The “be nice” part of the statement is pretty self-explanatory…  What it means in my life is that I try hard not to carry resentments, and not to lash out at others.  By no means am I always “nice” – I am human, and have moments where I lose sight of the impact I have on others – but I think “be nice” reminds me that regardless of the day I might be having, I am still impacting others.  It is up to me what kind of impact I will have.

Which brings me to why I am choosing to share my personal mission statement.  With both feet solidly planted in adulthood, I have been surprised how many of my peers express a feeling of disappointment that they had not “done more” with their lives, up to this point.  I guess I could say the same thing about my life, but I do not think the fact that I have not “done more” means that I have done nothing, or that my life has not had meaning. 

By trying to be nice, and help when I can, I have impacted people around me in positive ways.

That statement brings me great satisfaction, knowing that I have mattered in the lives of others.  In the grand scheme of things, I believe I am contributing to the positive side of the scale.  It may be something as small as how I treat the checkout person at the grocery store, or as big as helping someone achieve career goals – in general, the people I come into contact with are positively impacted.  It is my hope that my being nice, and helping when I can, inspires others to be positive, and share their positive energy freely as well.  I know it has meant positive energy is returned to me.  So no, I have not done “big” things with my life.  I am fine with doing little things.

In reviewing my mission statement, take heed of the “when you can” bit.  It is important to know who it is possible to help.  No one can be all things to all people.  There are many who are put off by me – by who I am at my core.  There are people who do not want help – or, more to the point, who do not want MY help.  I think it gets to be an ego trip to pour effort into a futile situation.  “I WILL help this person, because they need it, whether they want it or not” is a statement of ego – not of wanting to impact others in a positive way.  Better to put my energy into situations where it will actually be received.  On occasion, this has meant walking away, knowing for whatever reason, I am not the one who will be able to help.  When I do walk away, I try to do so without malice.  Begrudging someone for not accepting what I have to offer is hardly nice, OR helpful.

I believe my Bee People are the ones open to receiving the positive energy which is offered in the world.  You choose how to live your life.  You can choose to live positively.

Because of the lack of new posts on my blog site, The Search For My Bee People, blogger has removed my blog site.  The removal of my blog site offended me at first – but in thinking about it, the people who follow my blog are all right here, on Facebook.  I may, at some point, restart an actual blog site, but for now, I hope my bee people are okay with my resuming posting blog notes here.

Today, I was driving through what so many have described as dreary, miserable weather, and I caught myself suddenly smiling, pleased by the brightness of a patch of fall sumac along the side of the highway.  It was not that I consciously was looking for beauty in an otherwise ugly day – it was a purely subconscious “joyous moment”.  It made me happy that somehow, the road I have traveled has made me a person who sees things like the sumac.  I was not so focused on the rain, and the chill, and all the negative aspects that could be attributed to the day that I missed a purely spontaneous joyous moment.

It was a longish drive, today, so thoughts of how I view the world around me morphed into thoughts of how I view the people around me.  I think one of the reasons the bee people are drawn to me is that I am deemed “nonjudgmental”.  I am a safe person for others to open up and be their true selves around.  Accepting that every person out there has a story – a story which I do not know – makes it a lot easier to not judge harshly.  Rather than categorize someone as “not worth my time”, based solely on first impressions, I try to read a few chapters of that story before telling myself who this person might be.  Even when I have read a few chapters and found the story not to my liking, and I find myself putting the book down, I still know there is much hidden – much that I just did not feel like putting the effort into learning.  Though I might put the book down and walk away, I do so without malice, knowing that somewhere hidden in the pages I did not touch, there may have been a story in which I would find merit.

As I said, the drive was a long one, so thoughts of how I do not judge others much turned to thoughts of how I judge myself.  WHETHER I judge myself.  I accept that others are human.  I accept that about myself.  We are all flawed, and we all make mistakes.  But has a lack of willingness to pass judgment on others allowed me the freedom to not pass judgment on myself?  It is a tough question for me, for some reason.  Have I excused things in myself “because I am human”, when, in fact, I should have been judging myself, and my behavior?  Food for thought, most certainly, on a cold, dreary day.

The image I see most is of some oversized, anime diamond, floating motionless in dark – alone. Somehow, the tiniest ray of light finds its way to the diamond, reaching deep inside and refracting off of the facets. This sets the diamond in motion, spinning, slowly at first. As it spins, the light continues to bounce off facets, breaking, and multiplying, until it is cast back out of the diamond like some gigantic jewel of a disco ball. The more light and energy, the faster the diamond spins, until it is feeding off itself and no longer casting out individual beams of light, but rather, it becomes one blinding, swirling orb. You can no longer see the diamond. Just the mesmerizing light.

