Biofreeze and CNN....BNN?

I always dreamed of how I would spend my school-free Saturday's.  I'd get up early, go to the gym, maybe do grocery shopping, take up an exquisite hobby, do a puzzle, maybe work my way through Julia Child's cookbook.  

Riiiiiiiight.

The actual picture?  I did complete 4.5 miles on the treadmill and got a shower but now I'm watching Jonas Blizzard coverage on CNN.  Okay, with Pino Grigio.  It's hysterical.  In one scene, the young, blonde reporter in Central Park was hit by a snowball onscreen.  She brushed it off like a pro.  Then Steven Tyler from Aerosmith walks up with his daughter Liv and they (in a seemingly high manner) promoted his new single along with family hugs and hot chocolate.

Riiiiiiiiiight.  [Insert peace sign here.]

I have to admit, this is good entertainment.  It's not that I like watching millions of people struggle in terrible weather.  But it is fascinating to watch "Walking Dead"like scenes as a person walks down Capitol Avenue in D.C.  Or Steven Tyler stealing a kid's air mattress and go sailing down a hill in Central Park.  Seriously, travel was banned in NYC and hundreds (or more) people are flocking to Central Park for a massive snowball fight and sledding.  They're playing in the snow!

I'll drink to that.

So I'm happy to blow a Saturday afternoon this way...in seven short months, I will be in my first PhD class.  Yes, my board chair asked me to start my doctorate.  So I found a nice hybrid program in Ethics that allows me to stay in Indianapolis the majority of the time.  The website is scary...they say they only admit 25% of all applicants and most are JD's and MD's.  It almost scared me away.  But I trudged through the application, going as far as to hire an editor for my writing sample.  My system CEO and board chairperson wrote me a recommendation and 36 hours later, I received an email from Loyola saying I'm in their early admit selections.  

That.....was terrifying.  What?  WHAT?

Obviously, I'm still fightiing my self-doubt.  I was truly prepared to receive a rejection letter that I wasn't of the academic caliber they seek.  That I wasn't going to be deemed smart enough.  

But here I am.  A doctoral student.  I never really wanted to do a doctorate.  I did a few years ago, to prove my mental prowess and earn some respect.  But now?  I didn't feel it necessary.  I celebrated some serious success and stomach acid reduction when I finished my second master's.  I'm done!  Forever!  Yay!  Then, in November, my board chairperson point-blank asked me to do the doctorate.  Okay, FINE.  It's not how I really want to spend my Saturday's again, but, hey, what's another 4-5 years?  Maybe by the time I'm 42, I will REALLY be done with school.  Fingers crossed?

Dr. Dorrie?  Yeah....please never call me that.  I never want education and my opportunities to go to my head.

The other reason I've been in the family news feed lately is that I tore my rotator cuff.  I was saving kittens from a burning car, don't ya know.  True story!  

At least that's what I told the system ethics committee when I couldn't attend this past week.  Ugh....I've been doing so well on my treadmill conquests and my abs are threatening to actually make a reappearance.  And I admit that I discovered the stupid leggings the girls are wearing these days with riding boots.  I will NOT do the riding boot craze but the compression leggings are pretty awesome.  I found boot cut leggings that compress everything from the knees up...so they're flattering.  Maybe that's the wine talking but my body is definitely responding to the regular exercise.  Over 100 miles since Dec. 27 and I don't know how many thousands of crunches.  Push up's, however, have been suspended.  

Last week, I was at #49 of 50 push-up's, in my regular routine.  I was jammin' to my tunes and when lifting myself back up, I heard a very audible "rrrrriiiiiiipppppp" in my left shoulder.  And instant pain.  Fabulous.  

I figured it was a torn muscle and nursed it for a few days.  Then on Tuesday, it got so bad I wanted to puke so I called the doctor.  Had an X-Ray to placate the insurance and am waiting for clearance for the MRI.  But when I googled my pain points in my shoulder, it's pretty obvious that I tore something in my rotator cuff.  I'm just not sure how bad the tears are and please, oh please, can we not do surgery?    I hope PT will be enough.  That and Biofreeze.  Biofreeze has been my friend - it's an IcyHot that works for a couple hours.  It's wonderful.  Buy stock in the stuff.

  

So here's to pain-free rotator cuff tears, about 25 more school-free Saturday's, and a blizzard that isn't happening in Indiana for once.  Stay safe, New Yorkers, and keep up the snowball fights!

Decisions, Decisions

A strange thing struck me this past holiday season.  

Since we live 150 miles away from most members of our family, we do not seem them all that often.  Probably five times a year, tops.  We try to text and email to stay in touch since we do not see them but the fact remains - we just don't see our family that much.  

