Crazy Virgo

Life Lessons of a Road Warrior

I recently completed 30 days that changed my life. 

I didn't do a cleanse, or a yoga challenge, or a training program. These things are all great and really admirable and I totally think you're rad if you do them; I'm just too lazy to do them. No, I spent 30 days traveling with my manfriend, spending all day every day together and living/sleeping in the comfy confines of a pimped out Dodge Caravan. One learns things about oneself during such an extended amount of time living outside of ones comfort zone, especially when said roadtrip went from 2 weeks to 30 days. When you do anything for 30 days straight you tend to learn something about yourself. On a cleanse you probably learn that your body doesn't need sugar or a entire bag of sea salt/lime/soy sauce tortilla chips at one sitting, or a double shot Americano with 1/2 & 1/2 every day to survive. There's introspection that comes from practicing yoga every day for 30 days. You find strength in a 30 day training program. What did I find out about myself after 30 days as a road warrior? So much that I feel compelled to blog about it. 

I guess I should back up. I have a manfriend - we'll call him My Man. It's something I haven't been very public with because it's really only been going on a few minutes, and well, because I like to keep my private life private. But he's crutial to this story, so out he comes. My Man and I have really only been together 4 months. One of these four months was just spent cruising the western part of America in the aforementioned Dodge Caravan. Her name is Ann. Ann the Van. 

Here's how the story goes, and then I'll get to the "what I learned" stuff. My Man drove to Boulder to be my arm candy at two dear friend's wedding. When I'd asked him to be my date several weeks earlier he'd suggested that he would drive to meet me there and we would take a road trip back to where we live on Guemes Island. What?! A road trip sleeping under the stars, hiking and cuddling around a campfire with my amazing super sexy manmeat? uhm OK! Sign me up! So we decided on taking roughly two weeks to get back to the island, possibly touring through Utah, a few hot springs and breweries in Oregon, the WA coast. You know... a jaunt, a road holiday. Nothing big. Just a little road trip. So he pimped out Ann the Van with a platform bed that had drawer storage underneath that propped up during the day to be a futon-type sitting space, and a console that fit between our two captains chairs that was shoe and book storage. Yeah. Seriously. He built all that in, like, two afternoons. Attached my Thule car topper along with a dry goods storage box on the top of Ann and we were set. I shan't tell a lie; it was dreamy  actually, super dialed-in, and lucky me, he's not only a carpenter, but a semic OCD/anal perfectionist carpenter, so this wasn't just a thrown together job. It was pi-imp. Oh, and the bed was reallllly comfy. There were a handful of cold nights on the road that I commented from the cozy confines inside of Ann, "sucks to be in a tent right now." Yeah. We certainly weren't roughing it. 

So off we went, and immediately the best laid plans of a two week road trip flew out the window. It took us almost a week just to get out of Colorado. We started in Breck for an overnight and a hike. Then we stopped off in Ridgway (between Ouray and Telluride) to stay at the ranch of a friend's mom and boyfriend and lo and behold, totally fell head over heels in love with them and their gorgeous ranch and stayed three nights in their pimped out yurt. After we realized we couldn't stay there forever and actually had to drive more than a few hundred miles on this roadtrip, we pushed on 45 miles down the road to Telluride. We stayed there a few nights because we just kept waiting to see if anything good turned up in the Telluride free box. (Sidenote: We only came away with a set of stainless steel dipping bowls.) 

Then came Utah. WOW! UTAH! I had no idea what to expect, but WOW! It took us another week to get through the state not because the beer was soooo amazing - is 4% beer even beer?!?! – but, because Utah is UN.Real. Unreal I tell you and it just takes a while to see a whole lot of unrealness. If you haven't been to Arches, Canyonlands, Zion or Bryce Canyon, get yourself a National Parks pass, a tent or a camper, or better yet a manfriend who can outfit a Dodge Caravan for you, and get thyself there. It's beyond beautiful. It's prehistoric, mind-blowing landscape will leave you in awe. In fact, at times it left me speechless. ME! 

So after the original two weeks we thought it would take us to get back to Guemes Island, we weren't a mile closer than we'd been when we started. In fact at one point we were further. We were having so much fun we just kept going. And here's where I started learning things. Two weeks is managable. Two weeks is easy. Anyone can do two weeks. It's all smiles and clean clothes and if you're dirty and unshowered, meh... you'll shower eventually because you'll be home soon. Well at two weeks I was nowhere near home. I was staring at the same three short sleeve shirts, two long sleeve shirts, two sweatshirts, two shorts, one hiking pants and one pair of jeans that I'd packed. I'd been showering mostly with the solar shower we'd packed, which meant a soft, light spray of water from a one-gallon bag dangling from a tree, most of the time after dark, in the cold. Things started getting real. And here's what I started to learn about myself:

I'm mildly scared of the dark. Yep. I'm 37, and I'm a bit afraid of the pitch blackness that happens after the sun sets, and what is roaming around me in the pitch blackness. Now, before this road trip, I guess I've always had an awareness of animals prowling around at night, especially when camping. But I grew up camping in tents and never really had a problem with the dark. Heck, I welcomed it becasue it meant s'mores time and ghost stories. But for some reason, almost immediately at the beginning of our trip, when I'd wake up to go pee at night and get out of the van, I'd have visions of blood-thirsty mountain lions or ravenous bears needing to pack on the pounds before hibernation or some such human-hungry predatory animal attacking me whilst I squatted to relieve myself. Maybe it was the vastness of the desert canyonlands or woodedness of the mountains where we camped, but soon after we'd arrive and choose our campsite for the night I'd casually ask My Man, "so, uhhm, what kind of animals live around here? Are we talking bears? Cougars? Or just your garden variety coyotes and deer?" I wasn't really scared of coyotes or deer. Why? I don't know. Nothing about this fear makes sense, does it? They didn't seem as ferocious. Without fail every night I'd wake up, fight off the I-really-gotta-go-pee sensation for 30 minutes, give in to my urge, strap on my headlamp, cautiously exit the van, pick a spot that was close enough to the van that I could jump back in if I heard a bear approaching, but far enough away that My Man wouldn't hear me peeing, or there wouldn't be a puddle of pee to step in the next morning, and commence to pee while swiveling my headlamp left to right searching for the mountain lion that was no doubt waiting in the bushes, licking his chops, hungry for my ladyflesh and just waiting to tear into my ass. At one point when we were in Crater Lake, Oregon, bear presence was so likely there were bear-proof lockers at each campground. Imagine my distress at having to go pee. Every single time I was out of the van answering nature's call I was just positive I was going to see a fierce mama bear thundering toward me, angry steam billowing out of her big mama bear snout. Oh, and here's the other thing, we were so active during the day, and all through Utah it was really hot, that I was drinking a lot of water. So sometimes I'd have to pee two or three times a night, which offered me up to attacks even more. And each time I made it back into the van alive I thanked the heavens and the universe for letting me live one more bathroom break. I know this fear is silly. I know. But I couldnt' shake it. Nor did I ever confess this to My Man, until he reads this now obviously, because he would have had a heyday with his fear. He's amazing and sensitive and kind and loving, but he  thoroughly enjoys getting a rise out of his over-dramatic, easily provoked, reactive lady friend. Now that I'm back on the island am I scared of the dark? No. Not at all. And I wasn't before I left either. It was  a totally isolated fear tied to being out in the wild of the state and national park system. Plus, I know that there's really not anything predatory on this island except coyotes and drunk old men.

Net learning here: I have an overactive imagination.

I would lose "The Amazing Race" to the old couple. You know the sweet old couple, married for 50 years that are always invited to be on the show because they're cute, and the network doesn't want to be accused of being ageist, but they are always the first team out because they're slow and can't figure out technology or maps? Yeah, I'd lose to that team. On this 30-day road adventure I learned that I have shitty map skills and even worse sign reading skills and I am a sub-par navigator. I figured this one out all by myself. My Man didn't have to help a bit. In fact, he just let me figure it out while standing on the sidelines watching patiently with his ever-present smile. And if that wasn't sweet enough, he went along with my poor direction, trusting me to know which way to go. We'd be starting out on a hike and at the beginning of the trail I'd read the first few words of the sign, glance at the rest and figure "yeah I've got the general idea." Inevitably we'd be on the wrong trail which I'd find out when in a half a mile the trail ended at the edge of a cliff that looked down into a vast, deep canyon, and I'd be surprised like, "hey, wait a minute! This was supposed to be a four-mile hike." I'd look at My Man, who'd be smiling and reply, "did you read the sign?" Believe it or not this happened multiple times. In some instances I'd be navigating while he'd be driving, but really I'd be singing along to one of my crazy-amazing Spotify playlists like the karaoke star I am (in my head) and only partially look at where we were going and totally miss turn-offs because my strategy was just "oh we drive for a while and when we see Hwy 72 we turn right." Only to be right in the middle of belting out "just like a prayer, your words can't take me there - oh shit! that was Hwy 72 I think..." I need to slow down. Read signs in their entirety. Then re-read them. Then probably read them one more time just to be safe. I need to fully understand where we are going, make that my priority when navigating is my job, and focus on that rather than my audition for America's Next Karaoke Star. Slow down. Focus on the job at hand. I don't want to lose to the old couple when it's our turn on "The Amazing Race."

I must have a hole in my lip. I spill water on myself when I drink. I've noticed that I do this a lot, but it's usually when I'm by myself, or in front of LittleVirgo, who doesn't say anything because she thinks it's normal. She's 4. I never really stopped to think why I do it. Problem #1, obviously. I becamse quite aware of it when My Man would look at me with amused confusion while the water I would be gulping out of a glass went both in my mouth and down the side of my mouth onto my shirt. The problem is that I never stop to just drink a glass of water. While I'm hurrying to take a drink I'm already onto the next thing, whether it's saying something, thinking, putting my coat on, whatever. It's sloppy for a 37 year old. I need to be able to drink water. Without spilling it.

Let go and let laundry happen. Because we found ourselves on the road for a while, we had to stop a few times to do laundry at laudromats. The first time this happened I watched anxiously wringing my hands as My Man threw every single piece of our laundry together into the washer. Jeans + my underwear + his underwear + white shirts + colored clothes. Lights and darks mingled together with jeans and my delicates. I stood watching, nodding my head, trying to get on-board with what was happening. Deep breaths in and out. My hand-washed items would be okay. They'd made it through rough situations before. I'd probably accidentally tossed them in with regular wash items at some point, hadn't I? This totally made sense, washing everything together. We didn't have money or time to waste sorting into small loads here in the laundromat. My Man noticed the worried look on my face as I watched the water drench our clothes before they were tossed about vigorously.
Him: "Everything ok?" Me: "Yeah. Oh Yeah." Exhale. "It's fine. Yeah. Everything's cool." It had to be. We were on the road. Why did I have delicates with me anyway? What about this road trip said "bring delicates?" Why was I being so fussy? This isn't how a gypsy road warrior lives. I need sturdy, yet seductive underthings. Note to self: start an underwear line of sturdy, yet seductive underthings. So there in the laundry room, probably somewhere in Utah, I let my sexy underwear life get tumbled in with my camping on-the-road life and My Man's synthetic fibered, tough-wearing, sensible life.