This is how I have been feeling, since last November.

I had lost track of myself. I am not quite sure how, but I really was not living or feeling things to the degree I know I am capable. I was just riding the top of the wave, going where the current brought me, but not really diving into my life and living it. Mind you, I have not always been that way. I believe all of us can lose track of our “selves”, from time to time. Times when we draw back from life and just coast. This was not who I was – it was just where I was at the time.

So a light shined on me. And I woke up. I started breathing again. Feeling myself breath. Moving. Moving forward.I’ve laughingly called this light, “the Happy Beam”. Because it IS a happy thing, feeling so good to be alive. Blasting that light out to the world, shining so brightly. Recently, though, I’ve had other images, and I have begun to wonder if this “Happy Beam” itself has a dark side.

Some lights are beacons, to show the way. Others are most definitely warnings. I remember the many times, both as an adult and as a child, I have visited Split Rock lighthouse on Lake Superior’s north shore. It always amazed me how one kerosene flame could be broken, and magnified, and shot back out again until it could be seen by ships for miles and miles miles. Warning them. I wonder if this light I feel is really a happy beam, or rather a warning of imminent danger.

I am not one hundred percent sure this awakening is not akin to a self-destruct sequence. Maybe in the end of that anime scene with the diamond, the diamond explodes, blooming into some destructively appealing mushroom cloud. At this point, I do not know. I am still on the journey.

I think it is this light that has drawn so many of the bee people to me. It is as though people can SEE this awakening, and have turned toward me to watch what is going to happen next. There is a certain comfort to being a diamond hidden, safe where no one can see you. I have never been one to seek the limelight, and suddenly, I am shining so brightly, there is no hiding any more. It is not a totally comfortable feeling, but I’m rolling with it. For the good, or the bad. Being me. Doing my bee dance. Searching for my bee people.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MGBZf5oKspk

Last year, my sister flew from Sydney, Australia, to Portland, Oregon, to attend Ladies Rock Camp (LRC).  She had such a fabulous time, at her insistence, I attended the LRC May 2009 session as her guest.  This is a weekend camp for women, to raise funds for Portland’s Rock ‘n’ Roll Camp for Girls (http://www.girlsrockcamp.org/main/).  I am not going to go in-depth into what a wonderful program the camp is because it really is not my story to tell – though I heartily encourage you all to check out their site, their documentary, and their wonderful programs.  The story I have to tell is my own.

I really was quite skeptical about what Ladies Rock Camp was all about.  I am not one of the musically gifted (understatement), though I definitely have an appreciation for those with musical talent.  But it was more than that.  I did not get the desire to be up on stage, commanding an audience, trying to gain their approval.  Typing that last statement, I am struck by just how far off I was in my assessment of WHY people want to rock and roll.  Most of the people I met at LRC were NOT rocking and rolling to command attention, or seek approval.  Not remotely.  Most were on their own personal journey, and rock and roll was just a part of enjoying the ride.  It was not about wanting an audience watch you have a good time – it was about having a good time without caring who was watching.  Probably the most memorable “orientation” moment came when some of the instructors did the “Do NOT say ‘sorry’” skit.  The bottom line of this skit was, yeah, you are going to fuck up.  You are learning something new.  So stop saying you’re SORRY when you fuck up, and just keep on going.  Eventually, you will get it right.  Talk about some advice to take to the streets!

The weekend was spent between instruction and practice sessions with my bandmates, and practice sessions were either “loud” or “quiet”.  Quiet practice sessions were generally spent working on lyrics (yes, each band performed an ORIGINAL song), and loud sessions were, well, LOUD.  And hot.  The weather, we were repeatedly informed, was unseasonably warm for Portland, and those of us cursed to use Practice Room 8 could be easily identified by their sweat-soaked clothes, and in my case, bad hair.  I learned the reason so many drummers go shirtless – though I exercised restraint and opted for just keeping my hair in pigtails.

My instructor can tell you, I was in no way a natural behind those drums.  But I really did love it.  In a Zen kind of way, there were times when I was drumming, it was if my mind had time to dissect the different parts of the music in a way that was entirely new to me.  It allowed me to focus only on what I was doing – keeping the course, as it were – regardless of what else was spinning off on a tangent.  To not speed up if the vocalist got a little jumpy.  To not lose the beat if the lead missed a chord.  I had one job.  One-two-three-four, one-two-three-four.  It was actually kind of relaxing, sitting in the back, counting in my head. 