As I studied my aunts, uncles, cousins, and other family this Christmas, I realized that they tend to change between holidays.  Hair styles change, weight comes and goes, and wrinkles might be more or less evident one year.  I'm not sure why it required a Christmas Eve celebration in my uncle's basement rec room, but I realized that everyone is a sum of their daily choices.  The hair/weight/wrinkle changes I notice from year to year happen in the day-to-day lives they lead.  Maybe they decide to go gray and stop coloring their hair.  Maybe they opt for salads instead of bacon to drop a few pounds.  Maybe they stop indoor tanning and no longer look like leather.  

Whatever the case, life happens in those little decisions.  

I see it in myself, too.  Particularly in pictures, I notice my own superficial changes in hair, weight, and wrinkles from year to year.  While I might look fabulous one year as compared to another, it took a lot of sacrifice and styling.  While I might look frumpy and bloated, it took a lot of long days and lack of attention to proper diet, exercise, or rest to get there.  

Regardless, I'm on my own journey and the destination is the journey itself.  The whole point of this life is to keep moving, keep growing, keep becoming who you are really meant to be.  

But those daily choices matter.  We make 1,000 little decisions each day and they all matter.  They all add up to something.  And it's not just the choices that lead to our physical appearance - the choices that craft and polish our inner-most heart and soul matter, too.  Each choice adds to or detracts from our character. 

I will pay attention to the small choices I make each day.  They all count and they all matter.

Hope

Have you ever found hope in the most random of places?

Like in a farm field in southern Indiana, in the first week of January?

Jack and I took a ride yesterday to a new brewery in southern-ish Indiana.  It's a darling little place with rockin' IPA's, hard cider, and nachos that are made out of tater tots.  Seriously, does drinking GET any better?  Not that it was about drinking but it was our first date in a while.  I have this hang up he's trying to alleviate...when we host company, I inevitably have to stay home with "the girls" because they don't want to visit breweries or someone's not feeling well, etc.  As a result, I've been to about two of Indianapolis' 294 breweries.  

So I blew up in a stupid and immature manner the other day, claiming that I "never get to do anything cool."  I know this is not true, hello, I get to go to Rome every year, have beautiful friends and family, and have the very unusual experience of liking/loving my job.  But, hey, in the moment, sometimes a girl needs the honor of gracing a new brewery with her beau.  

En route to said brewery, we started noticing a crazy color as we raced down I-65 South....GREEN.  What were those beautiful green fields that looked a little like broccoli?  In contrast to the stormy/gray/rainy sky of January 9, why did I suddenly feel like I was in Ireland?  Why did I feel inclined to take a deep breath of gratitude, that spring was only a farm field away?  I know winter wheat greens up pretty early, but the earliest we have ever seen it was March.  Late March.

I texted my friend Vera to verify the winter wheat diagnosis.  She conferred and confirmed.  Yes.  Indianapolis is just that spring-like, with our mild, El Niño temps, the winter wheat is already sprouting.  "Rejoice," she said, "for this is a tried-and-true sign that this won't be a bad winter."

Did I mention that, 24 hours later, I am sitting in our living room, hypnotized by the swirling snowflakes outside?  With a peek of sunshine every now and then, it's snowing without purpose; the flakes sort of drift around as if there's no gravity.  It looks artificial, actually, that I'm on a movie set and someone's piping fake snow onto my property.  It's very pretty - like the snow that you imagine when lovers glide around an ice-skating rink, Louis Armstrong singing in the background.  Don't tell anyone, but I like the snow.  It is our first snow in Indy this year and apart from a couple snowstorms throughout the winter, this is about all we get.  Jack and I declared this a snow day; despite his having to work for a couple hours earlier, it seems like a perfect excuse to not leave the house, light the fireplace, not get dressed beyond our Adidas pants and Notre Dame sweatshirts, and cook a roast in the oven.  I'm sure hot chocolate is on the menu later.   

Despite the snow today, the green farm fields gave me hope.  An odd source of hope, but still hope.

What else has given me hope lately?  The fact that the days are getting a teeeeeeny bit longer each day; it's no longer pitch black at 5:15 p.m.  The fact that I taught my first 5- hour long class last Thursday and survived.  Holy cow, that's a long time.  But it went well, despite taking every morsel of energy I had that day (and the next day).  The fact that the sense of peace with which I was gifted in Italy this past fall remains with me.  I had a "rock" of "yuck" in my chest before we went on pilgrimage.  I have not written about the pilgrimage but plan to eventually.  I bitched a lot during the trip itself, for I do not usually take well to group outings and someone else's schedule and agenda.  I am working on that but the Rock of stress/worry/anxiety/guilt/obligation dissolved in Italy and has not yet returned.  That gives me hope.  

My parents are finally starting to eat well and take care of themselves.  They no longer hesitate to say "I love you" when they want to - for years, those were words we didn't say too often.  I have no idea why, but I am glad they are making a resurgence.  It gives me hope.