Then there was The Towel Incident. We'd been at camgrounds that didn't have showers or in the middle of the Oregon desert, necessitating us to use our solar shower, for about a week when we hit Crater Lake. We'd heard from some Oregonians, who were at the Oregon desert hot springs we visited, that showers at campgrounds were free in Oregon. What? WHAT?!?!! This was the greatest news I'd heard since I don't know when, which isn't to say I didn't enjoy the solar showers. I did. I totally really did. It was all part of the experience – getting naked in the moonlight and shivering under warm water trickling from the sprayer. But dammit if I wasn't excited to take the longest, hottest shower I'd taken in a while. We'd taken some campground showers on the road trip, but they were a bit spendy; $5 for 3 minutes, or a dollar a minute. You can imagine my excitement for a free shower. Just imagine your own excitement if you were on roadtrip week three and had spent the previous week speed showering under a solar shower. You'd be psyched. So when we got to Crater Lake and found our camground I wasted no time in finding the free, hot showers. I didn't care if they looked like prison showers, which they kind of did. I strapped on my shower sandals and took a hot shower like I was in the Four Seasons spa. I was in there all by myself, as these were fully enclosed shower rooms; a luxury in camp showers which are usually just stalls. I leisurely washed my hair, let conditioner sit in for the instructed 5 minutes, shaved my legs. It was bliss. I took my time drying off and emerged from the shower room squeaky clean, my hair in a towel turban, and made a right into the restroom to continue my post-shower grooming. As I was slathering my face with lotion and glowing in post-shower splendor My Man walked into the bathroom. Hmm. That's weird. Why is he in the Ladies Restroom? 
Him: "Hi. Have a good shower?" Sweet smile plastered across his face.
Me: "YES!!! It was glorious and hot."
He nodded his head and shifted his jaw.
Him: "Good. Good. Ok. You're in the Men's Room."  
Me: "WHAT? Ohmygod!"  
Him: "And that's the dirty car towel on your head."
Me: "WHATTHEFUUUUCK?!?"

I crumbled. I was a broken woman. I ripped the towel off my head and threw it at him, as if it were his fault. "Fuuuuuuuuck. God dammit. Whatthefuck!?!?!?!" I'd somehow mistaken the towel we used to wipe down coolers, the front windshield, picnic tables, anything dirty really, with my bath towel and used it all over my gleamingly clean body and wrapped it around my freshly washed hair. The Four Seasons would have never made such a fatal error. I stormed out of the bathroom and proceeded to pout for the next 24 hours while he conveniently "remembered" all the things he'd personally used the towel for - as a snot rag, wiping down his undercarriage after a sweaty hike, cleaning between his toes, sometimes riding it like a pony while naked because he liked how it felt. It wasn't until he admitted using the towel to wipe the afterbirth off a litter of baby opposums he helped deliver that I laughed and got over it and realized I was making a big deal out of nothing. And from this, which shall forevermore be known as The Towel Incident, I learned to laugh at myself. It's much more fun than getting mad at myself. 

I'm less maintenance than I thought. I'm not bragging here. This was quite a revelation. I've never been what I consider "high maintenance," but I didn't realize I could just roll with it on a barebones level. I don't need much, and this was an amazing personal revelation for someone who has 10 tubes of chapstick and at least 15 lipglosses that are basically all the same color. At one point on the trip when we were in Telluride I saw a homeless man heating a cup o' noodles with a blowdryer in the town park and thought, "Right on. This guy's got the right idea. You just work with what you've got." Now, I'm not going hobo, but you know what I mean. I like to have stuff. I like clothes. I was a clothes and shoe whore with the best of them. I like to get fancy. I just realized on this trip, though, that I can really be low maintenance. I don't have to "do" my hair every day. I can shower or wet it down throw it in some braids or a bun and be fine. And for that matter, I don't have to shower every day, and if I do it can be in the moolight under a fir tree, standing on a piece of plastic, splashing water on myself from the solar shower. I can survive with just a few pair of clothes and when those clothes get dirty I can let them all get washed together. I don't need things. I brought jewelry and a handbag with me, you know, just in case we hit a social scene somewhere and I needed to enlist my fashionable self, which of course never happened. I didn't even look for that situation in fact. I just don't need stuff, and can be comfortable and happy with very little. I can be as much or as little maintenance as I want to be. I think I might actually be able to be a gypsy.

But really, let's get serious. What did I really learn? What did all these stories teach me? What was the big, introspective, life-changing, I need to write this down for posterity, thing that I learned? Well..drumroll... It's That I Can Do It. That I kind-of am a warrior, actually. I didn't have a spear, nor did I kill anything on this road trip, but in a sense, I found that daring spirit inside me that is chanting "Do it. Do it. Do it." Whatever it is, I can do it. Life may toss shit at me, almost literally sometimes, but I can do it. Challenges, good days, bad days, a dark night full of blood-thristy animals, crazy ideas, whims, anything. I Can Do It. 30 Days as a road warrior - I Can Do It. 30 days with the same person 24/7. I Can Do It. Live in a one-room cabin in a forest on a small PNW island - I Can Do It. Write a novel - I Can Do It. Before this 30-day adventure, I might not have been so sure of myself. I might have said, Um Yeah, there's a possibility I can probably do it. Now, I welcome whatever life throws at me. Whatever the opportunity. Whatever the challenge. Whatever the test. Whatever the adventure.

I CAN DO IT!

Living in Once Upon A Time

The car ferry, MV Guemes, was out this week for scheduled service. If you were on the island or a walk-on for the ferry, you heard nothing but moans and groans from residents for the past week. "You heard that ol' sonofabitch is out for service didn'cha? We'll be lucky if we get 'er back in a week." This left us islanders - yes, I'm calling myself that these days - with service from a passenger-only ferry from Monday to Friday. The sweet little Straight Arrow.

There was a mass exodus of cars last Sunday, a ritual that islanders snapped to mechanically. They'd been doing this since the dawn of time. Park one car on the Anacortes side, leave one car on the island. I, of course, decided, "Nah. What do I need a car for in Anacortes? LittleVirgo and I have a bike, bike trailor and our healthy legs. We're a mile from the dock on the island, and everything we do in Anacortes is in a two mile radius of the ferry." So I left my car on the island, determined to "rough it," and survive the ferry outage the old fashioned way. 

Monday morning we get a hustle on and make the 8:30 a.m. ferry on the bike with trailor in tow, and arrived at the ferry dock to find smiling faces and chatting islanders at the ferry, not snarling old people bitching about the inconvenience of a walk-on only situation. A gang of gray-haired gents are milling about the pop-up coffee stand, Riff Raff Coffee, chatting up it's salty owner, Mycle Recycle.