The culmination of the LRC was a Sunday afternoon showcase.  The showcase was held at a rather musically significant Portland music venue – the Satyricon.  When we walked into the place, I was stuck immediately – and hard – that this was the real deal.  Nirvana played that stage.  I would imagine every city has their own version of the Satyricon.  That musical hot-spot, where emerging bands play against poster covered walls.  Minneapolis has 7^th Street Entry.  I really wasn’t nervous, though, which surprised me.  I really had wrapped my head around it that if I sucked, I sucked.  It was two-and-a-half minutes of my life.  I was going to ROCK it!

I’m glad I had that little epiphany before the crowd started to swell.  Honestly, when I was told the show was going to be on a Sunday afternoon, I was picturing a crowd of about ten people.  I could not have been more wrong.  The place was packed.  And HOT.  As our band stepped on stage for our two-and-a-half minutes of fame, I was ready to let it rock.

We did rock.  Hard.  It was more fun that I could have imagined, and it was definitely something I would not have done if my sister had not pushed it, so for that, THANK YOU, Kim.  It really was a life-altering experience. 

After spending a weekend at the LRC, getting to know the instructors, and getting a feel for what the program does for young girls, I had no problem kicking in twenty bucks for the showcase raffle.  Heck, if I could afford it, I would be sponsoring their programs for girls – these are wonderful people, doing a wonderful thing for these young ladies.  It kind of felt like karma when the grand prize ticket was drawn, for a beautiful, sparkly blue acoustic guitar, and my name was called.

So yes, I did own a little bit of the coolness factor, on my way home from Portland to Minneapolis with my guitar slung over my shoulder.  I still helped the gal with a baby get all her gear through the security check-point, mind you, but when she asked about the guitar, I was able to roll with…  “This one time, at band camp…”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QUMUht4Rt-4

This song is the one that has most recently been my soundtrack – the background music that plays in my head, as I roll along this road I’m traveling.   The lyrics, the beat, all work for me, lifting me up and making me FEEL them to my core.  Good hooping music, too!  I only wish I could find this version of the song, or video, somewhere I could download it, so I could add it to my playlist.  The version available through iTunes is some seven-minute remix, and not even close to this one…

I’ve been hooping a LOT, lately, and the more I do it, the better I feel.  I’ve even made my own hoops – most notably, a pair of really big, light ones which have proven to be a BLAST to hoop together.  Because none of us are shaped like a cylinder, the hoops go from being paired, to separating and working almost as a pendulum, back to paired again.  It is a cool sensation, when the hoops pull apart from each other – it really does feel like you are being squeezed in a pendulum, or like some crazy boa constrictor snaking its way around you.  I want to learn how to separate and join the hoops at will…  To be able to control them.

Recently, I had a hooping breakthrough.  When I first started hooping, I was pretty self-conscious about any kind of “audience” (other than my toddler, whose cheers of “Go, Mommy, go!” can’t help but put a smile on my face).  I generally hoop by myself, in my living or bedroom.  I had worries that my music might offend the rest of my family, or that I might cause them to laugh (yes, I can admit that).  Last week, I had the RARE occasion to have the whole house AND GARAGE, empty.  To myself.  I was hooping, and cleaning, and taking care of email  – going through my day as I usually do – and I went to put out some recycling, only to be struck with how BIG our garage is, when not filled with two SUV’s.  I grabbed the Sound Dock, and my hoops, and let it rip.  It was AWESOME!  Loud music (MY music!), all my hoops, and so much space, I could goof off as much as I wanted, without fear of damaging the household…  Perfection!

I did not care that the neighbors were probably wondering what the hell I was doing in there.  I did not worry about offending anyone with my sometimes “eclectic” musical choices.  I did not worry about how good I was, or if anyone cared.  I just let it rip.  For two hours, the first bout.  It was so much fun, I waited until my daughter was in bed, moved the cars out into the driveway, and did it all over again for another two hours that night.

So I’ve had a bit of an epiphany.  I love hooping.  I want to do it all the time.  And more space = more fun.  I think it is time to get over my inhibitions – my fear that I look silly, or will be somehow judged a fool – and break into the great outdoors.  I already hoop on my deck.  (Mostly in the dark, she admits, under her breath).  I think I am ready to say (yell?), “Who cares what ANYONE thinks – I am me, and I love doing this, and I am JUST FINE being me, anywhere, any time!”

