My Love Language

We all have a love language.  Things we need from our partner that demonstrate their love for us.  It's usually fairly easy to decipher the language of someone else because we tend to give love the way we want to receive it.  But, it can be tricky if you have different love languages.  Like me and my husband do.  It's like I need to learn how to speak a whole other language in order to love him.  And I'm not even particularly good at English.  And now I have to learn Mandarin or Swahili.  I don't know which because that's how foreign and unnatural his love language is to me.

They say there's five love languages.  The first is words of affirmation.  These people like to be showered in compliments.  Next is quality time, which is pretty self explanatory.  I can't even believe that receiving gifts is a love language, but yet apparently it is.  Acts of service totally makes sense to me.  Like fixing a leaky faucet.  And the last one, of course, is physical touch.  But, none of those is actually my love language.  Although, acts of service is a close second.

No, my love language is being heard.  Which is weird because I'm a soft spoken quiet person who isn't much of a talker.  Even with my husband.  But, when I do speak, it means I have something to say and you should STFU and listen because it's important to me.  Now, my husband is extremely aware that this is my love language and has been really good at lending me an ear when I need one.  At least until recently when things started to change.

I found myself repeating myself constantly.  Now, I already repeat myself all day long with my four kids.  So, it really pisses me off when I'm talking to my husband and he asks me a question that I just answered.  I knew he wasn't listening to me anymore.  It's been over a year now since he started to tune me out.  I don't understand it.  What's changed?  Because I haven't.

It was a little over a month ago that I found out the answer.  My husband told me he had a ringing in his ears.  He had tinnitus.  And there's nothing that can be done about it.  While I was losing my patience with my husband, he was losing his hearing.   What kind of a selfish jerk am I?  And what do we do now?  He's not at a point where he needs a hearing aid.  Yet anyway.  But, I do find myself making a conscious effort to talk a bit louder to him and to try not to get pissed at him when he asks me to repeat myself.  Which is harder than it sounds.  And, I did mention that leaky kitchen faucet to him several times and he still hasn't done anything about it yet.  Which can only mean one thing: he doesn't love me anymore.

Scene Stealers

I love summer.  Sunshine and long days.  Camping, hiking and tubing in mountain streams.  Outdoor concerts and friends.  But, the thing is most people love summer.  So they're out doing all the same things I'm doing.  And that's what I hate about summer.  The damn crowds of people crowding at all the sights. You know, the scene stealers who are always getting in the way of me taking a photo of what I came to see.

The first kind of scene stealer is relatively benign.   Oh they're completely annoying though.  Because they are completely oblivious.  They seem like pretty happy go lucky people really.  They like to talk and chat it up with complete strangers even.  And they'll stop anywhere to have a conversation. On the middle of the stairs.  Or the pathway.  And definitely in front of whatever you want to take a picture of.  And, as luck would have it,  they're usually loud talkers too.  I don't know why that is, but it is.  Now, I don't like who are unaware of their surroundings or loud conversationalists, but I get that they are living in the moment.  I just wish they took their moment to a completely different location far away from me so I can have a moment to get the picture of the thing I traveled to come and see.  At least they're oblivious and not self absorbed.

It's the self absorbed scene stealers who are the worst and most obnoxious scene stealers.  Because they don't give a shit that they're in your way or that you also want to take a shot of that thing without them in it.  They feel entitled to take as long as they want to take 500 photos from every angle because they got there first.  And they don't care that you're waiting.  Or that there is a unwritten rule that you take your photos in five minutes or less when there are other people waiting on you.  And I'm being generous with five minutes.  Because we all know you can take 200 photos in 2 minutes and then crop, photoshop and filter the hell out of them to them and make at least one of them look incredible.  It's not the 80's anymore. Where you either got the shot or you didn't.

So, I'm on spring break in the middle of the barren Mojave Desert hiking through a lava tube when we run into them.  Two self absorbed California girls on an Instagram photo shoot.  One of the girls is taking pictures of her friend standing looking up at the the beam of light streaming in from above the lava tube.  It's a great shot.  I'd like to take a picture of it too.  So, I stand off to the side to give them a minute to finish up and get a few different poses.  I get it.  Or I thought I did.  But, the first clue should've been that they didn't acknowledge my presence.  I mean, we're in a tiny lava tube together, breathing the same air.  It's not like they didn't see me.  Then the girl taking the photos with her phone instructs her friend to pick up the dirt and throw into the beam of light above her face.  Ok, really?  Of course once was not enough.  About twelve times was enough apparently.  But, it looks like they're wrapping it up so I'll wait.  Except they weren't finished.  They switched places so the photographer could get her photos taken.  Are you even kidding me?

Now by this point,  I'm irate.  But, I was raised by Canadian parents who put being polite and not to inconvenience anyone else above everything else.  Which is much too polite for today's world where what you need is to be assertive because it's chock full of so many entitled, self absorbed assholes.  The only thing I could think to do was to say fairly loudly (which for me is just above a whisper in a quiet cave) to one of my kids "I'm sure they're almost done."  To which one of the the California girls finally acknowledged my existence and said...."almost".  Not I'm sorry for taking so long and making you wait.  Because they didn't care we were waiting or inconvenienced by their 15 minute photo shoot.  Because they were consumed with getting their 15 minutes of Instagram fame.

When they were done, I didn't say anything to them.  Although I regretted that later.  I just couldn't figure out a way to tell them how rude they were, but in a polite way.  I don't know, maybe I should've just started taking pictures of their photo shoot to get their attention.  But, that would've made me feel like an asshole.  So, I simply took a picture of the empty cave and then stepped aside and left.  Still ruminating on what I should've said or done.  For the next time it happens.  Because you know it will.

