Day 1 - Papapalooza: The Cross Country Birthday Tour

     My mother passed away on my 52nd birthday: December 31st, 2013. Ever since then I have been thinking about my Dad a lot. I live in Oxford, Massachusetts and he lives in Rhododendron, Oregon; three-thousand miles away. How many more years will he be around? How many more times will I get to spend time with him? 

     While out jogging one day, a brilliant idea popped into my mind. For my Dad's birthday on October 6th, why not fly him out to Massachusetts and then drive back across the country together stopping along the way wherever the spirit moves us. And so,"Papapalooza: The Cross Country Birthday Tour," was born.

     I had all summer to think about it. It made me giddy; like I was a school girl all over again. You see, I'm an only child and my father and I are (and were) very close. He gave me my first job and I worked for him through high school and college. We used to commute together, eat breakfast together every Saturday morning and butt heads about all manner of business decisions.

     We share a love of cars; fast cars, exotic cars. We both own a Prius. He actually owns three! What better way to celebrate a birthday than a trip in what else? A car.

     He accepted my offer and the plan was set. I was nervous. I was giddy. I was giggly. In short, I was the thirteen year old me:

      
      And now the day has arrived: Saturday September 20th, 2014. 

     We had a leisurely breakfast at my aunt and uncle's house: eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. A hardy breakfast to prepare the body for the road ahead. At precisely 10:08am, we departed. Between the 2 of us we have three GPS units - not to mention my iphone. We will NOT be getting lost. We agreed to mute the commanding voice of my Garmin; affectionately known as Judy Garmin so she would not interfere with the engaging conversations we were about to have.

     My first hurdle was entering the Mass Pike; U.S. Highway 90. I was born on the west coast and no self-respecting driver should ever have to put up with paying tolls; EVER! I have toll-pay-booth-aphobia. Will I have the right amount?  Will I drop change on the roadway below? Will I be that person who holds up the entire line? My hands shake when a toll booth comes into view.

     I adapted quickly and we made good time. Because sparkling conversation isn't always enough, I checked out 5 audio books from the local library. I believe there is over 100 hours of book listening to be had but of course not at the expense of the sparkling conversation. We began with the biography of Ben Franklin written by Walter Isaacson. Since we were very nearly starting from Boston ourselves, what better way to bond then with a history lesson about one of our Founding Fathers.

    While Ben's life unfolded, we cruised through the beginning of Fall colors in western Massachusetts. Soon, we crossed over into New York and some $25 plus in tolls later we made it into Pennsylvania. 

     Along the way, we were surrounded by a group of Harley riders sporting leather jackets with the name, "Phantom Riders," proudly displayed on their backs. They looked more like retired doctors and lawyers to me. The loud noise of the bikes certainly nullified the description of a phantom of any kind.

     The Service Areas (not Rest Areas) along the 90 freeway are remarkably similar in size, shape and color. For some time I thought we were driving in a circle. It was a bit, "twilighty." We stopped for coffee at one, gas at another and I swear I saw the same smiling faces. Just the title, "Service Area," brings sleazy thoughts into my mind: Hi, I'm here to get serviced please. I instinctively reach for the hand sanitizer.

     As it neared dusk, we arrived in North East, Pennsylvania. Yes, North East is the name of the town. Where do you live? North East. Yes, but where?  North East. But where? And then it just spirals into a who's on first exchange with high levels of aggravation.

     We checked into our hotel on the second floor. If I stand on a ladder, hang out the window and cock my head just so, I can see one of the Great Lakes. I'm too lazy to look up which one. Suffice to say it's blue and wet and large.

     We ate dinner at a restaurant located adjacent to the hotel. Our waitress exuded oodles and oodles of southern charm. I felt she was much too far above the Mason-Dixon line. I'm not sure exactly where the Mason-Dixon line is but I have no doubt she should be below it. The restaurant included a bar, a pool room and something that looked like a fireplace but lacked any opening in which to burn wood. My Dad's Chef Salad looked nice and my Taco Salad was decent. As we exited, the waitress asked us if we wanted ice water to go. I can think of a lot of things to put into a, "go," box but ice water is not one of them.

     And so ends our first day; tucked into our queen size beds, furiously typing on our lap tops and checking out the Oregon St/Washington St football game. We left Ben back in the car making his way through his early twenties. 

     I'm not that thirteen year old girl anymore but sometimes it's fun to pretend to be her:

    
     The adventure continues..... Please join me again tomorrow as we travel to Dearborn Michigan for a tour of the Henry Ford Auto Museum. A girl, her Dad, and all those cars.......
 
 

Food for Thought...

Why, oh why must people post photos of the food they are eating onto their social media accounts?

Unless you are a professional food stylist, I don't want to see what you are eating, about to eat, just finished, burned or ruined, pulled from your garden or anything your baby, dog, cat etc. is consuming. 

Your food, I have no doubt, looks and smells fantastic in person. On my computer (which has yet to offer the 'smell-o-vision' feature, the experience is, sadly, quite different. 

Instead, let me encourage you to flex your creative muscles and describe it to me in all it's sensory splendor instead of lazily snapping and posting. 

Years ago, people used to engage in this practice: it was called literature and today, if you care to MapQuest it, you can find some at your local l-i-b-r-a-r-y.