One of my recent discoveries on YouTube is a hoop dancer by the name of Baxter.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Odw_H90C-6c

In all the video I have seen of Baxter, he hoops with a blindfold.  I get it.  No distractions, no worries – just feel the music and go.  I often find myself just “grooving” the best when I have my eyes closed.  I’m not sure if it’s that I worry about looking silly, or if it’s that without my eyes taking everything in, my other senses get more into the music and the hoop, but shutting my eyes really does change my hooping.  Maybe I need a blindfold…

It is so engaging to have that cherub face, upturned, asking “Can you may you please help me?”  To be the go-to person who has all the answers, to EVERYTHING.  As she has gotten older (and we are talking two-and-a-half, here), her independent nature and desire to learn have paired.  “NO, I can do it MY. SELF.” is what often comes at me out of that little cherub’s face.  Even if she can’t.

While I am absolutely proud of her independence, at age two-and-a-half, this means just about every thing we do takes twice as long as it should.  I am sure this is nothing new to people who have kids.  I find myself having to check the urge to just step in and assist, so that my daughter has the chance to accomplish on her own.  Recently, I was trying to put her to bed after what had been a long day for BOTH of us.  Tired, with a pile of work on my desk downstairs – a great time to decide she did not NEED help putting on her pajamas… 

After I addressed her tone (“I will not listen to you if you continue to use your bossy voice”), she asked, “May I PLEASE do it myself?”  I sighed, knowing this was quite possibly a bedtime stall tactic.  If I said, “No – I’m doing it”, I was not respecting her need to accomplish things for herself.  And she had one hell of a crocodile roll.  If I said, “Sure – go for it”, I was sure to be in for a LONG evening, considering she had never even attempted putting clothes ON before.  We compromised.  “I am going to SHOW you how to do it, so you know how.  THEN, you can do it yourself.”  She processed this brow furrowed.  “Okay.  ONE TIME.” she conceded.  She was on-board, and able to acknowledge she did, indeed, need some help in learning HOW to do it herself.  I showed her, she did it, and she literally clapped her hands and giggled with glee at her accomplishment.  Who cared that her pants were on backwards?  She did it HER. SELF.

It was so worth not sleepwalking through that little moment on autopilot.  I might not have negotiated the cooperative effort.  I might not have established the relationship between paying attention to the lesson, and achieving the desired result, on her own.  One small step for man…

Some learning experiences, unfortunately, need to be achieved the hard way.  They are the hard-knock lessons of life, like, “jumping on the stairs is not a good idea,” and “bubbles do not taste as good as they look”.  You can talk yourself blue in the face about the reasons why your child should not engage in these activities, but short of throwing yourself down the stairs in front of them, they really are not going to “get it” until it happens to them.

A few of those hard-knock lessons of life have been delivered by our pets.  The pets have taught the invaluable lesson of, “play nice, or I won’t play with you”.  I have been lucky there has only been one incident which had me wanting to throttle the dog – a testament to his patience, most assuredly. 

My darling daughter has had countless timeouts for “not being nice” to the dog.  Timeouts, with apologies to the dog, afterward.  Despite my trying to prevent this lesson being learned the hard way, one day, she jumped on the poor dog while he was minding his own business, sleeping in his dog bed.  I was less than 15 feet away when it happened, and though I knew my daughter had instigated the dog’s reaction, I honestly wanted to throttle him.  He whipped his head around and caught her eyebrow with a tooth when she landed on him, both knees in his ribs.  My baby, standing there crying.  BLEEDING for the first time. 

The dog spent most of the next week banished, either on the deck, or in the garage, I was so mad – and I worried it might happen again.  But I did not let my daughter off the hook.  Even a year later, she still knows:  “I hurt Flint, and Flint got MAD.  I had to go to the doctor.”  She has learned there can be unexpected consequences when interacting, so watch how you treat others.

Another hard-knock lesson taught to my daughter by a dog was “it’s your responsibility to take care of your stuff”.  From the time he was a pup, my brother and sister-in-law’s golden has been incredibly hard on his toys.  When visiting their home, my daughter would find these poor, mangled remnants, and bring them to me, asking, “What happened?  His LEGS are off! Can you fix him?”  These poor toys were beyond salvage, in no uncertain terms.  “Bender rips his toys.  I can’t fix them.  They are too ripped.”  To which she furrowed her brow, thinking hard about what it all meant.  “That’s too bad.”  

