In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die,
And where you invest your love, you invest your life

Awake my soul, awake my soul.
You were made to meet your maker.

Mumford & Sons

I'm so famous and stuff.

At Vegas Supercross, two guys walked up to me in the pits and said "Hey! We know you! You're from Episode One!" I thought they were talking about Star Wars. They asked to hug me. It was so cool, I obviously look just like Natalie Portman. In actuality, this was because I was on the first episode of The Rockwell Chronicles, which aired while I was in India so I never saw the episode. The boys were Rockwell employees (one of them was also featured in the show, Ryan) It is awesome start to finish (Tony is more than a gem), but gets REAL good around the 14 minute mark. Cuz I'm in it, and apparently brought my cleavage. This was not on purpose. But I have learned my lesson about leaning forward and slouching when I get interviewed (which is like all the time). Wait...is that how I have a job?


I'm so famous.

Even if I don't really look like Natalie Portman.

I'm gonna manipulate you into crying now.

Yeah, the concept of me maybe having a new boyfriend came rappelling in through the windows, in emotional SWAT gear, armed with standard-issue military assault rifles and grenades, to knock that waterworks crap off, (Well Helloo ladies. NO MORE TEARS!) and we all thought we were in the clear.

Nope.

Once upon a time, I moved into a big girl apartment. (You've heard this, I know, but keep reading). Actually spending time there meant accepting reality (booo hisss), so, as all big girls do, I went to great and inefficent lengths to avoid that. I paid rent there for a month before actually moving in, and then even took a week or two to sleep there.

My first night in the apartment was torture. My mattress was on the floor. There was nobody downstairs to go talk to. No comfort food to pick at in the fridge. No Minimeems comments to tune into, at any given time. Just me and a bunch of boxes and newly refinished floors. I sobbed alone in that echoing room. The uncurtained windows let the city street light in so I couldn't sleep. It sucked.

The next day, I happened to be puppy sitting Macy, a gorgeous black CCI pre-training pup. (I blogged about it, HERE). I brought her home from the office. I faced a high risk of cluing my landlord in to the fact that I had a very un-allowed Black Lab with me, so I left the conspicuous sleeper crate in my car and smuggled the cutie into the disaster area I wouldn't call "home."

Remembering that she was a total genius dog, I decided I'd fold up a mat in the corner and just tell her to "stay." Who needs a crate? Pffsht. Keep in mind that CCI dogs at 5 months, like Macy was, are already trained better than most household dogs ever will be. Also keep in mind that they are NOT allowed on furniture and certainly not on a bed. I trusted her.

"Macy: stay. Good Stay."

This is a fine example of Macy doing "Stay" for me at the CCI banquet that week. If she could talk, it would be "SIR YES SIR."

I switched the light off. Macy stared. I crawled onto my ghetto floor-mattress (no sheets, cuz that would be too classy) and curled up in my Rbf quilt. Then came my uninvited bedtime ritual of hot tears brimming through closed eyes. YARGHallgfhh. I wondered if it would ever stop. The heart-stomach connection seared. All that weepy crap I used to whine about. I ached with loneliness. It, like, physically hurt.

I heard nothing from Macy's corner. About two or three minutes passed. Or about as long as it takes for a puppy to think you're probably asleep by now.

Thats when I heard puppy paws reeeally quietly and softly padding toward the mattress. Then she crawled up onto the mattress (easy access) and curled up in the crook of my knee. I could feel her clean, shiny puppy fur. I felt her growing-puppy ribcage rising and falling with her breath, snuggled up to my legs. She knew it was naughty, but she wanted to cuddle with me SO bad, and after all, I would never know. She was warm--no, radiant--and she was alive. CCI rules are strict, and I follow them obediently when I have their puppies. Their rule in this instance would be to issue a firm correction and crate her.

No effing way on God's green earth was I moving her from that spot.

We had an unspoken agreement. She would wait till I was asleep to crawl in each night that week, and I would pretend to be.

I would have survived that first week alone in my apartment. I would have made it through. But Macy in her own way, knew I was hurting, and made sure I knew everything was going to be OK. That dark empty room felt like it had a thousand invisible pounds of downward pressure inside it. Just touching Macy lifted that. Life always steps up for me and finds a way to make it just a little bit OK. It really does.

Tadaki, Kelly's CCI service dog, saw me curled in a ball on the floor of the dark bedroom during our Jackson '09 trip. Tadaki knows me from the office. I do not have treats in my cube, and I follow the rules (strangers don't know the rules, and break them, usually with some form of dropped food). We are professionals. We don't have a cuddly relationship.

