I Left My Underwear in Kansas.

I've often been told I should write a book about my husband and his crazy hijinks. It's one of those things I've been meaning to do, but I inevitably get too distracted by other things. Things like, as is currently happening: a microwave that has been alerting him for the past five minutes that his food is ready, a woofing dog who doesn't understand why she can't have said food, and the constant drone of The Big Bang Theory on our television, a show that too closely mirrors our real life. 

"Are you writing a blog post about me?" he just asked.

"You bet I am." I responded. I informed him that tonight's happenings were so over the top, that I didn't care if I had his permission or not to retell the story to EVERYONE. 

"Hey, I'm your creative muse!" He exclaims as he finally retrieves the food from the microwave, his first meal after getting home from the airport tonight.

"P" travels frequently for work. He is out of town at a minimum of once a month. When he's not out of town, he's going full tilt at work here in California. He is the very definition of a workaholic, but one who has a one-track mind for only high-level tasks. (Example: he received his PhD in chemistry from Stanford, but doesn't understand why Dawn dish soap cannot be used in the dishwasher.) Despite that we are in an interracial relationship, our biggest cultural rift is his larger-than-life brain. I think he often feels that I am "making fun of him" when I scoff at his lack of knowledge of dish soaps, when really, I am equal parts in disbelief and astounded that so much of his brain is taken up by useful information and heady topics, rather than practical information. I marvel at his high-level knowledge, and his lack of general knowledge. And, truth be told, I'm a bit jealous. I wish my brain had the automatic disposal button that his does, getting rid of "common" knowledge in favor of academic knowledge with the bat of an eye.

Because he's so busy with work, I generally try to pack his suitcase for him when he has a business trip. I also travel frequently, so I know what a bothersome task packing is. I like to think I'm being helpful, but knowing men, throwing some underwear, a suit, and a toothbrush into a suitcase isn't the anxiety-inducing to-do list item it is for women. What he did today proves this theory.

I picked him up from the airport tonight as usual, and reached to open the back end of my car so he could throw his carry-on bag in. Before I hit the button, he jumped in the car, closed the door and exclaimed "SO, FUNNY STORY!" 

"Hold on," I cut him short. I fear I have grown too accustomed to interrupting him in order to make him focus on the task at hand. "Where is your suitcase?" It wouldn't be a stretch to assume he had left it sitting there on the curb like a homeland security false alarm waiting to happen. 

"Yeah...funny story. So, good news and bad news. The good news is the trip was really successful. The bad news is I forgot my bag." he explained.

"Well, I'm sure they'll let you retrieve it," I said. I wasn't about to leave the airport and have to spend my Saturday waiting for the airport lost luggage van to deliver it.

"I left it in Kansas." 

As he tells it, he checked his bag at the front desk of the hotel upon checkout this morning. Because he met up with his coworker (who had the rental car) later in the day, and raced to a meeting with him, he forgot his suitcase at the hotel and didn't realize it until he got to the airport with only 20 minutes to make his flight. 

"When I realized I forgot it, I had a choice to make. I could either stay in Kansas, or make my flight." he rationalized as only a PhD could do as I stared at him with my mouth agape. I wasn't taken aback for long though. The thought of "forgetting" luggage is such a foreign concept to me, but is such an unsurprising thing for him to do. His bag wasn't lost at the hands of the airline. In fact, it wasn't checked baggage at all. He straight up fucking forgot that he had luggage, and his brain is so full of other thoughts that nothing felt strange about not pulling a carry-on behind him until they were at the airport. It all makes sense in the context of my husband, and my subsequent response was a fit of the crazy giggles--the giggles you get when life has forced you to accept that "fuck it" is your only option. "Of course you did," I roared, tears of laughter streaming down my face. I briefly contemplated pulling over for our safety, as my laughter was making me swerve over highway 101. Even now, I hardly have the words.

It was such a "P" thing to do, after all. This is the man who left the metal rim of the tire on the side of the road when he got a flat, and drove for several hours on a donut. (A story which, to his chagrin, he has never lived down at my family gatherings.) This is the guy wore his glasses while surfing in the ocean, lost them...and later forgot his contact lenses on a work trip to New York City, leaving me to scramble to get a last minute optometrist appointment so he could see. It's not the first time something like this has happened, and it certainly won't be the last.