 “Yes.  It is too bad.”

 It was months later that we had the chance to dog-sit Bender at our house.  I had some concerns, as he really is a huge, galumph-y, slobbering ox, and he was used to a home where all the toys were his to destroy.  My daughter and I had a talk: 

 “Do you remember how Bender’s toys looked at Bender’s house?”

 “YES!  They were all RIPPED!  The frog’s legs were off!”

 “Do you want your toys to look like Bender’s toys?”

“NO.”

“Then you need to make sure to keep your toys where Bender can’t get them.  Bender rips toys.”

I had the house set up with a “Bender-free” zone, where my daughter could play with her toys, unimpeded by Bender’s over-zealous participation.  But I left it to my daughter to be responsible for keeping her toys safe.  After seeing Bender with Funny Monkey in his mouth (Mom, to the rescue!), she was pretty diligent about not leaving her “friends” in the Bender zone.  We made it through a week of Bender, an ever-lurking threat to toys everywhere, and only had one minor casualty.  Diego’s little pal, Baby Jaguar.  Chewed almost flat, and yes, his legs were gone.  My daughter’s immediate response was, “Oh, no!  Baby Jaguar is RIPPED!”  She brought him over to me to see if I could make it better.

“What happened to Baby Jaguar?” 

“Bender RIPPED him!  I let Bender GET him.”

Wow.  I was a bit surprised there were no tears, and VERY surprised that she really did not blame the dog.  She got it that her actions (not keeping Baby Jaguar in the Bender-free zone) led to the demise of Baby Jaguar, legs first.

Oh, if only it was that easy for more adults to make connections between cause and effect, and to see the role they themselves play in the things that “happen” to them.  I think we might be a lot more mindful of how we conduct ourselves, and better able to accept blame when blame was rightfully ours.  Perhaps, even better able to say, “I’m sorry.”

I think the further down the road I travel, the better perspective I gain on the good, and the bad.  The harder I try to record in my memories ALL of the wonderful, truly good parts.  Today was a frustrating day of trying to work on a deadline, with an impatient two-year-old tugging at my sleeve.  I still took the time to SEE an amazingly white flock of trumpeter swans, cast upon a storm darkened sky like something out of a Japanese painting.  To really HEAR my little girl tell me, “I love you SO much!” in just the same voice I use when I say it to her – knowing she has heard it so many times, it flows naturally out of her mouth. 

You can choose to change your perspective.  Change which moments you consciously “record” in your memories.

The past few months could easily have become all about the bad things going on in my life.  Believe me, there were more than enough to cloud my perspective, and tip the scale of memories to the negative.  Maybe it is that I am finally getting a grip on just how long the road of life is.  Despite the recent unwanted drama, I was still able to see the good stuff going on, simultaneous.  The bounty.  Sure, it was a long slog through some very nasty mud, but some days, the sun still felt good, and I was able to see and feel that good.

I even still felt the big beam of happy, shining out from me like a lighthouse, on the trek through the bad stuff.  Connecting me to my bee people.  Drawing them to me.  Something good in and of itself, but even more so when you add all the wonderful these people bring to the table.  As I am writing this, I am realizing maybe that the happy beam is really a current, flowing out, and flowing back…

Wow.  An epiphany, right here in the middle of my blog! 

Back to all of that wonderful happy that has been flowing back to me…  The big ol’ happy current, as I am beginning to see it.  People have been doing good things for me.  Impacting me in positive ways.  A lot of it has been completely out of the blue, too.  People who don’t know me, or who completely surprise me by bringing something unexpected to the table.  Remember that hula hoop?  The bigger, slower hoop I wanted to find?  

It found me.  Or rather, its owner found me.  Someone I met for the first time at my brother’s cabin on Lake Superior, at a “cabin party” weekend.  My brother happened to notice the oversized hula hoop in her car, and being aware of my newfound interest in hula hoops, he asked her to bring it inside.  The rest is hula hoop history.

Another surprise came to me via a friend of an old high school friend.  Never underestimate the power of Facebook for connecting people.  But I am getting ahead of myself…

I have a sister who is definitely “larger than life”.  She LIVES “larger than life”.  So it kind of makes sense she would be a staunch supporter of Rock Camp.  Not talking as in “climbing”, here.  Nope.  “Rock” as in, “rock and roll”.  She had the time of her life last year, and immediately upon her return home, started talking about how much fun it would be if I would join her at Rock Camp in 2009.  Which, at the time, was still a long way off.