A group of ladies at the dock are discussing the upcoming plants and pie sale over Memorial Day at the community center. Everyone remarks about the gorgeous weather we've been having and the caterpillar infestation. LittleV, friendly as always, starts up a conversation with an old man she doesn't know about his fishing pole. She knows no strangers on this island. And I take it all in. Where else in the world is this happening? This easy-going, how ya doin', know your neighbor, shoot the breeze morning scene is a page written by Garrison Keillor. It is the most quintessential tableau I've ever seen, and certainly been a part of. 

The ferry arrives from Anacortes. The mechanical arm on the loading ramp lifts and the Anacortes passengers walk off the ferry as we, Guemes passengers, pass them walking on. 

"Hi Nancy." "Hey there Bart." "Haven't seen you in a while, John." "Patsy! How are the goats?"

Our friend, Carson, passes us. "Hey Carson," LittleVirgo says waving. "Hi Sylvia!" Carson returns with a smile.

The sun is making the water dance and sparkle like magic. The clouds are torn pieces of cotton overhead. Tugboats toot by. I push the bike on while LittleVirgo helps as always, her little hand holding on to the handlebars with mine. Can it be like this forever please? We stand on the deck of the Straight Arrow, smiles plastered on our faces, wind gentle playing with our hair. LittleVirgo asks me to hold her so she can see down into the water. 

"Mama, do you know what those swirls are?"

I look down. She's talking about the engine of the boat churning the water. I open my mouth to start explaining what's happening when she interrupts me with her own explanation.

"That's mermaids singing under water. That's what's making all the beautiful swirls, Mama."

I'm speechless. She's brilliant. That's exactly what's making those swirls, sweet girl.

We strike up a conversation with a man that we had seen on the beach digging for clams during low tide the day before. LittleVirgo had, of course, wanted to know and see everything that was happening during their dig, and he and his wife had obliged her happily. He told us he was going shrimping the next day, where the good shrimping spots were, explaining the exact location as if I was taking my own boat there too, and then asked us our story. Everyone does that mostly. LittleVirgo is nectar to older islanders, and a novelty to the younger crowd. 

The crossing is short, just under five minutes, so we say good-bye to our new friend, Martin, and wish him well on his shrimping excursion. LittleVirgo waves to the ferry workers, forcing even the crankiest of the crew to crack a smile. 

And this is how it is all week, only every day it gets better. We meet more people. We exchange more smiles. We learn more names. We pet more dogs. We hear more chatter.

"Linda, I've been meaning to stop by. I've got a book for you to read."

"Chantal, did you get that lettuce I left for you?"

"Bob, you're back from Alaska!"

I got advice about my ant problem, learned where to get the best honey on the island and finally got the name of the bird I love to hear - a warbler. 

Today when I arrived at the ferry to return to Guemes after my workday I was sad to see the car ferry was done with its service early. Cars were parked in the ferry line. Islanders were back behind glass again. Just smiles and waves.

Once upon a time, we lived on a little island that sparkled like a green jewel, and we all felt how magical it was, because we all remembered to take a minute, say hello, enjoy our daily grind and remember how lucky we are to be residents of this incredible place. We talked to each other and enjoyed conversation and made the most of the five minutes we had together.

To long-time Guemes residents this week may have been just another ferry outage but to me and LittleV it was a fairy tale. It was an experience that we'll tell people about and they'll think we're embellishing, but it's like I've been saying about Guemes Island for almost a year now, things happen over here that just don't happen on dry land.

I am woman hear me yell profanities at the top of my lungs

I would consider myself a strong woman.

At age 8 I crawled up an aluminum slatted slide that was clearly made for only going down, sliced my knee open and hobbled the five blocks home while bleeding. I still have a scar to prove it.

I withstood my formative years being teased and called "sarah pees-her-pants" because of a kindergarten pants-peeing incident only to shake it off and garner a new nickname in 8th Grade - "Charmin" - thanks to a bra-stuffing incident.

 

I went to college in the 90s, chopped all my hair off so I wouldn't be identified by my "beauty", and withstood all unecesaary, stereotypical lesbian jokes that comes with that.

I got hit by a car while riding my bike. I have two tattoos. I gave birth to a child, naturally. 

So, yeah. All in all, I think I'm a pretty emotionally and somewhat physically strong woman. No, I don't do ironmans, or climb mountains, or push huge tractor trailor tires around parking lots for strength training. But, I don't crumble in the face of hardship or humiliation or a challenge. My history has shown me that when I set my mind on something I don't stop until it's accomplished, no matter what. To me, that's strength. 

This year was one of my strongest years to date. I left LittleVirgo for a whole month to start writing a novel while living on an island 20 hours drive away from her. I had to put my 13-ish year-old beagle to sleep during the first two weeks I was on the island, away from her. Then I decided to uproot my life and hers and live on the island without any idea of what happens next - away from everyone.

The first month here, on beautiful Guemes Island, was the honeymoon. There were more sunny days than rainy days. The cozy cabin we're living in for the summer oozes charm out of every nook and cranny, and there are actual nooks and crannies. Everything was new and exciting and novel. So what if there were ants in the house. It's an island, right? The ferry is 30 minutes off schedule? Whatever. It's part of the island charm. LittleVirgo and I were going to be the belles of the island for sure. People would honk and wave and think, "There are those two adorable girls from Boulder." We'd have the loveliest days walking to the beach near our cabin, and learning the tide tables and identifying sea life. And even when it rained, we'd just put on our boots and keep going. 

Now it's the nearing the middle of month two. Honeymoon over. And this strong woman, who, for many years has looked adversity in the face and sang, Hear Me Roar, would rather yell fuckingFUUUUCKdamnitshitallhelldamnitassholeheadFUUUUUCK at the top of her lungs.

Turns out, moving to an island by myself is harder than I thought. 

On the drive here, during a snowstorm outside of Bozeman, Montana, the winshield wiper blade I'd just had replaced blew off its arm, leaving one functioning windsheild wiper, the passenger side of course, and one metal arm scraping across an ice-filled windshield. Normally, I'd have the man in my life or my dad replace it for me. Neither of those things are an option so I taught myself how to install a wiper blade in a snowstorm. Damnit.