My own slaving gym routine is giving me hope right now...that I am not beyond hope.  With the insane stress of my hospital ops jobs and grad school, I have not seriously worked out in years.  I walked on the treadmill most nights after work, racking up between 10-14 miles a week.  But I never ran, did any kind of ab work, or weight lifting.  That has changed and my "new day" began on December 27.  Since then, I walked 28 miles, running 9.9 of them.  I have done almost 3,000 crunches.  When I got out of bed yesterday morning, I felt leaner.  Like I had less of a gut.  Surprisingly, consistently doing 200+ crunches a day will have an effect on you (!).  This whole consistency thing is a bit shocking, for I cannot remember committing to any fitness goal like this before.  It gives me hope.  

As does my other area of newfound consistency - that of prayer/meditation.  I am terrible at regular prayer intervals but find it easier to carve out moments of mindfulness throughout the day.  Those moments lead to moments of prayer.  It's like of like my "crunch challenge."  I cannot do 365 crunches at one time, but if I do 50 in the morning, 200 as part of my workout, 50 after dinner, and my last batch before bed, they are all accomplished.  Same with prayer....while I cannot easily complete all of my wonderings/reflections/prayers in a 30 minute setting, I can find a few moments here and there throughout the day.  This gives me hope.  

So while it's still not-quite-mid-January, I have hope.  Hope that everything will be okay.  Hope that warm, sunny days will return soon.  My blood pressure is under control, the rock of yuck is far away, and I have a roast succulently cooking in the oven on this snowy Sunday.  It all gives me hope!

The Makings of a Dorrie

I miss writing.  So I shall continue.  

Dorrie's "Ab Crunch Extravaganza" continues.  I am regularly able to do 275 crunches.  I am not to 365 a day yet, but I keep telling myself that I am a work in progress.  I am already stronger than I was a week ago.  Work in progress.  The plant that keeps growing through dirt.

Because I am.  Some days I feel I have come so terribly far and other days, well, I'm glad I got out of bed and didn't cry in the board room.  Just yesterday, I had a terrible night's sleep and had to chair an ethics consult about transgenderism and the hospital's stance on transgender procedures, sensitivity training, and advocacy.  It's kind of hard to not laugh when the meeting is full of terminology pertaining to genitalia and we argue the moral perspective of a breast augmentation for the intention of cross-dressing, not a full gender transition.  Seriously.  Did I mention I was the only woman in the room?  Again?

I flashed back to 2009 when I was the administrative fellow, learning, soaking up everything, and trying to be effective while not making a fool of myself.  In this particular meeting, I thought it best to shut up.

But the conversation was SO heady, about institutional Church teaching and cutting edge moral debate for which there have been no formal teachings.  So we're left to...well, figure it out.  This stuff is hard.  These issues trouble Catholic healthcare nation-wide and no one has the answers yet.  

Sometimes I feel like whopping for joy and clicking my heels in glee when I realize I love my job.  I can't believe I'm in this position, making a difference for our ministry.  And sometimes, I glance in the mirror to check that my eyeliner is not running, notice my eye is twitching again, and wonder what the hell I got myself into.    

I will submit my PhD application this weekend and will hopefully get accepted.  Deep inside, I'm still that adolescent who fears going out for volleyball because (gasp!) what if I don't make the team?  Despite two master's degrees and numerous trips across the globe, I'm still that insecure girl at times. Will they like me?  Will they accept me?  Will this doctorate thing work out after all?  It feels like the proverbial fork in the road - if I am accepted to the program, this ethics gig is the right path.  I'm increasingly being referred to as "ethicist" (and more importantly, feeling more confident in my moral judgments and clinical ethics recommendations).  But my employer has made it pretty clear that they expect me to have a doctorate in Ethics.  So if I don't get into this program, then what?  Apply to another and live across the country from Jack?   Sigh...I don't even want to think about it.  

I miss hospital operations but I don't.  I miss the people and the wonderful interactions with patients and staff.  I do not miss the radiology image viewing system crashing at 2 a.m.  And me having to get showered and dressed to go in and calm the mess.  Then try to gut through countless meetings that day.  Tomorrow, I teach my first five-hour Ethics class to nursing administration.  I am back to telling myself that I GET to do this and if things get really bad, just pretend I'm on Saturday Night Live.  That works, right?  As long as I don't get caught lip-syncing?  

There's a big show being binge-watched right now, called the "makings of a murderer."  I am not going to watch that but it does make me think about the "making of an ethicist."  These long, windy, sometimes-scary roads have to be taking me somewhere, right?  I keep telling myself to have faith, to go where God leads me.  But it's never easy and despite my frequent requests, God hasn't emblazed any neon signs in my immediate path.  

Oh well....Just keep swimming.  

365 Laughs in 365 Minutes

I have 2,350 miles on the road planned for January.  I'm teaching four classes this month.  I applied to start my doctorate in the fall.  I started running again, taking up the "365 miles in 365 days" challenge.  And I masochistically added 365 crunches a day for 365 days.  Since I haven't done any ab work since the mid-90's, this crunch challenge is proving more difficult than the running challenge.  Can't.  Quite.  Cough.  It.  Hurts.  So.  Bad.  