Fast forward.  Guess who is going to Rock Camp in a few short weeks?  Who has no musical talent whatsoever – not singing, not instruments.  Heck, I’m not even sure I could clap my hands in time with the music for an extended period of time.  I am PATHETIC at “Guitar Hero”.

I was able to push the impending Rock Camp debut to the back of my mind, focusing on the more immediate deadlines and agendas of my life.  But a few weeks ago, I started getting emails.  Confirming my attendance.  I had told my sister, “I’ll go, but only if I can sit in the back behind my drums, and take out all my pent up aggression” (only about half kidding).  I’ll be playing the drums, the email informs me.  I have no capacity to hit the darned PS2 buttons in the correct sequence, yet I’m supposed to be managing not ONE drum, but a whole SET of the things?  Pardon me – I believe the cool kids refer to it as a drum KIT.  So I cast around here and there, in search of anyone who might be able to at least SHOW me a drum kit, and maybe tell me which gizmos do what.  Enter, old high school friend.  Who used to jam with my little brother, and who is still what I will call, for lack of a better term, “musically active”.   And his friend.  I met the friend of a friend while playing Facebook Scrabble (snicker if you must), and lo and behold, the friend of a friend has a drum set “just collecting dust” that he would happily GIVE me, if I would just come and get it the heck out of his garage.  I met him for the first time under the raised gate of my SUV, as helped me load my new “kit”.

The more I think about it, the more I am seeing how so much of it all relies upon connections.  And connections.  And connections…  The trip to pick up the drums was a story in itself.  Maybe it is not just a happy current, flowing out and back.  Maybe it is a grid.  One big intertwined network of people being nice.  Being open, and kind.  Happy.  The Bee People Network.

Even my rare “down time” has been experienced at a more frenzied pace.  Which brings me to the bonspiel.

A bonspiel, for those unfamiliar, is a curling tournament.  Yes.  Curling.  Sliding those funky rocks at that target, way on the other end of the ice.  I have been lucky enough to be invited to a few curling “parties” at the DECC (Duluth Entertainment Convention Center).  My brother is very active in the Duluth Curling Club, as is his bride.  They curl in a mixed league – each team consisting of two men, and two ladies.  I got an email just days before the Dunlop Bonspiel asking if there was any way I could sub for my brother’s team, so they did not have to pull out of the tournament.  “Um…  Sure.  Why not?”  And thus began my bonspiel experience.

Naturally, the drive up had to be made in less than desirable conditions.  I was told I needed to be at the DECC for an 8pm start on Friday.  I left home in near zero visibility freezing rain, which switched to a full on snowstorm by the time I hit Forest Lake.  Traffic was completely stopped in Hinkley, with an entire troupe of emergency vehicles and guys in reflective vests directing us past the carnage, one at a time.  No way was I going to make the DECC by 8…

We started late, but the other team was pretty forgiving, once they heard I had driven up through “that” in order to make the bonspiel.  The bar was hopping, as many of the curlers had already finished their first games.  My sister-in-law and I rushed to the locker room to change for ours, and lo and behold – we discovered “locker room booze”.  Sitting there on the narrow bench, along with a stack of plastic shot cups, almost as though someone had been awaiting our arrival.  The bottle was sticky, and filled with a syrupy, pink liquor.  Labeled entirely in Spanish, even the (sticky) hang tag on the neck of the bottle gave us no clues as to what, exactly, the liquor was…  Once again, “Um…  Sure.  Why not?”  And it was bottoms up on some of the nastiest booze that has ever passed my lips.  No wonder the bottle was left there, half empty, as if daring us to try it.  Blech!

The Friday night game was fun, though I really AM a rank beginner.  I had to be reminded of how to score (embarrassing!).  The beauty of curling, though, is you have a skip.  A fearless leader, who assesses the sheet, and calls out your moves like some sort of broom-toting chess master.  A good skip, I quickly discovered, is the cornerstone of the team.

We were already well into cocktails after Friday’s game when I learned we needed to be back on the ice by 9am the next morning.  My “hard partying” days are well behind me, so the idea of “rise, shine, and CURL” after the number of adult beverages (and locker room booze) consumed caused me great concern.