The cabin we live in is  so unbelivably charming I could eat it for dessert every night. Seriously, it's probably been the inspiration for a nautical poem where the wife stays home and tends the fire (woodstove) while ye husband is out to sea. She paces the porch awaiting her gentleman to return home and alas, sees him off in the distance trudging up the road from Cook's Cove, where's he docked his fishing boat and sings him an ancient mariner's tune. But, it does have a bit of an ant problem. I thought I'd nipped it in the bud during week two by investing in some ant traps filled with, what seemed to be, ant heroin that had every ant in a mile radius beelining it to these traps, lapping up the clear liquid. They were supposed to live just long enough to take it back to their queen, kill her and the rest of the ant colony, and that would be that. Ant genocide. It was quiet for a day or two, but little by little, they've been reappearing. LittleVirgo has even created an Ant Can where she puts ants that she catches with her fingers. Just when I think I've got them all, a new little black ant crawls out from under a rug and I clench my fingers. FuckingAssholes!

I hired a part-time nanny for LittleVirgo back in February while I was getting everything in place to move to the island. She seemed great on paper. Long story short, she wasn't. After confronting her for purchasing movies from iTunes and not being repaid for these movies, she quit on me with no notice, leaving me and LittleV to freelance together. Oh, and she's in full-on "mama i wanna heeeeelp" mode all the time. If I'm sitting at my laptop typing she's got her fingers between mine typing too. I love LittleVirgo, but Mama's gotta work and pay the bills. Shit all hell.

And speaking of LittleVirgo, she's coming into her own out here on the island. And again, I type this next part with all the love in the world for the little girl I gave natural childbirth too, she's driving me batshit crazy. I love her. I do. She's a spirited, independant, stubborn, strong-willed child. She's me, at three years old. It's a minute-to-minute practice of patience with her. Especially because now it's on 24/7, where as before, I shared time with her Dad. (Note: I'm not going into how we share her time now. This post is not about that. Thanks.)  So we're together all the time, singing the "Frozen" soundtrack and Baby Beluga, playing with a family of slugs she's adopted, and collecting every seashell on this island. There have been plenty of nights after lights out, which is hard to explain to her up here above the 42 parallel where daylight lasts until 9ish p.m. and there are no lights to turn out, that I've taken whatever the alcohol du jour is, found safe haven on the front porch and closed the door behind me, leaving her to figure out sleepy time on her own. Really, I want to yell GOTHEFUCKTOSLEEP, but I exhale and drink my wine. 

I ran out of firewood to keep the cabin warm. I could pay for a half-rick (I think that's the measurement, anyway) of wood, but I'm kind of cheap. I don't have a truck to go pick it up. I don't want to pay delivery cost, and quite frankly, I just keep forgetting to do it until the day here and there that it gets a bit chilly at night. Tonight is one of those nights. It's been in the upper 60s for a week or so, even on cloudy days, and I've gotten used to not needing anything more than an extra blanket at night. It's been raining for two days, and the wet chill set in this afternoon. There's was one huge chunk of wood in the rack, that if split up, would be a good four-hour fire. So, I hauled it out to the wood-splitting stump, stood it on it's end,  told LittleVirgo to stand back because of course she's on my tail, picked up the ax and heaved it over my shoulder and totally missed. I tried several more times, always reminding myself to look where I wanted to hit, but I couldn't figure out which side the ax felt more comfrotable on, which side should I swing. I kept throwing it over my shoulder and then launching it into the wood and it would get stuck. Obviously I wasn't hitting the grain right, I deducted. After the tenth swing with no results, nearly dislocating my arm, I looked over my shoulder at LittleVirgo who said, You look funny mama, and nearly launched into a poem of woodchopping profanity. MOTHERCHUCKINGFUCKINGWOOD. 

GAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.

In case you thought every day on an island was a perfect, glorious day. It's not. In case you thought I was just living it up out here, cruising on sailboats every day and kayaking through coves and along shorelines. I'm not. In case you thought a handsome man was delivering fresh seafood to my door, he's not. And don't even get me started on the absense of dating out here, or how I look like a harried single mom with dark circles under my eyes and and a tantruming child in tow every time I see a good looking man. Yes. I'm living a dream. My dream. Don't get me wrong. I love it. So much. But for once I find myself not feeling so strong. Wanting to stomp my feet instead of roaring. Wanting to curse the Universe and my lack of strength instead of praising them.

Turns out, life is easier if you just stay put in the comfy zone. That's not me though. Never has been. I'm sure I'll revisit that old Helen Reddy tune someday and roar again. Right now, I'm gonna keep creating new explicatives and perfecting my profanity. Sonofabitchassfuckingpissantshittingcocksucker.

 

Here I Go Again on My Own…..

"This is your life. Do what you love and do it often." - Holstee Manifesto

If you've never read the Holstee Manifesto, you should. It might change your life, if you let it. It changed mine and here I am, blogging from Guemes Island, WA - a tiny, unknown island in the Puget Sound.

 

Today, I'm marrying the Holstee Manifesto and the lyrical genius of Whitesnake. Who would've thought that a highly designed yet simple manifesto for life would have anything in common with a glam, 80s hairband, but they do. Oh, they really do. 

The Holstee Manifesto is about living life to its fullest without fear or doubt or hestitation and sharing all of that with the people around you. It's this inspiration that lead me to move to Guemes Island for 6 months with Little Virgo without knowing what the heck comes next. I have no idea if it will be 6 months or 6 years that we'll be here. I do know that the universe guided us here, and though it was scary as hell to leave the comfortable confines of the Boulder Bubble after seven amazing years, I did it. Yes, there are much worse places I could be than on an island during its best seasons. But that's the thing, isn't it? I chose to be on the island during its best seasons. "travel often. getting lost will help you find yourself." and why not?