We somehow survived the holidays and the "holiday hangover" is in full force this evening.  I have been off work since 12/24, celebrating Christmas, cleaning out every closet in my house and organizing, then hosting New Year's in Indy.  It was only supposed to be our dear friends and siblings but then my folks lamented the fact that they had no plans on New Year's Eve.  What's two more people when you already have six?  Eight.  It was a very full house.  I have no idea how the Tanner's did it...we would not have had room for Comet the dog or Kimmy Gibbler.  During preparation for New Year's Eve dinner (a succulent turkey!), our kitchen literally reminded me of the opening scenes from "Home Alone" where all those people were in the kitchen.  

It felt like I was watching an anthill.  On speed.

Everyone ate and drank too much but we played "Things."  Have you heard of this game?  Everyone gets a slip of paper and you will have to answer a question such as "Things you don't want to find on your sandwich."  It digresses quickly.  And you find out that your future sister-in-law has a filthy mind.  It was hysterical and for the third time in three weeks, I found myself with sore stomach muscles the following day from laughing so hard.  

[Perhaps this is helping my crunch challenge!]

I love my family and friends and feel so incredibly blessed.  I love our times together when we eat too many carbs and forget to cook the broccoli and green beans.  We can live on shrimp cocktail and when talking about it, a ten-minute diatribe starts about the origins of the word "cocktail."  Christmas was beautiful and New Year's was a bit exhausting - but still filled with a lot of awesome memories.  We toasted the Time Square ball drop together; I kept glancing around the room, not sure how so many wonderful people ended up in my life.  So entirely blessed.  But of course, it had to come to an end.

Regardless of all the time throughtfully Christmas shopping, wrapping, decorating, giving, cooking, traveling, churching, laughing, and toasting, it is always nice to return to normal.  As excited as I am to carefully decorate the Christmas tree and hang garlands on our stairway rails, I am so happy to tear everything down and pack it away come January 1.  

Our New Year's party petered out by 6 p.m. on New Year's Day and everyone left for their own corners of the state.  Jack and I, with my brother Brady and his fiancee, Eva, cleaned up the kitchen for hours. Everyone had frazzled nerves and everyone left for their own corners of the house.

Did I mention that Brady is living with us in Indy?  He got a job down here in October and has been cooking us dinner every fourth night since then.  Eva is wonderrful - their wedding is scheduled in August.  So we are privy to their pre-wedding fights about appetizers and who should stand in what order in the bridal party.  Jack and I remember fighting like that - but it's good to be on the other side of marriage!  Honestly, having Brady around all the time and Eva on weekends is starting to feel as though we live with two 26 year old's we didn't birth.  

We're in weird roles of being siblings and yet parents, too.  I try to minimize the number of times I tell Brady to take out the trash.  LOL.

So while our holiday hangovers are going strong on this Sunday evening, tomorrrow starts a new year at work.  New beginnings, new goals, and new initiatives.  New workout plans, new ideas to read more non-fiction, and finally run that half-marathon.  Here's to a new year!  Make it a good one!

How in the HELL Does One Relax?

So today was interesting.  Two ethics consults before 10 a.m., lunch with a nun, and being put on bedrest.  

By "bedrest," I hope "chaiselounger rest" is acceptible.  

It's been a rough going lately.  Not in the sense that operations was, but I almost feel like I'm catching up, like my body is in recovery of sorts.  I logged almost 2,000 miles this month and our hospital system isn't that big.  My back has been a mess of knots and I think I was home four weekdays during August.  So when I got home this past Wednesday, I quickly brushed my yuckiness off; of course dizziness, a thumping heart (palpitations...duh), and crazy headaches are normal for people who travel a lot.

Or those with high blood pressure.  

Or extremely high blood pressure.  

I was at the hospital today for a couple meetings, a retirement celebration for a long time radiology employee, and then lunch with Sister.  My head felt weird, lightheaded, and I was dizzy.  I've only felt that feeling once before, when my BP was 155/100.  

This time?   170/110.  

I actually went down to Imaging to visit a nurse who works down there in recovery.  She was off today.  Instead, I found today's replacement nurse resting comfortably in the patients' recliner.  35 weeks pregnant, she sprung to her feet and, upon seeing me in my suit, screeched out "I'm so busted!  I'm sorry!"  

To which I replied, "I'm the FORMER director of this department, oh, and by the way, can you take my BP really quick?  I feel like I'm stroking out."  She lept into action and was so nervous she couldn't get the machine to work.  I finally said, "Dude (yes, dude), I'm a human who doesn't feel well right now.  Relax, maaaaan!"    She still couldn't make it work.  

So after talking for a few minutes (and trying to not fall over), I wished her luck and bid her farewell.  I felt so crummy that I didn't care about the loafing.  That's so un-Dorrie.  (haha).  Not really wanting to be seen, I crept back through Imaging to the CT department.  They take BP's all day long and I sort of hid behind one of the curtains so that I could wave down one of the techs.  Instead, I get a GROUP of techs walking down the hall (probably returning from the retirement I attended earlier).  It only takes .382 nanoseconds until I am spotted and they are reaching out to help me.  Do I really look that bad?

