get them crossed off my list, but here that didn’t appear to be the case, seemingly taking such care in every decision from meal, to reading selection, to wine list. The loveliest ceremony I’ve ever witnessed.

Now, back to my cultural observations about both in being in Europe and being surrounded by mostly Irish and English wedding attendees. It seemed like in this lot, if one were to wear Jimmy Choos it’d be because they are good, quality shoes that’ll last, not because it’s something to boast to friends while sitting in your 5,000 square foot home one payment away from foreclosure.

Nothing seems to be done in an ostentatious way, just sophisticated and full of grace. It’s not about a carat diamond ring; it’s about the sentiment behind it. I could use a lot more weeks of taking notice like that in my life. Seems less about what you have and more about how you take care of it. I’ll take the moments over the material any day.

Still in vacation mode–or as the international crew I’ve just spent the past week with–still on holiday.

I promise to return next week loaded with stories.

Photo courtesy of Hotel Stary; I'm certain our room there won't be quite this nice.

I’m off this week for my dear friend’s wedding in Krakow, Poland. I’ll be joined by my love and my twin sister, for what I imagine to be a quick trip loaded with belly laughs, fantastic food and drink, plenty of catching up with old friends, and a much needed change of scenery.

Aż spotkamy się znów … until we meet again.

We know what this road looks like, you see. In 2004, we walked it. I was a month shy of my one-year wedding anniversary when I was back in Kansas for my ten-year high school reunion. My mom had a mass on her neck. Just in the vicinity of her collarbone.

She actually discovered it while we were on talking on the phone one night a few weeks prior. Those days, I used to get off work late since my show was on the air from 10-11 p.m., and my routine was to call her after my show. She’d generally already be in bed, and was lying with the phone nestled in the crook of her neck. It was then that she felt something.

And now, she felt it again–this time in her armpit.

Non Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. That’s what she was diagnosed with as all of us kids and spouses sat in the room at KU medical center listening to mom’s oncologist tell us the stage (three), the prognosis (treatable, but could come back), and the treatment (chemo with one medicine, and a clinical trial) six years ago.

We’ve walked this road.

But, it’s back, as we all knew it would be, as Non-Hodgkin’s is a reoccurring cancer in most cases. This time, it’s stage two, but much more aggressive in its growth. As is her treatment plan (chemo with a five medicine cocktail and a much longer duration). Right now, we’re all sort of plowing through our schedules and getting reacquainted with words like scans, white-blood count, port, chemotherapy, treatment, mass, lymph nodes, insurance, and appetite.

My mom is incredibly strong. She got through this once, and we’re all hopeful and encouraged that she’ll do it again. But just because you’ve already walked it, ran it, crawled it, long-jumped it, it certainly doesn’t make it less scary of a path to walk.

Walking down the path to an open crater at Poas during my 30th birthday trip to Costa Rica.

One of my dearest friends is moving from Atlanta. After 17 years in this city, she and her husband are moving to L.A. Her move got me thinking of all the change this year has brought, not just for her, but so many people in my life (including us).

Not just in 2010, but for some reason around August/September of last year, there was a huge shift in our life. And right now, several of my close friends (and family) are entering life-altering transition phases. I have more than one friend going through a divorce. One of my twin’s friends came out of the closet, two children and a marriage later. My brother and his family, who’ve always lived near my mother in the Kansas City area, are moving to Dallas. Not all of this is bad. Closing the door on one life, opening another.

Friends of mine, after about 5 years of trying for a baby, just had their son in December. And we, I think, are closer to what we want than we have been in years, and it took a layoff for us to figure out what that truly was.

Contemplating in Charleston, SC.

The only common link that I can hold onto is that we’re all in our thirties. In my twenties, I took so many distractions as signs; now, I’m smart enough to know the difference. Not everything means something. Is it that in our thirties we have a clearer idea of what we want and are more focused on how to get it?

Does this economy have something to do with it? That people are fed up and are making a conscious choice to weed through the self-proclaimed bull shite? To start companies, and take stock in their own desires? In my twenties the book that captured it all was Quarterlife Crisis. I read it feverishly just after college and related to it like no other. The notion of, “Awesome. I have a degree, a car payment and rent due, now what?”

Mid-life and quarterlife crises are over-reported and over-exposed. Are they just a hall pass to act like an asshole? Because, I’ve found, every age and stage has its challenges, as well as the hopefulness for the next year. But, in my life, for right now, the parallels of major shifts, bravery and grabbing onto that life you want, even if it’s some 2,000 miles away, that’s the real stuff that defines you.