"My coworker was wondering at what point I was going to tell you! I briefly contemplated not telling you--" he began, a bit relieved at my reaction.

"Not only did I pack the bag for you, but my first words to you were 'where is your suitcase?'" I interrupted. "You were screwed either way." 

"Hey, at least I don't bring much baggage to the relationship. Ha, get it?!" he quipped when we got home. 

If I were in his situation, I would be so deep in the throws of a temper tantrum that I wouldn't be able to muster a joke. Maybe he would be too if he had also forgotten his laptop (I daresay he would never be without that) but generally, he takes everything in stride. I admire that about him, but our relationship works because we are tuned into different things. As such, I stand by my choice in partner because no one knows the true meaning of "never a dull moment" like we do. Even if in these moments he's proclaiming "it'll all be fine" as I reach for the Xanax. 

Because after all, his underwear is in Kansas, and no amount clicking our heels will bring them home tonight. 

25 // 16 // 13

Twenty-five years ago today, my father took his own life. Consequently, September 11 was already a glaring date on my calendar long before 2001. In the decades since, many things have happened on or around this date that have made it less the day of patriotism it is for my compatriots, and more of a day about the human experience. Though my emotions run the gamut today, September 11 marks a day in which, through trials, my relationships with certain people have deepened and have been a source of comfort for me on an otherwise bleak day.

I do not hear the same siren call of patriotism that others feel at this time of year. To me, the commemoration of the 9/11 terrorist attacks has often times felt like a contrived way to drum up votes and feelings of nationalism on the backs of those who really suffered that day. Rather, I remember the victims as people, not a platform or a cause. I remember that on that day, many spouses and children were forced into the type of family mine had become 12 years earlier: single-parent. I also remember that for the first time in my life, cracks were made into the surface of my self-imposed isolation.

In the days leading up to the attacks on the World Trade Center, I had already begun my annual ritual of retreating into my own isolated world of self-pity. When the attacks occurred and the nation was bombarded with images of people leaping to their own deaths (my father's mode of exit), it was difficult not to feel like the world was purposefully imposing its cruelty on me once more. It was even more difficult to convince myself of this when, 2 days later, my friend's father died in a car accident. It was at this point that all of my energy was expended trying to separate the 3 issues and not feel like a victim where it was not my place to do so. Though the terrorist attacks at first felt like a violation of my pity-party, my friend's loss turned this on its head. It was the first time I had something concrete to offer with my experience in losing a parent. I had to model for her that though it wouldn't be the same, it would eventually be OK.

For as much as I tried to lead by example, this is a storm that often winds up being weathered together in a mutually beneficial fashion. Perhaps at times it was like the blind leading the blind, but as we navigated the loss of a parent together, I was no longer alone in the situation. The first cracks in my isolation were made, allowing the light from an event 3 years prior into my heart.

Sixteen years ago today, my best friend came out to me as a gay man. Though it only confirmed what I already knew about him deep down, my response was one of fear. He had already experienced peer cruelty based upon what others assumed about him. If he confirmed their assumptions, would the attacks escalate from verbal to physical? Considering that the world came to know the name Matthew Shepherd a month later, my fears were not coming from a place of ignorance.

Much like my friends and family do for me, I often (out of love) overstep when acting as an advocate for him. Though I do not assume he needs my advocacy, as a human being we are wont to connect our life experiences. Much like the way in which I linked my father's death to the 9/11 victims, I link my own life struggles to his coming out experience. When we were young, ignorance about my physical disability made me the brunt of taunts from my peers. As we grew older, the negative attention shifted from me to him. Years later as an adult, I found myself angry about the way I was treated, but downright bitter about the way my friend was treated. Neither of us made choices about who we are, and our roads are already difficult enough to traverse without "help" from outsiders. In addition to learning to be who we are, we were also saddled with the responsibility of sloughing off the hurt left by others. It was easier to shed the hurt from my own experience than it was to put out the torch of bitterness I was carrying for his experience, under the false assumption that I was helping him. It was only recently that he pointed out to me that if he wasn't going to carry that torch, I shouldn't either.