He saw me there, crying on my vacation three months after Rbf died. (Some cowboy at the fundraiser had made a plane crash joke about Jed.) So the night was effectively over. I felt bullied by life, by love and even by others' freedoms. I felt like quitting. Despite the fact that there were two other CCI dogs in the condo to play with (yes, we all vacation together), Tadaki took a deep, serious breath, crouched down, and aligned himself tightly along the fetal curve of my body in spooning glory. He rested his snout over my side and held still. I woke up to sunlight hours later. I hadn't moved an inch. Neither had Tadaki.

Macy went off to CCI's moderately intimidating training facility (we just call it college) a little while after I had her. CCI's standards of excellence are high, and only about one in three actually graduate to be placed. I wondered how Macy was doing over the past six months, until I got a text the other morning as I was waking up. From Kelly. It said "Macy is going to be a facility dog."

CCI's facility dogs are skilled and trained as assistance animals, but in addition, have shown elevated abilities in emotional connection. They're often used in hospitals and court systems, and usually with children. They work to calm kids who have to testify and other traumatizing things.

In other words, they have unparalleled ability to soothe and comfort the broken and afraid.

Macy traded in her yellow vest for a blue one, and she lives in Texas now. She lifts that thousand pounds of hurt and darkness for other people now. And I'm proud.



And maybe I overestimated this, and maybe it didn't make anyone choke up. But I'm sitting here bawling like a baby. Screw Fergie. There's no "T" in "Duchess," and big girls DO cry.

Trying to cheer up the stoic dog in the room.

She wasn't psyched to get dressed in the mornings.

We were both psyched to get home from the office, though.

Good Stay, Macy.

18

Today, it has actually been a year and a half since that day the weather got dark and stormy and the world never really went back to bright. I know that's a long time, and that I've done a lot and come a long way. But really, at the end of every day, I still can't believe he's gone.

One of the ways I got through it was with music. Jesse gives me that gift every time I see him. Some new song I haven't heard yet, and always accidentally in some perfect moment. The other day, he happened to have an acoustic Circa Survive song playing in the car (from the Safe Camp sessions) when he took me to the airport. Something about it felt like a guilt-kick to the guilty-chest, because it reminded me of this one particular blogger I know. It said, If that's the most important thing you do - detail every ounce of pain that you went through, make sure you leave something there to show the way back. Yep, it said, if that's the most important thing you say, well, make sure they understand.

I think I hit that point somewhere in the past year, and it was good to have it reassure me. Thanks Jesse. It was humbling. Not like he played it on purpose, but he should still get credit just for being rad. Even though I lead this web-rag into the pits of despair, I have to keep in mind how important it is to leave something there to show the way back.

Sometimes I think I should be writing something other than a blog, something that shows more of a way back. Sometimes.

This weekend, my little nephews sorta sang this song to us in the car on the way to Chuck E Cheese (one of them through a pacifier he calls a pashpy). They must have been little angels to my brother, too, their little feet kicking in the back seat as they stared out the window singing, not knowing what the words meant, as their daddy found his way through the past four months. Four months that have introduced him to a pain I'm not sure many others can ever know. It's a reminder. To make sure you remember the way back, even when you hurt about something as much as he does.

You're sure you've hurt in a way that no one will ever know. But someday, the weight of the world will give you the strength to go. Hold on. The weight of the world will give you the strength to go.


It does.

The post I wrote in 8000 words of vinyl lettering.

...or: The obligatory post about all the stuff I did last year.

I'm going to do my best to keep this sounding like one of those noxious Christmas letters you get every year from perfect families. You wanna know what a perfect family looks like? Besides a vinyl stick figure on a car? ME. I'm it. I didn't divorce me, fight with me, lose me in an amusement park, cheat on me, become an addict on me, file foreclosure on me, have to bail me out of jail, scream at me, forget about me, or any other crap dysfunctional imperfect families do within their homes. Like I've always said, I need a vinyl sticker family of just me to put in the rear window of my car because, after all, if you're perfect...you say it to the world in vinyl.

And in overbearing summations at year end. Enter Kirsten.

The year 2010 started off gloriously. Mostly because January 1, I woke up from a nice long night of sleep, having hit the sack at about 10:30 p.m. the night before. I know there was a ball dropping, but I didn't care. I ate a bunch of party food and passed out curled up in Reboyfriend's clothes, telling him Happy New Year out loud, flipping the bird to the 12 on the clock and wondering what I'd be doing the next time around.
I had just backed out of buying a beautiful home because I thought the universe and my dead boyfriance were sending me signs (and still think that). It ended up being the best decision I ever made. Thanks, Jed and Universe. To console myself, I went out and got an Android phone. And a Lexus I didn't need. Shakira kept singing to me everywhere I went that, everything you want you can make it yours. (Except real estate). So I listened to the hip swinger. See below.