Yes, it turns out.  With a hugely-inappropriate blood pressure.  They tried to get me to go to the ED but agreed to let me visit a nursing director pal (okay, the director of the ED) who pronounced me in "urgent" shape, not "emergent."  

Well, that's a relief.  But yikes.  No wonder I feel like #$(*@&.

So while I have a doctor's appointment first thing Monday morning, my nursing friend feel it is best if I cool it this weekend.  No galavanting.  No stress.  No caffeine (um...WHAT?)  I will heed it because, well, my father died of a stroke from uncontrolled BP.  I have to take this seriously and I will.  

It's just so ironic.  When I went to the retirement party gathering, everyone kept commenting on how rested I look.  Funny that my head was swimming with dizziness and I could feel my pulse in my ears.  

Time to relax.  For realz.  

Yikes.........Time to figure out HOW to relax.   

I hope my life these past several years with the insane stress has not damaged my body too much.  Here's to hopin'.

Real Moments

I've been writing a lot but trying to discern what to share "publicly."  Work has become interesting as I am now dealing with the intersection of egos and tradition, Church and secularism, ethics and operations.  I'm not really sure if I'm coming or going and I continue to struggle with the change from ops to ethics.  I do know that my stress is 1/10th of what it was.  

I'm always tempted to look back on the rough times in leadership with fond memories.  But it was hard, exhausting, usually-taken-for-granted work.  I have a great deal more mental health these days; I consider   mental health a quantitative measurement, like beans in a jar.  The more beans, the more health.

Today, I'm enjoying a lovely day in my chaise lounger.  A day of dreams, where I sit outside and read "The Help" while sipping a crisp Chardonnay under a blue sky with strategically-placed fluffy white clouds (cue Louis Armstrong's "It's a Wonderful World").  Jack is at the state fair today and as much as I wanted to visit him in his company booth, I needed to re-up the beans in my "aloneness and introversion" jar.

I am coming off a month of extreme travel.  I have covered Indiana probably 5 times and for August, my mileage check is going to be larger than my usual check.  My poor Carmy is probably tired but I'm trying to keep her washed to sort of compensate for the crazy mileage lately.

As much as I hate being away from Jack, travel offers great opportunity for reflection.  I was up in Chicago earlier this week and was very reflective as I approached the hospital at which I used to work. The road sort of dips and the hospital looms, as if taller than it actually is.  I drove that familiar way and was shocked to realize that my stomach clenched up the same way it did years ago.  My stomach muscles remember the stress and reacted as they normally did.  When I had to keep telling myself that I was "blessed to go here" and "lucky for this opportunity that I GET to do this."  

It's weird to realize how conditioning really works.  My stomach remembered the place!  

In that position, I dreaded Saturday nights because Sunday's followed Saturday's and Monday followed Sunday.  Talk about dreading one's life away in a forlorn, strange way.

Even stranger, I stashed my stuff in my former boss's office and glanced into my old office there, now occupied by the local legal counsel.   I instantly flashed back to those early days in mangement when I worked nearly around the clock to finish the insane load of projects.  So desperate to prove myself and to not let down my executive team.  I lived on trail mix, M&M's, and diet coke at work.  Security regularly came to check on me and I'd regularly leave campus after nightfall...even in summer.  Only to go home to a Lean Cuisine and maybe a glass of wine in a box.  

The upscale wine in a box.  Just to clarify.  

As rough as things were in that position, with the stress and never-ending work, I got through it.  And now, looking at it through a very different lens, I am appreciative.

When you're living in an igloo, the beach is even more wonderful.

A new realization has been sinking in since one of the executive leadership retreats a few weeks ago.  A very pious woman explained how she instilled the concept of "real moments" into her teenage children; during a recent trip, one of her daughters exclaimed that the beautiful sunset they were enjoying was a "real moment."  

A real moment means that time could stop, right then and there, and you could remain in that spot forever and be happy.  Thrilled.  Fulfilled.  Complete.  Real moments = Happiness.  

Happiness is an elusive concept.  As soon as you realize you're happy, the moment is passed.  

Ever since that retreat, I've realized several real moments.  As I drove through Chicago to visit my old stomping grounds, I felt lighthearted that I no longer lived there - that I now live in Indianapolis and love my city, with the Colts, awesome cultural offerings, and a husband excelling in a significant marketing career.  It was a real moment of gratitude for our journey, of which Chicago was a step.

Driving home from SB, through sunny, peaceful countryside and cornfields, I no longer had to rush to save 11 minutes so that I could use those 11 minutes to catch up on email.  Me not being in a rush is a real revelation.  Real moment.  