That night, I learned the valuable application of Emergen-C as a hangover preventative.  My sister-in-law, bless her heart, mixed up three large glasses of the orange, foamy brew, and handed me mine with a pair of ibuprofen tablets.  Yeah, yeah, I thought to myself.  I know all about drinking lots of water, and taking ibuprofen.  I am still going to have a hangover in the morning.

I could not have been more wrong.  I woke, unfazed by the previous night’s consumption, hungry for breakfast and ready to curl.  Oh – did I mention the “theme” of this bonspiel was “Ugly Hawaiian Attire”? 

Breakfast was delicious (as were the Bloody Mary’s), and we hit the ice, decked out in finery which included flowers, coconuts, and colors that really did not belong together, on the same article of clothing.  Thank goodness I WASN’T hung over, because the color conflicts would have been sure to compound such a condition.

Our first game was again, not terrible, though we did “come in second”.  Again.  It was what transpired between our games on Saturday that really amped the weekend up into full-tilt craziness.

Those familiar with Minnesota’s “city by the bay” – Duluth – have likely heard of Club Saratoga.  The ‘Toga, as locals call it.  Strip club by night, but on Saturday afternoons, from 3-6, home to “Jazz at the Toga”, and a very respectable house band.  As we sipped our after-first-match Bloody Mary’s at the Duluth Curling Club’s bar, one of the curlers suggested we head over to the ‘Toga to catch the jazz show.  When the group discovered I was unfamiliar with “Jazz at the ‘Toga”, my fate was sealed.  “Um…  Sure.  Why not?”

I was not at all sure what to expect, but what I discovered upon stepping into the dimly lit interior of the ‘Toga was fabulous.  True to it’s calling, the bar was definitely all about the red velvet wallpaper, and larger-than life renderings of pin-up girls past.  And the place was PACKED.  Patrons of all types packed the bar area, and crowded close to the runway stage, where the band was set up, instruments arranged around the pole, center-stage.  The singer was good.  You could almost hear the patrons whispering, “He’s good enough for Vegas, you know…”  The fans ADORED him.

The ‘Toga was packed, from front to back, where we finally found a table to accommodate our party – and our Sorels.  Switching gears from Bloody Mary’s, we went with Dreamcicles at the ‘Toga.  They were on special.  Yeah.

I kept looking around at the bar, drinking in the décor, along with my rather sweet beverage.  The whole place felt like some forgotten chapter from Pulp Fiction.  And that was BEFORE I spotted the diorama.

On the back wall of the bar, near the back door exit, was the most fantastic of things.  A diorama that must have measured about 6 feet long, by about 3 feet high.  Entirely populated by ermine.  Ermine at a BAR.  Yes, it was a feat of taxidermy greatness that I’m afraid I am hard pressed to do justice in describing it with mere words.  Ermine sitting on barstools.  Toasting each other.  Ordering beers from the ermine bartender.  You really have to see it to believe it.

We were scheduled to curl twice on Saturday, with a possible third round if we did well in the first two.  We headed back to the Duluth Curling Club to grab a bite to eat (and a little something to drink) before our second game.  As if the ‘Toga and its wonderous diorama were not enough fun, it was back at the Curling Club bar that I was introduced to…  ouzo roulette.  What the hell is ouzo roulette?  The bartender did a head count of who was sitting around the bar, went back to the kitchen, and came out with a tray.  On this tray were 10 shot glasses, one for each person sitting at the bar.  8 were shots of water.  2, ouzo.  Figuring those were not bad odds, I found myself saying, “Um…  Sure.  Why not?”

What do you think the odds were that both my sister-in-law and I, who were playing on the same team, and who both HATE anise, got those ouzo shots?

And our game started in five minutes.

You really do feel ouzo hit your body in stages.  My arms got really warm, for example.  As we compared notes, heading onto the ice, both my sister-in-law and I felt some disturbing rumbling, deep in our guts.  Then, we belched.  Loudly.  You could smell the ouzo hanging in the air.  Believe me, it was not a good thing.  We both continued to belch ouzo throughout the entire 8 ends of the game.  And sweeping got harder, and harder, and harder as the ouzo settled, finally leaving my feet tingling.  Note to self:  Stay the hell away from ouzo.

If you haven’t come to the conclusion that we did NOT have a late game on Saturday already:  We did NOT have a late game on Saturday.  Which was just fine by our entire team.  The party in the Duluth Curling Club bar was just getting rolling, anyhow.