My Double Life in Westeros

Snow Cats lives beyond the wall in the great mountains of the North.

They were bred from the original Shadow Cats to serve as protectors for those who roam in the lands of ice. Like the Dire Wolf, they are capable of bonding with one master from birth.

They teach balance because they live upon the highest peaks but roam the frozen lowlands.

They teach independence because they live their lives alone but not lonely. They seek companionship when they desire but hold their deepest thoughts and desires close.

They teach the power of knowledge and the power of silence as they glide thru the snow seeing all but being seen by none.

They teach mastery of the good and the evil that battle within each man or woman. Their creamy white coats, peppered with ebony rosettes symbolize the perfect communion of black and white, light and dark, male and female, love and hate.

I, Lady Snow Cat, daughter of the house of Icebourg, left my home to learn the wandering ways. I chose the Blue-eyed one, Safyria, to serve as my teacher and guide. It is my pledge and sacred duty, just as those of the Night's Watch, to defend Westeros from the perils of the coming Winter.

My Animal Therapist

Animals were absent from my life for 7 yrs. until January of 2010 when my cousin and her family adopted a Golden Retreiver puppy named Jessie. They asked me to become her, "puppy nanny." My job was to play with her during the day while everyone was working or attending school. It was a tough job but somebody had to do it.

Challenges caused by my Bipolar Disorder had prevented me from working since 2006. This made me reluctant to accept the responsibilty at first. I never knew how I was going to feel from day to day. I always said, "If you don't like me right now, wait 20 minutes and you might feel differently. I know I will."

I decided to give it a try. To stick my toe in the water.

Oh, the lessons I learned: you don't need to talk to have a deep conversation; unconditional love can be as simple as a wagging tail; a glance from liquid brown eyes can bring light to the deepest, darkest corner of the mind and rubbing a puppy's belly always brings a laugh and a smile.

What 3 psychiatrists, 3 therapists, 3 hospitalizations, 2 suicide attempts and countless medications were unable to do, a furry ball of pure love and boundless joy has trumped them all.

Well done, Jessie. Thank goodness you don't charge by the hour.

My Friend the Grim Reaper

When I am in the deepest throes of my hopelessness, helplessness and purposeless - aka the three musketeers of my mental illness - I take comfort that my friend, "The Grim Reaper," never takes a vacation.

Lest you think I am referring to suicide, although it crosses my mind fleetingly, I am really just referring to death. Death in all its myriad forms: accidental, deliberate, painful, prolonged, quick or quiet. The eternal sleep. The complete peace. The space beyond the breath.

If my friend, "The Grim Reaper," chooses to visit, whether invited or not, I have no fear. I have done enough. Though there could always have been more to do. Those things can be just as well left to those who remain behind.

Yes, there would be those whom I would miss and who would miss me. But we would all go on. Well...I wouldn't...but that's another story for another day.

The Stigma of Mental Illness

It is not possible to write in one sitting how a person with mental illness feels about living in a world that by and large either turns away or expresses a lack of understanding that leads to resentment and judgment for those who suffer with the illness as well as those who do not.

I am often just as ashamed of my illness as the world is ashamed of me. This shame leads to many twisted behaviors such as: trying to act, "Normal," lying to cover up one's true feelings or state of mind or thinking up elaborate socially acceptable excuses for one's behavior. These excuses all involve common physical symptoms like a headache, back pain, a flu or a cold. Goodness gracious, those who are acquainted with me must think I am a physical wreck! However, the motivation is always the same: it is easier for people to understand a physical symptom than a mental symptom.

With all the recent incidences reported in the news of violent behavior fueled by those either too ashamed or too alienated to seek out mental health services it would seem a, "no-brainer," (no pun intended) that we examine the seriousness of our lack of care for those who now feel their only option to broadcast a cry for help is to harm either themselves or others or both.

Instead, many times, the person in question is described as mentally ill with a certain inflection of disgust tinged with derision. As a matter of record, the majority of mentally ill people are NOT violent and tend to be the victim of violence rather then the inflicter of violence. Equally true, not all violent people are mentally ill.

A recent government study reported that 25% of Americans are suffering with mental illness in any given year and that by the year 2020, mental illness will be the second leading cause of disability in the United States.

Will 2020 be the year that people begin to address this epidemic? Until then, millions will suffer with an illness they did not ask for and prefer to keep hidden. Many will die and lives will be irreparably damaged. This is the price of stigma. A high price indeed.

The Tyranny of Perfection

The symbol of my perfection - the tyrant Napoleon.

He lurks within my mind repeating his relentless mantra, "You are never good enough." You see, he is/was perfect. He was lover, conqueror and emperor. The world his oyster.

On the other hand, I perceive my world as a shattered glass box: delicate, fragmented and limited. I see the world in a distorted way. But don't we all? Still, I spend my time trying to put the glass box back together. Piece by piece. Feeling that when all is reconstructed then I will be perfect. My own lover, conqueror and empress. La Napoleone.

Unfortunately, I never seem to get there. But I keep trying and when I feel like I can't try anymore, the black dog comes: depression. In depression, there is no need for perfection. There is only the need to take the next breath. If indeed I even want to do that.

When the black dog leaves, I get up. I brush myself off and I start the reconstruction all over again.

Such is the nature of the tyranny of perfection: my own private Napoleon.