When I sat on my parents' deck a couple weeks back, on a random Tuesday night when my travels brought me closer to my hometown....sitting out there with my parents, sharing the seemingly mundane, everyday details of their lives.  The wind rustled througoh the trees and a low-humidity August evening became a fond memory.  Real moment.  

As Jack prepared a lavish meal last weekend, quickly whipping up a delicious offering, taking up the whole island in our kitchen, all while talking about his new job, its challenges, and opportunities.  Real moment. 

We have so many great things approaching this fall...a long weekend at the beach house with my brother and his soon-to-be fiancee, two weeks in Italy, a couple Notre Dame football games, a couple Colts games, a [secret] Taylor Swift concert, and who knows what else.  

We're living the hell out of our lives right now...recognizing the real moments along the way.

Don't forget to find your real moments.  I'm convinced that life happens there and that is where memories are born.  

It's a Beach House Moment

Well, it's Sunday, the last day of vacation.  

Except that it's not.  My immediate boss is on vacation this week so the pace will be lesser than usual. Which is completely okay with me.  It lets me ease into the week and ramp up almost at leisure.  Two whole weeks before me where I do not have to travel beyond the confines of my office.  My parents are visiting this coming weekend; we are their getaway and they're going to bum around Indy while we work.  But again, that's welcome.  I know they will have something perking in the crock pot for when we get home.  

This year's beach house vacation was a great success.  They are always great experiences but this one blessed us with a great house about 200 steps from the lakeshore, wonderful fellowship with our friends-turned-family, and weather to suit everyone's tastes.  And a lot of wine, cured meats, and cheeses.  

We are crafting our beach house traditions a little bit each year.  The routines create a feeling of familarity and comfort; without one element, the beach experience is incomplete.  For instance, as soon as we arrive, the boyz drop the girls off at the beach house, pick our bedrooms, and unload all the luggage and gear.  The girls stay back (okay, cracking the week's first bottle of vino) and unpack, settling the house.  The guys head to the store and stock us up on beautiful steaks, seafood, and enough gourmet meats, cheeses, and olives to cause immediate, irreversible heart damage.  

We open up the week with a stellar dinner and if possible, a beach bonfire that night.  

Each morning, I'm always first or second to rise.  It's always me or Mr. Vera.  Mrs. Vera and Jack always sleep until 9:30 or 10; they come staggering out of their respective rooms, glasses on, grappling for the nearest coffee pot.  We sit and share the space until someone says, "Well, is it beach time?"  Then the girls usually go to the beach first and the boys join us a little while later.  I'm always the one who has to go to the bathroom first, a few hours later, so when I return to the beach house, I usually make us a munchy lunch of crackers, meat, cheese, little sandwiches, carrots/hummus, etc.  We sit in our beach chairs, reading our books, looking up to share funny quotes or stories from our books, or just to share random memories from beach vacations past.  

We sit out there until about 5pm (sometimes later...one day this week, we stayed out until 7:30).  We go in and each shower and then begin dinner preprarations.  We rarely eat out while up at the beach house.  Why do so when it's so much more fun to pour a lovely chardonnay while cutting up veggies?Why drive somewhere and eat a subpar cheeseburger when our houses always have fully-stocked kitchens?  After some fantastic eats, we will either retire to the adirondack chairs and bonfire in our yard or to the beach for sunset.  

And if it rains, we hit the wineries nearby to stock up for the coming year.  We no longer do the wine tastings; we purchase a bottle and head out to the gorgeous decks overlooking peaceful brooks and ponds.  And yes, we have our regular tables and seats at the wineries.  I think they are starting to remember us.  

That's pretty much the routine.  Except that this year, a few moments really stood out to me.  

Our house this year had the bonfire pit in the front "yard."  It wasn't really a yard but the area in front of the house was surrounded by hostas and tall zebra grass so it felt private.  Once we fogged the plants for bugs, it was quite nice.  One particular night, after a long beach day, we chose to forego sunset and stay up at the house, at the fire pit.  We were listening to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, it was a chilly evening for a cool front had gone by and unleashed some serious waves - so we could hear the waves from our chairs, and if I closed my eyes, it could have been 1940.  The area has not changed since the beach community was constructed in the 1920's and 30's and time really does slow there.  Ray Charles' "Georgia" or Ella's "Summertime" transports all of us back in time, to a simpler time when life wasn't rushing by at such a dizzying, frantic pace.  The crashing waves provided a stellar backdrop for our bonfire, the lake breeze cooling us just enough to require sweatshirts.  It also felt like fall, which wasn't a totally unsettling feeling.  I was feeling wonderful as long as I could sit in that chair.    