And here's where the brilliance of Whitesnake comes in. Several days ago, sitting in the drivers seat of my trusty Jetta, I looked through the windshield of my car at the vastness of I-25 dissecting Wyoming's rough and tumble landscape  and found myself singing, "Here I go again on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. Like a drifter I was born to walk alone. But I've made up my mind. I ain't wasting no more time." And I got excited. I got butterflies in my stomach. My palms sweated a little bit. I'm going down this road that's so familiar to me. Maybe I've always done it this way, but never really noticed. And now, in this more mindful way of living, I'm noticing. I'm a drifter - the good kind. I'll land on my feet. I'll end up where I'm supposed to end up. It's the alone part I could have never done without my belief in the Holstee Manifesto. I would have never understood that this IS my life, and if I have to go it alone, at least for this part of the journey, then damnit, I'M muthereffing DOING IT! 

I'll be blogging my adventures from the island for the next several months while I finish my first novel (also still freelance writing - shameless self-promotion). I hope you tune in, leave your comments, and share in the excitement.

If you haven't seen this video in a while, and why would you have, do yourself a favor and give 4:32 to the masterpiece that is 80s videos:

 

 

 

An island of one's own

I’ve met my soul mate. It’s an island. But, it’s not an island like you’re thinking. It’s not all white sand beaches and palm trees. It’s in the most unsuspecting place, just off the northwest coast of Washington State in the San Juan – here’s a word I love to use - archipelago. The island didn’t woo me with its 4-star restaurants or luxurious hotels, because there aren’t any. It’s not that kind of island. I wasn’t wooed at all. I was quietly touched by its lush, green forests, perfect blue waters, salty sea breezes, smooth, pebbled, agate-filled beaches. I was captivated by its early, quiet sunrises and long, lingering sunsets. I was in awe of the friendly reception I received from the locals. I don’t quite know what I’m feeling about Guemes Island, but it’s something that resembles love.

Hey, I’ve been places. I’ve seen things. I’ve lived in San Francisco, Chicago, and I currently live in Boulder for the love of God! Every day as I drive out of my neighborhood I stare at the gorgeous Flatirons and foothills of this coveted, pretentious bubble of a town. I ride my bike and gaze at the pastoral, dramatic landscape around me, and I get to call it home. And what’s more, I lived in Seattle for almost six years. I’ve been to the San Juan Islands before; just never this little hidden gem of an island.

Beautiful destinations are nothing new to me. I’ve experienced the coast of Italy and France; the mountains and beaches of Belize; the pubs of London; the boulangeries of Paris; the Guggenheim in Bilboa and pintxos bars in San Sebastian, Spain; the glorious rainforests in the Virgin Islands; the fishing villages of Mexico. But there’s something, I can't quite put my finger on it, but it resembles the embodiment of the word, genuine, about Guemes Island that stirs my soul. There is an unmatched natural beauty that mesmerizes, silences and allows life to happen on the simplest of terms. The way the young natives adopted me and took me in like I was a part of their family was an experience that doesn’t happen on dry land. We sat together on the beach and talked about everything and nothing - for hours upon hours. They took me sailing. They had a beach BBQ, in my honor. They played guitars and flutes and serenaded me, and the best part was, we didn’t even know each other, but that didn’t matter. All that did was that we were living, and being, and enjoying each minute and each other and the island.

            I’m 36 years-old. My life is just fine. I don’t need any beautiful, soft-spoken, romantic island interrupting my daily routine and taking over my emotions. I know how to do everything my own way. I’m not afraid of anything! Except, apparently, being in love. And that revelation didn’t hit me until the moment I set foot on this little island in the Puget Sound. Because when I did, a wave of uncertainty and surprise and relief and warmth washed over me, and covered me like the beach at high tide; and that tide hasn’t gone out yet.

What started as a writing retreat over five perfect July day became a love affair. Guemes Island made me smile bigger, feel deeper, and live more fully than I have for as long as I can remember. It made me say, yes, to everything. It made me forget about time and my iPhone and answering email and any responsibility waiting for me back on the mainland. I didn’t shower, and I didn’t care. I looked in the mirror and I saw me, staring back at me. Who had I been every other day before you, Guemes Island?

I was inspired to write like I'd never written before. The words couldn't travel from my brain to my fingers fast enough. Maybe it was the ever present smell of freshness, or the stillness of the air, or the constancy of green and blue everywhere I looked. I don't know, but the island became my muse, my inspiration, my partner. I wanted to grab her, hug her and never let her go. So I won't.

 Yes, I’m in love with an island, and it’s totally unrealistic to think we could be together. But as I sit here, landlocked, surrounded by people and creature comforts and tall buildings, I wonder, why can’t it be reality? I don’t have the answer to that, so until we meet again Guemes Island – and we will, oh yes, we will – I love you.

 

 

 

 

What I learned in France/Italy

Hi everyone. Sorry I've been gone so long. I had very important places to go and people to see. 

Those place were Paris and Aix-en-Provence, France and Camogli, Italy. While I was there I learned some very important things, and I'd like to share them with you.

1. Europeans don't use conditioner. I found this out while in the shower rinsing out a good shampoo lather. So, I did as the Euros did and went au natural. My hair did not like it. It was like I was 6 years old all over again with my mother trying to comb the tangles out of my hair. Apres Shampoo, Parisians! Si vous plait!

2. There's fashion, and then there's Paris. I like to consider myself a fashion forward lady. I keep up on what's happening in NY, SF, London. I challenge myself to toss on more than a shirt and a pair of pants each day. I spice up an outfit with a pair of orange heels, or an electric blue scarf. In Paris, I might as well have worn a sweat suit. For two and a half days I tried my hardest to come close to fitting in, and I always felt like the nerdy girl with a snotty nose, stringy hair (thanks to the no conditioner), wearing a tattered, hand-me-down skirt and (unfashionable) slouchy socks. All the Parisian women had donned their fall wardrobes, and I was still wearing skirts and sandals. It was a humid, balmy 75 degrees! Strike One. Dark colors, no matter what. Me, royal blue coat, yellow heels. Basically, clown. Strike Two. Scarves, scarves, scarves. I thought I would have this covered. Nope. Not even close. My scarves didn't count because of the aforementioned two strikes. Out.