As if he hasn't taken enough time with me to teach me about his experience, he has given me the gift of having something to celebrate on an otherwise difficult day. September 11 marks the day our relationship took a turn. Though it was never anything more than platonic, the relationship between us deepened the day my friend bravely put his confidence in me and told me who he was. His foresight on the cusp of adulthood and bravery in a time, place, and climate that would cause most people to deny their identity brought light to an otherwise dark place in my heart...even if it took years for me to compartmentalize the sadness September 11 brings me and properly commemorate this milestone in my friend's life with the recognition it deserved. He shared with me more than just his identity. He shared the limelight of a day that should be his and his alone to celebrate by understanding that I benefited from his journey.

The word "indebted" seems an understatement when trying to convey how grateful I am for those along the way that have helped me navigate each difficult September 11. Today I hold in my heart those families who were altered 13 years ago. I mourn my father, and share my friend's mourning for her father. I am grateful to have a friend to navigate the experience with as we carry on our fathers' legacies. I also treasure the role my friend's coming out has played in my life. Leading by example, he has taught me how to let go of anger. Though I will probably never get a satisfactory explanation for my father's death or forget every name on my list of people that threw a slur in my friend's direction, he has held my hand as I have taken baby steps on the lifelong path to healing. Healing does not mean forgetting. It does not mean denying the rough situations that have shaped our existence. It means putting down the angry torches we've carried for far too long so that we may live life. September 11, to be sure, is a dark place for me, but "there is a crack in everything. That is how the light gets in."

12 // Happy Birthday, Molly!

Yesterday, our sweet girl turned 12. We can't believe that we have already spent 7 wonderful years with her.

At 12, Molly's motto is eat, sleep, and be merry...and take a nap. She is a California girl through and through who lives to sunbathe on the deck. She lies in the sun until she pants and drools, comes inside for a short break, and repeats the cycle. She plays with toys less frequently, but dad can get her riled up running around the house with a squeaky toy (usually Ducky).With me, she is content to cuddle. She still knows that she can badger dad into table scraps and cookies, though.

Molly was very timid when she first came to live with us, but her shyness has gone by the wayside. Each year that passes she becomes a more vocal curmudgeon. If she is not getting the attention (or amount of food) she thinks that she deserves that very second, she will "fake bark" at us. It's not a full bark, but a muted one that is very direct and annoying. This manipulation technique works with dad, who is usually on his laptop when she does this. He quiets her with a trip to the cookie jar. I am usually manipulated into cuddles.

Whatever she wriggles out of us is more than well deserved. She is a wonderful dog that rarely causes trouble. She only barks when she hears a big noise (or a smoke alarm, which she gets a treat for), never takes anything that doesn't belong to her, and doesn't mess in the house unless it's an emergency. She is a content dog that doesn't ask for much...just her weight in cookies and a soft spot to nap. On top of being an angel, she takes amazing care of both of us. She barks at dad when she thinks he needs to shut the laptop and go to sleep, and she saw me through another round of PICC line treatments this past spring. When my nurse would come to change the dressings, or when I would do my daily treatments, she would hop up on the living room chair and watch carefully (or sometimes fall asleep and snore.) Having "Nurse Molly" around to keep the routine was the best medicine I could have received. 

Still a frequent traveler, Molly's most recent trip to Michigan was this past July. Ever the jet setter, she was elated to be bumped to first class on one of our flights. She enjoyed grandma's yard and time with Gracie. She has taught Gracie that each time a dog comes in from outside "business", they get a treat. Gracie now waits expectantly at the cookie jar each time she enters the house. Molly will enjoy her usual holiday season travel again this fall and winter for Diwali and Christmas. 

Because she tires of toys so quickly, we were at a loss for what to get her for her birthday. She received much quality cuddle time, a trip to the park, and the usual Sprinkles doggy cupcake. Her age makes me nervous, so we wished for her to someday become the world's oldest dog as this title is usually held by a dachshund. A lifetime with her would be too short. We are so in love with her and to us, she is the perfect dog.

We love you, Molly.