Another moment occurred at that same front bonfire area.  Vera and I were sitting out there, just chilling after our showers as the boys cooked us dinner.  [On the menu was beach house po' boys.  Try it sometime...start with raw jumbo shrimp and after de-seeding it, cut a jalapeno long-way.  Put the jalapeno slice where the vein of the shrimp was.  Then wrap the whole thing in bacon and secure with a toothpick.  Then grill until both the shrimp and bacon are done.  After browning the insides of a sour dough bun on the grill, melt habanero Havarti on the bun and then add the de-toothpicked shrimp.  Whip up a Sriracha aioli and you will have a happy tum-tum.  Trust me.]  But as we sat there, relaxing, our bizarre neighbors came and went, without even acknowledging us.  They were all extremely skinny and we decided, unhappy.  They ignored us several times and so we dubbed them the "angry elves" from the South Pole.  It became quite funny because when one of us would spot a neighbor on the beach, we would ask, "hey, is that an elf?"  That whole thing ushered in some quotes from "Elf" that quickly defined this beach house as the great 1920's craftsman house with the angry elves next door.  

We had several fabulous beach days but the last one was probably the best.  We logged 9 hours on the beach that day.  It was hot, so we played catch with a football in the shallow waves.  We went for walks down the beach, dreaming of owning one of those grand lakefront properties (for both the summer views and the majestic winter storms).  At precisely 4:35 p.m., our beach neighbor (not an elf) pulled a bottle of cold, crisp white wine from one of their coolers.  Vera looked at me and said, "we need that wine."  After a quick google search, we found that the closest neighborhood shop closed in 25 minutes.  So we hightailed it, on a "code wine" to get to the store before it closed.  We were succesful, returning to the beach a little while later with cold white wine of our own and some beer for the guys.  It was then that we dragged our beach chairs down to the water's edge and enjoyed our beverages with the tiny waves gently crashing on our feet and calves.  The sun glittered on the water, like diamonds.  Others took their chairs out to the shallow sandbar and set up camp in 8-12 inches of water.  Kids played around us while adults taught them how to skip rocks.  It was an ideal beach scene.  None of us wanted to leave and that ended up being our 7:30 p.m. night.  And we only left because scary clouds were building to the west.  We probably would have sat there all night.  It was okay, though; even though our sunset bonfire was rained out (by a ferocious storm, I might add), we shared our Last Supper in the safety of the beach house's dining room.  The Last Supper is where we eat all the leftovers in a grand, holiday-esque feast.  Nothing really flows and dishes come out in courses.  But man, is it good.  

Beach life is good.  As much as I wish I could take 2-3 months off each summer to spend them by the Lake Michigan shore, a week is enough to reset my bearings, breathe a bit, and recharge for the job that I love and feel very (very) fortunate to have.  The Yankee "Dunegrass" candle also came home with me so whenever I need to have a "beach house moment," all I need to do is put on some Louis and Ella, light the Dunegrass candle, and grill up a beach house po' boy.  

Beach house moments are all such wonderful blessings.  

Here's to the summer, to the beach, and to lifelong memories.

Whole Hearted

No matter where I am in the world, if I'm on a beach, there comes a time in the afternoon when I have that beach to myself.

In Anna Maria, it was around 5 p.m.  The beaches quickly cleared as people showered and headed to dinner.  In the fading light of day, the waves take on a majestic hue and I look around for someone with whom I can share the beauty...and...no one.  

It's just me.  Out here with the wind and the waves and the beach and the gulls.  It seems that I'm the only one for miles.  I gaze down the beach and marvel at my luck to have such a piece of creation to myself.  

The beach is mine.  No one to share it with...but what I want most is something with whom I can share the experience.

A similar encounter occured the other day during our Lake Michigan beach house escape.  Once again, we are vacationing with our beautiful friends, loving and tolerating and patient.  They teach us what love is about and accept us through all the hysterically funny times and crazy down times.  We're family and it's just what we do.  

But on an overcast Monday afternoon, Jack and our friends all wanted to nap.  I didn't fault them this but felt the draw of the beach, beckoning me to visit.  So I packed up my chair, towel, and bug spray, and hit the beach.  When I first arrived at 3:30 p.m. or so, the beach was pretty crowded.  Dads playing with toddler kids and moms chasing after preteens to coat them in sunscreen.  

But as the time progressed, fewer and fewer shared the beach space with me.  By 5:15, it was me and the gulls.  Everyone disappeared to their beach houses, in pursuit of the perfect burger or kabob concoction.  One other guy was out there on the wind-swept beach, teaching his young golden retriever how to retrieve, praising him with every successful return.  Soon after, even he and the puppy went in and it was me, left to discern my thoughts and absorb enough sunshine to get me through until March.

I've always been a beach bum.  My mom taught me the art of sunbathing when I was a kid.  The goal was to relax, get just enough sun so you don't burn, and come back from the beach with at least one good story.  

My mom had skin cancer last year and she's done with the "just enough sun" phenomenon.  I like just enough sun for a souvenir tan, so that I can feel as though I've been somewhere great, absorbing said greatness to max out my bars as though I'm in a Sims game.  