3. Crocs are alive and well, at least in France and Italy. The hideous rubber sandal is popular in the French countryside and small fishing villages in Italy. However, they are used to house slipper and actual gardening shoes. I saw them all over the place. Surprising, actually. Crocs may want to think about uprooting from Boulder and heading to the French countryside.

4. Large people (i.e. over 6 foot) do not fit in France or Italy. This mainly applied to Gentleman Husband. Being 6'5, he was too tall for many doorways, cars, parking garages, and stuck out sorely in most crowded cafes. The good thing was, I could always find him.

5. A hike in Italy listed as 2:45 total time will take a German family that long, but will take two athletic Americans, 4 hours. GH and I stayed in a picturesque fishing village in Italy called Camogli (soft 'g'). It was, almost literally, clinging to a hillside on the coast of the aquamarine Mediterranean Sea. You could hike from our village to to other villages. We had nothing better to do than hike along the Med, so we embarked on this journey. From Camogli to the first town, San Rocco, the trail was completely stairs. We huffed and puffed our way up hundreds of stairs. From there, we continued on a lovely path through two small cliffside towns. That was the easy part. For the remaining 3 hours of the hike, we ascended straight up, across rock faces of a mountains with nothing stopping us from plunging into the Med but a chain rope, and then back down. Over and over. It was worth it. At the end of the hike was San Fruttouosso. A small monastery only accessible by footpath or ferry. Did we tour the monastery? No. I did, however, have some amazing trofetti and pesto and swim in the Med.

6. Everything sounds better when spoken in a foreign language. I learned French approximately 4 minutes before we got to France, and Italian on the drive from France to Italy. Needless to say, I wasn't prepared.I quickly learned that to pronounce French all one must do is swallow the end of a word and not pronounce the hard sounds. Montmarte, for example, is not MonT marT. It's monmar. Bangolet is not BanGoleT. It's Ban(swallow G sound) o lay. See, you too can speak French. We, as Americans, will never sound as suave as the French. One of the men that owned the house we stayed in while in Aix would always be looking for something while scurring around his kitchen, and would say: "Ou est? Ou est? Ah. Viola"  Which translated just means - Where is it? Where is it? Ah, here it is. But, how boring does that sound in plain old English?

THere you have it. Very important lessons learned while in Europe that can apply to my life in general. I'm every so thankful for hair conditioner, high ceilings and Rosetta Stone CDs.

Sometimes amazing happens.

Gentleman Husband and I went to visit two of our favorite couples this weekend, the manOrrs and the Beaverhausens. They live in Kansas City, MO -very near the birthplace of CrazyVirgo. For whatever reason, we have never visited without something memorable (or illegal or embarrassing) happening. In the past I have tried to jump into the arms of my 6"5' husband, like a Romanian gymnast, totally missing him and landing with my head smacked against asphalt. No one was hurt. On one particular visit, we created the Greatest Music Video of All Time. Period. Once I mentally scarred one half of Beaverhausen so much that he bolted out of manOrr like lightening and high-stepped it the 10 blocks home.

But, nothing, and I do mean nothing, will top our most recent visit. Inspired by an almost intolerable love for GoodFellas, the Mayor of manOrr required that all 6 people involved with the first night of our visit channel Jersey 1976 for our dinner at an Italian joint in Kansas City, KC (side note: KCK is Jersey to Kansas City, Missouri's NYC, so it made sense.) Gentleman Lover and I waited at the Kansas City airport, dressed in our costumes as were instructed to, and then a 1987 maroon Ford wagon with wood panels showed up to chauffeur us around for the evening. It was, in a word, the tits. 

Then, this happened:

In all honesty friends, we didn't even pose this. We didn't even know this was going to happen. We got lost on this dead-end street, realized there was an incredible view of Kansas City, MO, got out of the car to take a picture, fell into character, and took the best picture of our lives.

Take a minute. Soak it in. But don't look too long. You might be blinded. 

Soon, people everywhere will see this picture, because it will probably be put in the Kansas City Kansas Museum of History, and want to re-enact this exact same night. But they won't be able to. It's was a once in a lifetime event. Immortalized on June 12, 2009.

Sometimes amazing happens. And it feels good.

CrazyVirgo and the Art of Commuting

Ever since I can remember I've been a commuter. There are a myriad of reasons: no car, no money to fix a car, no need for a car, self-appointed environmental savior. I've lived in cities that have highly functioning public transportation (love you San Francisco) and cities that don't (I'm talking to you, Denver/Boulder). I love public transportation. I hate pubic transportation. It makes be a better person. It makes me a grumpy, vile person. In any case, allowing a Virgo to use public transportation makes for a tale of erratic proportions.

I went to a Catholic grade school that was 6 blocks away from me, so I walked. No matter what the weather. I wanted to be dropped off in the U-shaped driveway in front of my brick, ivy covered school like all my friends, but my mother insisted my younger sister and I were walking. Through snow, rain, and desperately hot Missouri summers, we walked in our plaid jumpers, which inevitably ended up at school either soaked, frozen or sweated through. 

In high school I didn't get a car. No biggie. I was dying to take the bus. All the cool kids did. However, just when I thought commuting was about to pay off in popularity, my parents moved out of my childhood home, conveniently located on a bus route, and moved to the country to their "dream house." I had to bum a ride off a friend who made me late everyday. Tardiness lead to detention. Detention lead to missed ride home. Missed ride home lead to calling my Granny to come pick me up. Total popularity killer.

I lived in an awesome college town - Lawrence, KC. I had a killer orange Trek mountain bike that got me everywhere I wanted to go. I was a bike commuter before bike commuting was even trendy. Class. Concerts.  Bars. Burrito King. Booty calls. I never really wanted to go home, so I didn't need a car to travel the 60 miles. Less money on gas meant more money for Quarter Draws. In hindsight, I biked a lot. How I gained 10 lbs, I'll never know.