Vulnerable

The thing about working in a creative field is that you constantly feel really exposed.  It's unavoidable.  Because you put so much of your heart and passion into your work.  The job of an artist is to provoke emotion. You start with an idea.  Alone in your own private fantasy world. You foster and mold it.  Not only do you love what you do, but you need to do it.  Because it's feeding your soul.  Until your  idea takes on a life of it's own.  And then it's time to put it out there into the world.  Which is nothing short of terrifying.  Because that's when you lose all control over your creation.  Your art is open to interpretation and misinterpretation.  You're vulnerable.

Before my first book came out, I thought I felt vulnerable because I'd written a memoir.  Which meant that if you didn't like the main character of my book, you don't like me.  Ultimately, that was a chance I was willing to take.  But, what kind of narcissistic asshole writes a memoir anyway?  I know this is going to sound completely ridiculous for someone who's on 3 social media platforms with a blog and book, but I'm a very private and guarded person in real life.  Opening myself up doesn't come naturally to me.  But, it does come with benefits.  Over the years, because I've put myself out there,  I've had the good fortune to meet some incredible people through my writing.  And I'm always worried I'm going to disappoint them.  After all, I'm not funny all the time.  In fact, for the most part, I'm not very funny at all.  What I am is heartfelt and empathetic.  But, I'd much rather you think that I'm funny and intelligent.

Now that I'm near completion of my second book (which is my first attempt at writing a novel),  I'm scared.  Because what the hell do I know about writing fiction?  I spent years avoiding sitting down to write it out of fear.  Fear of failure.  Fear of success.  Fear of mediocrity.  Fear of judgment.  I feel as vulnerable as the first time.  Maybe even more so.  Even though I've had two amazing friends help me edit and proofread it who really liked it.  Which is so great to hear.  But, I still feel really vulnerable.  Because there's a darkness to this book.  It gritty and raw.  Not everyone's going to like it.  And if everyone did, I wouldn't have done my job writing it.  Because I wouldn't be saying anything worth saying if everyone did.  That's the nature of art.

Being courageous enough to be vulnerable is it's own art form.  

The Worst Part of Camping

I love camping.  But, I don't love packing or unpacking from camping.  Or all the laundry.  And the camp toilet is no vacation either.  I always worry that either my phone or the key fob for the car will slide out of my pocket and down into the putrid, fetid, noxious abyss.  Then there's the threat of wild animals.  I've given it a lot of thought and I still can't decide which would be worse...getting mauled by a bear or a mountain lion.  But, none of these things is the worst part of camping.

When I arrive at camp I hurriedly set everything up so I can relax and do nothing.  But first, let me check my phone.  I was looking forward to a mandatory reprieve from checking my phone because I was positive I wouldn't have service out here in the middle of nowhere.  Except I do.  I have better coverage in a valley next to a mountain stream than I do in my kitchen.  Dammit.  What now?  I turn my phone to airplane mode to force myself to appreciate the chipmunks stealing our food and breathing in the smoke and ash from the nearby wildfires carried by the wind, setting off my asthmatic cough.

Thankfully, there's enough water in the stream next to us to tube down.  But, there was a family with at least eight little kids (they all looked the same, dressed in only underwear which made it hard to count them) wading in the water.  They got locked out of their van and were waiting for the locksmith to arrive so they could pack up and go home.  Although I suspected from the looks and sounds of things that they might be feral.  Finally, the locksmith arrived, the feral family left and we got to tube down the stream in peace.  Which, of course, is the absolute best part of camping.

Before you know it, it's time to cook dinner.  But, not over a campfire like I'd normally do because there's a fire ban.  Then there's the dishes to wash.  Then cleaning up every ounce of food and locking it all in the car, which is on the other side of the mountain stream, for the night.  Cause wildlife. Also,  it's more challenging to make sure you've gotten every trace of anything edible when you're searching for it in the dark after a few margaritas.

Finally, I settle into my sleeping bag convinced I'm going to have a good night's sleep.  After all, I haven't been on my phone and I've been breathing in (and coughing out) the fresh mountain wildfire filled air.  And it's fantastic for the first hour or two.  Until the coyotes start yipping.  Of course, first I needed to identify that the sound was indeed coyotes and not the feral children returning.  Because that's exactly what a pack of coyotes sound like.  After that, I'm awake.  Worrying about whether I moved all the food or if one of my kids has some in their hammocks they're sleeping on strung between the trees.  That's when I realize I have to pee.  But, it's gotten cold outside.  And there's a pack of coyotes out there.  I'll just hold it...for a few hours.  It's not like I'm sleeping anyway.  Cause have you slept in a sleeping bag on the ground lately?  It's not exactly conducive to sleep.

Now here comes the worst part of camping.  The sun comes up and I'm awake.  Not because I want to be awake, in fact, it's probably because I never actually fell asleep.  But, I don't want to get up, because once I start unzipping the tent, I'm the asshole who wakes everyone else up in the campground.  So, I've got to wait until someone else gets up, so they're the asshole.  And I really, really have to pee at this point.  Finally, when I hear someone else in the campground is up, I make a bee line back across the stream to the toilet.  With the key fob so I can take the cooler out of the car to schlep it back across the stream with me on my return trip, worried I'm going to drop it in the shitter.  Miraculously, I don't.  That would definitely be the worst part of camping.  But, right now the fact that I'm exhausted and achy from trying to sleeping on the ground at nearly 50 years old and there's still 10 more steps until I get my first sip of coffee....that my friends, is the worst part of camping.