The beach is always where I have felt whole.  Complete.  Gestalt.  Like a piece of me is missing when I am inland, going about my day-to-day business.  Like there is an itch, a longing, of something I can't quite obtain when I'm somewhere else.  There are few things I like more than to watch waves rolling in from afar, wondering about their origins, their stories.  Did a storm rile them?  Wind out of the north?  Small earthquake?  Why is that pulse of energy rippling through the water at that point in time?

But as we sat on the windy beach, hair billowing in the breeze, I noticed something different in the waves.  Their story changed....they were no longer angry, seeking the shore in mad pursuit.  They seemed...reluctant.  As though they didn't want to pound the shore, their energy spent, anger receding.  They seemed almost apologetic and yet destined to roll over, just because there was enough wind and energy to compel them. 

They seemed placid.  Six-foot tall waves on Lake Michigan were placid.

I felt placid.  No longer angry but compelled to keep rolling because of the energy I've been riding for a long time, for hundreds of miles.

It made me reflective about my father.  I still keep thinking about him, wondering if I will randomly run into him in SB, Chicago, or anywhere in northern Indiana.  I think about him way more often than I thought; his death was four months ago and I still think I could meet him in the neighborhood Meijer.

He's gone.  I will not see his particular shade of green eyes ever again.  I will not be able to look into his eyes and see the placid green I observed in the waves, on the beach tonight.  Anger gone, just the waves riding out the stored-up energy propelling them for miles.  I don't know nearly enough about his later life and I really don't want to create a psychologicial complex about how I never really knew my dad and then he went off and died without us reconciling.  Yet when I return to the beach, my soul feels a wholeness and I know he's there with me.  

The angry waves have passed.  Now we are riding out all that stored-up energy until peace and calmness return, once again, to the shore.  

And to my heart.      

I'm Living in a Movie Right Now

It is a superb Fourth of July.  

July 4th is quickly becoming one of my favorite holidays.  No family drama, no worries about presents and specific menus that keep with tradition, and a feeling of "anything goes" summertime attitude accompanies everything.  We buy store-made potato salad, drink copious amounts of margaritas, and join random neighborhood parties.  Well, just because.

So, last night...Jack had the brilliant idea to walk the neighborhood after we grilled our ribs and shrimp (if you want a wild shrimp experience, boil some jumbo shrimp in a Miller Lite and some Old Bay seasoning.  An unexpected gastronomic experience).  We walked down to the cul-de-sac a few houses down, following the sounds of Rihanna and Whitesnake.  Instead of feeling like outsiders (these were new neighbors), we immediately felt welcomed and part of the crowd.  One of the guy's dads was there and reminded us EXACTLY of Arthur from King of Queens.  It was awesome.  In that "is this really happening?" type of realization as Jack and I walked home at 1 a.m.  

That was after the cops came.  

Yeah, the cops.  

Someone in the neighborhood called the police on the block party (which was actually the "pre-gaming" of today's block party.  Hell yes, we are going back tonight).  There was one house not represented at the block party so we knew who called.  But the funniest thing was that the cop merely got out of his car and said, "great party...just make sure no one tries to drive home" and left!  We thumbed our noses at that one house.  

But we really underestimated the party scene of our neighborhood.  Everyone is 30-40 with the requisite 2-3 kids ranging from ages 7-15.  You know those movies that portray kids' idealistic childhoods, like "Now and Then?"  That's where I live.  I can barely fathom the stories they will tell when they are 40 or 50, with their own kids.  We're part of a developing history here.  

So yes, July 4th rocks.  And several neighbors spent hundreds of dollars on fireworks so as long as the subdivision doesn't burn down, we'll be having a fabulous night. 

***********************

Work is going well and despite a super-early deadline for budgets this year, I'm feeling good about things.  Because I'm an ethicist now and report to Corporate, my budgets were due by July 3.  I submitted them on July 2 and 4 p.m. and quickly hightailed it to the nearest hamburger and glass of vino.  I hated that they were due before vacation but now that they are complete, I'm SO glad that monkey's off my back!

And yes, vacation is coming soon.  We leave this coming week for a glorious 8 days in the sands of Lake Michigan with our dearest friends.  The texts going back and forth are hysterical.  Our friends found us Tommy Bahama beach chairs at a Costco in Chicago and here I am, stocking up on Tide pods and ziploc bags for the beach house.  Each year, we have learned something.  Like, that we need lots of laundry soap so that we can wash our beach towels every evening.  Or that we really never use the mayo we buy at the store.  Or that the ladies go through way more Chardonnay than we anticipated.  Hypothetically, we start with our first glass of Chardonnay at 11 a.m. some mornings.  

I just wanted to clarify whether it's 11 a.m. Central time or Eastern?  Haha.

So summer is in full swing here at Chez Dorrie.  It's beautiful, relaxing, and full of lots of parties, beaches, and soon-to-be finished comps for my master's degree.  The last step is upon me...written comps on Tuesday and oral comps on July 21.  Then I get a year off before the PhD.  Yay!  Bring on the sunscreen, Chardonnay, and awesome neighborhoods full of new friends!