That's the Warthog and the guy who sold it to me. I named it after the tanks in Halo because by the time you're in one of those things playing that game, everything in the game becomes tiny and manageable, and you dominate everyone. Primarily with your grenade launcher. I would drive over the snow mounds in the roads and make GI Joe sounds (They're actually spelled "pfffsscchhkktttt...brrrrggggmmmmpppp"). The Warthog and I became fast friends. I drove over everything in it.

Then I went to Brazil for CARNAVALLLLL. You read all about that. And saw pictures. But here are some others. Starting where I was the one white girl on the beach, where the local children were kind of worried for me.

AHH HA HAAA PECS ARE SOO FUNNY LIKE OMG AND STUFF. Tee heeee he heeee. *shrug*

This was before the blindfold got slapped on the poor Guy, apparently so God wouldn't see us Lohan-ing rails and rails of blow off of bibles and small children?

Just kidding. Oh, and did I mention we didn't look like tourists at all? Don't look at my under-thigh fat dimples.

Then my biological father (often referred to as Dad1) passed away. I'm a funeral ninja by now, so while it sucked and I was sick and lost my voice and had to yell my remembrances of him to the people there like a smoker hag, it was peaceful. We buried him in the mountain cemetery my the ranch he left me and Ryan.

I came home and learned I had been picked as one of the 2010 Honeybee Team (for MiLB Salt Lake Bees). That was fun. I realized I had truly made it in life when that first 10-year-old boy wanted me to sign his arm.

And that was a good time. I decided I should have more good times in 2010. Even if they were irresponsible and went against everything I grew up being told not to do...

And so I played. 

(and I'll speed it up)

I had first time meetings with very interesting people.

I volunteered with heroes. 

I road tripped. 

I partied. 

Maybe a little too much. 

But it was all just part of making the most of it, the best I knew how.

I helped my Kindergarten best friend say adieu to her Bachelorette life...

...and cried at her wedding. 

I got my own big girl apartment. 

I went to my 10 year reunion. 

I smiled purty like we all really wanted me to. Like I wanted me to.

(I SAID don't LOOK at my under thigh dimples.) 

and I played happy.

But I spent a whole lot of time in that sweet little cemetery. 

And I cried and cried and cried on that day, one whole year after my world fell out of the sky. 

And every minute of 2010, I never once stopped thinking about what happened in 2009.

And a year is a long long time to feel that way, but it was important that I did, and I'm glad I took that time. Eventually, I felt almost-OK smiling for real. And just like the Format song on the mix CD my aunt Annie made me, I felt it was time to get out of the desert and into the sun.

And to that end, 2010 gave me the rise and fall of one more romance, short-lived, packed with learning, and with great purpose. It was what I needed for that time. And that's all I have to say about that.

2010 was bitter, bittersweet, but it was a good one.

To be continued, the 2011 way.

Balsa Girl

Hey there animal fans.

CCI (canine companions for independence) is an organization that breeds, trains, and places extremely high-caliber assistance dogs with individuals with some form of inhibited ability. Whether it's hearing, mobility, or learning related. Although each dog will cost about $45,000 by the time they're trained and placed, they are donated to their human matches. Given that one of my dearest friends was matched and graduated with her own service dog, Tadaki, I have a serious loyalty and commitment to the organization.

Tadaki is a professional. I don't see him get rowdy or hyper unless his vest is off, and his Kelly announces "release!" and our office-dweller friend Paul comes by. He's a very serious dog. Sometimes I swear Tadaki is rolling his eyes at me. He's not a snuggler. He's not a toucher/feeler. He's a worker. He is sweet and loving, but he means business. Kelly is his number one priority.

During 2009's annual girls' trip we call Jackson Fireball, I was lying on the floor of the condo, crying. It was only a few months after Rbf was killed, and I had hardly any social stamina. Too much activity would level me, and that night it did. Tadaki walked quietly into the room, saw me laying there, breathed deep and lowered himself to the ground in front of me. He curled up against me and I fell asleep spooning him. The next day, I woke up on the floor in the same position. Tadaki was there, in position, hadn't moved an inch. He would not leave my side until I got up off the floor. A dog can see a broken soul, and can soothe it in special ways.

CCI trusts trained volunteers with the first year of each dog's life, to raise in preparation for the advanced intensive training. These volunteers use their own time and money to raise these dogs. At the end of that year, they have to say goodbye. It takes a special kind of person to do this. Obviously. When these people go out of town, they have to have a backup in place. Enter Kir!