I have to say, it is not a good idea to leave a big, fat book entitled “5,000 Shot Recipes” laying out on a bar where a bunch of curlers congregate.  The rounds just kept coming, each with a more ridiculously suggestive name than the last.  The Canadians were embarrassed by Team USA in the beer relay race.  The D.J. somehow fused standard wedding D.J. fare with gangsta rap, and the crowd danced anyway.  When it was time for the door prizes, we did not even see who took home the Cabana Boy rum we had picked up as our contribution, but whoever DID get the Cabana Boy…  sorry about that.

Sunday morning, as I headed down the big hill, toward 35 South and home, I marveled at the view of Park Point, and remembered the time we went there and it was so hot, the dogs did not want to walk back on the sand.  My brother ended up carrying his big baby dog… I was really grateful to have such great family, and such a wonderful place to go for a “weekend away”.

Hard to believe I can still survive a weekend as wild as any I’ve had in college, or in Key West, or elsewhere in my travels.  It just goes to show you, you do not need to forget how to cut loose, and have fun, and be silly.  Just remember to pack your Emergen-C!

What I want for my little girl is for her to feel secure.  Secure that no matter what happens, she will be okay.  I think this core feeling is so much more important than “happiness”, because it relates to so many aspects of our lives, and how we conduct ourselves in these lives.

When you are secure in yourself, you approach the world with confidence.  It impacts how people see you, and respond to you.  Having undergone a bit of a transformation in this department, myself, I can say from experience, the world is a lot nicer place when you face it head on, smiling and unafraid.  Head down, looking at your shoes, sure the world is out to get you, is a self-fulfilling prophecy of loneliness, and misunderstanding.

Security in yourself allows you the freedom to be less reactionary, when life dishes you up the occasional plate of unpleasantness.  If you know in your core that you will be okay, no matter what, you can trudge forward through the unpleasant bits, knowing eventually, there will be an “other” side.  Again, I speak from experience on this point.  Having spent a fair bit of time feeling “trapped” in ugly situations, I have learned that it is far better to pick yourself up and keep moving forward, than to allow yourself to be mired, powerless.

When I look around me at the people who make me wonder, “Why the hell are they LIKE that?” or “What is that person’s problem?”, I find the almost universal answer is insecurity.  Ugly behavior can often be linked back to insecurity in the perpetrator.  “I said that because…” or “I did that because…” in no way make up for not being reactionary in the first place.  Better to stand secure, and take the time to see the situation as it really is – unclouded by insecurity – than to react, and have to back-pedal or apologize for being an idiot.

So, it is my goal to not provide my daughter with limitless happiness, but rather, to empower her with the knowledge that she WILL be okay, no matter what.  Armed with that, she will be able to forge her way through the world, and find her OWN happiness.  Of that, I have no doubt.

In writing about the three legged dog, I found myself mulling over the “why’s”.  Why do we choose to risk getting hurt?  Why do we walk the same road, expecting a different ending?  I think the “why’s” can be answered, in part, by the Dog Whisperer.

Dogs, he tells us, do not live it the past.  They forget the past, and live in the moment.  It is a very optimistic way to go through life, and I think it is this optimism, and ability to forget the past, which makes canines so well-suited to be man’s best friend.  Because man, undoubtedly, will make mistakes, and cause distress.  We need a best friend who will forgive us, and love us anyway.

Cats are quite different in the ability to forgive and forget.  I do not think they live in the moment in the same way as their canine counterparts.  I have had cats who have given me the cold shoulder upon my return from a trip.  Cats who have decided they hated a particular person, just because that person had the misfortune of causing offense.  Cats who have retaliated.  Most cats do not forget an injustice.  A forgiving cat is a rare thing, indeed.

I think the times we live in the moment, hopeful something good is going to happen, are the times we are the most open to both good and bad things entering our lives.  We can choose to deliberately “forget” the past, and to look at the present without the baggage of the past clouding our view.  But, when doing so, we run the risk of omitting important lessons we have learned along the way.  And we run the risk of repeating our mistakes.

If we hang onto the past too tightly, however, and do not let go of past injustices, we also run risk.  We might be wrong in our assessment.  If we never live in the moment, we might miss seeing people for who they are, right now.  Not who they were in the past.  People CAN change.  And everyone is traveling their own road, experiencing their own joys, and pain.  If you can see in yourself how much the road you have travelled has changed you, you should be able to give that same credit to others.

So here I am, looking forward, hopeful that something good is going to happen.  Trying not to hang on too tightly to the injustices of the past.  This three legged dog is open to counting enemies as friends.  And she can roll with the punches, when she occasionally gets kicked.