I moved to Denver, CO, after college. I had a clunker of a car, nicknamed "The Duster". It spent most of it's time parked in front of my apartment due to breakdown and/or parking tickets. It seized up in the middle of a street one incredibly snowy day in December 2000 and the decision to be a full-time commuter was made for me. I took the Colfax bus into downtown where I transfered to the free 16th Street [pedestrian] Mall Shuttle, and then walked 3 blocks to work, thinking all the way how awesomely urban I was. Career lady using the bus. 

Then, I moved to the glorious urban metropolis of San Francisco. Home of the greatest public transportation on the West Coast! Busses, light rails and trains that put everywhere else I had lived to shame. Every day was a happy day thanks to the MUNI and BART. I lived in Russian Hill all 4 years of my short tenure in SF, and was a rider of many of the most famous bus lines.

The 30 started in the Marina - the whitest neighborhood in San Francisco, full of J.Crew clad, BMW driving, WASPs. It traveled through North Beach, here it usually picked up wide-eyed tourists and someone saturated in urine. Then through Chinatown where it dodged delivery trucks showcasing their pink pig carcasses. Picked up mini-Asian-octogenarians with their pink grocery bags carrying live fish, that had no problem pushing and shoving their way through the max capacity bus to get a seat. Then through the Stockton Tunnel where everyone breathed in fumes of Oakland commuters. Then, finally dumped off in Union Square. The 30X also started in the Marina, but in order the spare the white-bred, burgeousie Marina crowd from mingling with commoners, it took an express route directly into the Financial District. The 30X was notoriously the "hook-up" bus, where men/women, men/men, and women/women cast longing, flirtatious glances at each other, developed secret crushes and exchanged numbers and email addresses only to have an unfortunate hook-up experience forcing one of them to switch bus routes. The very colorful 1 started in Pacific Heights - without fail one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in SF, then picked me up on Polk Street in Russian Hill - the workingman/woman's neighborhood full of 20 & 30-somethings just living the dream. Then it went over the top of Nob Hill, the second oldest and wealthiest neighborhood in the city, where it picked up old money, clad in Chanel and usually grouchy. Then down through Chinatown, this time avoiding the pig trucks, but picking up the Dim Sum gatherers, then into the Financial District. At first, my mouth hung down to my knees when I rode the bus. But, then I got used to it, and learned how to fight the pink bags for good bus position.

From San Francisco, I moved to Seattle, where one would think there was public transportation options galore. I don't know, maybe it's just me, but from afar, Seattle seems like a progressive, green city. It's not. God love Seattle, they're still voting (read: fighting) to take the irrelevant Monorail and make it useful for a city built to hold a couple hundred thousand people than now holds over a mill. There are busses powered by electricity, and clean fuel busses. But, not so direct routes and somewhat ishy timetables. In a city plagued by rain for 9 months a year, might be nice to have a reliable mode of public transportation. Gentleman Husband and I were determined to live with only one car. So, he being a human unable to handle to stress of public transportation (credit, he took busses in SF, where they actually worked) drove to work and I bussed it from Queen Anne to Downtown Seattle. Many times arriving either sprayed by bus backwash or frazzled and sweaty from walking because the bus just never showed up. When we moved to Ravenna (the cityburbs, as we liked to call it), commuting to my job in Capital Hill became an issue. I would have to take two busses to get to work - incidentally at an office hellbent on starting the work day at 8 a.m. Bus - 45 minutes. Car - 10 minutes. Though buying a car seemed like the logical solution to this problem, I decided to Stand for Something and prove Seattle public transportation worked. It didn't go so well. I fought the bus daily, and riders who didn't understand bus protocol, and the rain. But, I did it. I did it because I thought one CrazyVirgo on the bus was one less car.

In the middle of Seattle, I did some time in Chicago. For all it's Oprah fans and sports fans, it's a city that knows public transportation. I love that El. It got me to work in 15 minutes flat, no delays, no late trains. I could set my watch by the arrival and departure of the Blue Line. No matter where I needed to go in the city, I found a El stop within 3 blocks and utilized a train system that only took a pre-school education level to understand. Sweet.

Now, I live in Boulder, CO. Boulder is small enough that I can walk or ride a cruiser bike wherever I need to go, and Boulderites would rather I did that than pollute their crystal clean air with my car. Fine. That doesn't solve the problem that I live approximately 25 miles from my office. Again, Gentleman Husband and I stuck with one car. He, a mere 7 miles from his office, yet with unpredictable office hours. Me, a 50 mile roundtrip with pretty standard office hours. What are a couple of misplaced urbanites to do? Yep, get a used 1992 Audi 100. Obviously. For some reason, Gentleman Husband has a long-standing love affair with Audis. It's his second older Audi. I liked it. It was fashionably vintage. It got me to and from Denver in the winter. In the summer, I joined the ranks of hipsters with a 10-speed Centurion bike  pimped out with hot pink bar tape, and did a bike-bus-bike commute. It was a drag, at first, getting up early to leave the house at 7:30 a.m., ride 4 miles, take the bus, ride 10 blocks, and start the work day sweaty. But, I love Mother Earth and the extra savings in my bank account, so I did it. Sacrificed hundreds of incredibly stylish summer outfits that weren't bike-to-work friendly, and hugged Mama Earth every day.

Then, the Audi left me stranded in late winter. So, I got a VW Rabbit, and fell head over heels in love.

Zippy, white stick shift, comfortable, match my personality in love with this car.

Now, it's almost Summer again, and I'm torn. My Centurion is waiting in the garage for me to dust it off and get back on. But, I loathe the sweaty commute to and fro. This summer, I've purchased commuter clothes, combating the arrival home in my work clothes completely sweat through. But, that doesn't help that fact that I'm a stylish lady. I live for heels and haircuts and Sephora. All things that don't exactly work with a bike commute. It's just not so fun to haul my morning regime to work with meon my back every day. On the other hand, I get exercise without fail, twice a day, and save gas, and there's one less car on the road. What's a stylish, environment-loving, wanna-be commuter to do?

Not sure. In any case, I've gotta go catch the bus.