The first dog I "puppy sat," was Macy. It just so happened it was the first night in my apartment, six months after the accident. I had let my apartment sit empty for a month. I couldn't bear to accept what it meant to sleep there. Macy was there the first night. In the middle of moving, I didn't have the energy to set up her crate. Instead I made her a bed out of padding in my empty room. I turned off the light and flopped down on my bare mattress on the floor. Macy waited about 30 seconds, and tiptoed up onto my mattress. CCI dogs in training are NOT allowed on furniture, and certainly not in beds. This puppy curled into a ball behind the bend of my knee. I did not care what I had signed, how many hours of training and lectures I've received, there was no way on God's holy earth that I was moving that dog. I let her think she was sneaky the next three nights as she climbed up and slept behind my legs, where Rbf's knees used to go. I could hear her breathing and feel her heartbeat as I fell asleep. She saved me from the brutal sadness of what it meant to be sleeping in that room.

Today, I finally got the FAA's final accident report on Rbf's plane crash. I saw more pictures and diagrams of what landed where on that mountain. I read the details of every twist of metal on every broken piece of that plane. And I cried. Amidst the aviation jargon and plane-speak, I read this bit which was not in the preliminary report:

"...After leaving the airport, the flight path goes northwest and continues along the Snake River. The path begins..."

It jogged a memory of us flying low over the Snake, following the river like a path. It was the only piece of the report that referenced the human experience that was that final flight. Before, it was just a technical description. Now, it is a human experience. So, naturally, I spend 20 minutes crying at my desk like a true professional. One more layer of this being real was laid down on my world. And it hurt, but I will tell you, it was sweet. I knew what that part of the report meant. It was the part of the flight when Rbf made it fun, so proud to have both his dad and brother on board at the same time, and hoping they loved it as much as he did. It's hard to imagine them going down in a plane, but in my mind's eye I can totally see them flying above the river on their boys adventure.

I came home with Balsa, a puppy - only one week into the program. She is two months old. She squirms and nips at my hair, but is already potty trained and doesn't make any noise. She cuddles and perks her giant floppy ears at me, and cocks her head. My heavy heart melts a little. And then my phone rings, it's my mom. My brother's best friend committed suicide tonight.

I hear my tall, sturdy, stable brother weeping in the room with mom. And that powerless feeling he and she felt a year ago, that horrible, impotent silence, I just couldn't bear it. I'd never heard anything like that sound before in my life.

My mom asked me to leave a note online for the grieving family. I open Facebook. Gill is my friend on the site, and I go to his page and leave a note for him. I see at the bottom of the page that he is a member of the Facebook support group, titled "WE LOVE YOU KIR" that was started for me when I lost Rbf. And it blew my mind. My heart breaks to think of his breaking for me last year - and now here we are today. Even as I sit here now, the tenure of my loss and the merit badges of survival I wear every day...I honestly can not imagine surviving what Gil's family has to. How can this be borne?

And there was Balsa. On my floor, squirming and hrrming and hawwwing with my hair clip. And so I cry, and she makes it a little better. If CCI is reading, she is of COURSE sleeping in her crate tonight...

:)

Forgiveness

For my Learning Topic delivery at 10/10/10 YMAD meeting:

A woman killed in the Virginia Tech shooting wrote about forgiveness in her final journal entry before her passing, this was a video made about it. A lot dramatic, but what's not dramatic about any of that? Hope it moves you a little.



When Reboyfriend passed away, a very close friend I've had since 7th grade drove up for the funeral. Her sweet husband had only met me once, and never met Reboyfriend. He's a very spiritual person, and I respect it. He came home to her shortly after Rbf died, before the funeral, and told her that every time he thought of Rbf, me, and this tragedy, he kept feeling the strongest impressions returning to him regarding the importance of forgiveness. He was reluctant to share, but felt such a sense of the imperative that it be passed to me, that he told her, and she told me.

There was not much I could think of that I needed to forgive Rbf for. I resent how much time I lost with him and a lot of that was his fault. He also made mistakes just like any human being. But I believe that this wasn't about me needing to forgive him for anything in particular. I believe it was him needing to pass that lesson along to me.

When I had a chance to choose what topic I'd be cramming down the youths throats all year for YMAD before dragging them to a 3rd world country, I saw "Forgiveness" on the page. All I could think about was my friend's amazing husband and the humility he seemed to feel in passing this info on to her for me. I decided it would be my topic for the year, and here I am.

I feel abandoned by Rbf often. I feel frustrated with him for taking too long to do everything. I feel robbed by him.

I feel left behind.

But I also feel inspired by him every day and this is one virtue I am glad I get to practice and learn more about in the time I spend alive.

Wish me luck delivering my training presentation tonight. xo/km