Mmmm, chips

Only one chip was harmed in the making of this photograph.

Check out my guest blog about The Gunnar Challenge over at my friend Alyssa's blog, The Double Chin Diary. I'm doing it, guys!

Weighing In on Negativity

 It’s been a while since a weigh-in has bothered me significantly. I am not one of those people who cares to weigh herself regularly. But a weigh-in takes on a whole new meaning when it’s my favorite little dog, and when his weight is an indicator of something as scary as cancer.

After Diabetes Scare 2012, the vet guessed Webster’s inexplicable weight loss was due to his food. But, she said, if after a diet change he hadn’t gained weight in a month, they would test for cancer. I heard those words and closed my eyes and said a little prayer. But I had to think he would be OK, because spending a month in terror during the month of December seemed unfathomable and pointless. The outcome would be what it would be.

And for a month, I cherished all my special moments with him just in case. But we weighed in today, and he is OK. Thank God.

I am not one to say I had a feeling he would be OK or that I believed he would be OK and so he was. I think that is all or mostly bullshit. You won’t find me reading The Secret, that’s for sure. But, I am proud of my mindset this past month, especially because the 20-year-old me would’ve taken a different approach.

It’s freeing to know that I spent the last month enjoying my time with my little guy regardless and that I didn’t let worry or fear impact my holidays or my life. I could’ve fretted and panicked all month long, but I made a decision not to do so. That would've been to grieve a loss I hadn't experienced yet, and why would anyone want to do that?

The results of today’s weigh-in would’ve been the same had I been a hot mess for the last 30 days. He would have either been sick or not. Had he been sick, I would’ve had to grieve then anyway.

I’m so incredibly grateful he’s not sick. But he will be someday. And it’s so important to make a decision to enjoy the moments now without worrying about later. There’s no need to grieve my loss more than once, when it’s necessary.

May we all remember to make the decision that when it comes our loved ones, we will grieve only once.

And may Webster remain at his current healthy weight for at least 30more years. ;)

More Webster Love

I just had to post this. It was filmed two days before Diabetes Scare 2012, and he's so precious!

Real Writing

My Peace4Kids group called "Love Me Now" making posters about their purpose.

A few weeks ago, I read a blog on The Huffington Post called “The Mom Stays in the Picture,” by Allison Tate. Some of you have probably read it. It’s a real, honest piece about how important it is as a mom to sometimes get in front of the camera instead of behind it, because self-acceptance is so incredibly important.

In the blog, Tate thoughtfully examines her insecurities and seeks to accept herself not only for herself, but for her children.

“But we really need to make an effort to get in the picture. Our sons need to see how young and beautiful and human their mamas were. Our daughters need to see us vulnerable and open and just being ourselves -- women, mamas, people living lives,” Tate writes.

Although I’m not a mother, the vulnerability in her words spoke to me. And, given the popularity of the blog post, it seems I was not alone.

Seeing this was affirming for me in several ways. Of course it encouraged me to remember to accept myself (or try!) and to love myself the way I am. For me, this will be a lifelong journey. That’s fine.

But the most palpable affirmation came from Tate’s vulnerable storytelling.

Over the years, I’ve written blogs both here and elsewhere. I’ve written stories anonymously because I wanted to tell a story I wasn’t comfortable sharing publicly. I’ve written stories that omitted the personal facts. And I’ve avoided writing stories altogether. Even this blog, up until recently, has remained somewhat anonymous.

You see, I’ve worried I’d seem self-indulgent or that I’d be judged harshly. I’ve worried that people who don’t know me would find out something about me they didn’t like before they gave me a chance. I’ve done a lot of worrying.

But ultimately, what I learned the night I sat down and read Allison Tate’s blog is that oftentimes, real, true, vulnerable stories directly from someone’s gut can make a huge collective impact on other people.

I know when I read a story I can relate to, something inside of me takes a step forward. I can only hope that when other people read my stories, they feel the same way.

Webster's Story

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

I needed a dog.

I wasn’t completely sure why I needed one, but I knew I did. I also wasn’t completely sure I could afford one or find the time to take care of one. But I knew I needed one. I was 23 and working my first post-college job in journalism. I wasn’t earning much, and my dive of a Hollywood apartment cost far more than it should have by any standard. It hardly had enough room for me and my roommate, let alone a dog. But none of that mattered.

On Labor Day 2008, my neighbor Z and I visited the home of a lady who ran a small rescue group in Long Beach. Upon my arrival, I knew the dog I’d seen posted online wasn’t quite right for me, so I asked if she had other small dogs I could see. She hesitated and then said she had one but she didn’t think I’d like him.

She brought him out in a towel because he had poop on his tail. Having never been too keen on dog smell and slobber and shedding in the first place, it’s safe to say I was apprehensive about holding a dog with poop on his tail. But I held him anyway.

And he melted into my arms like a tired baby, leaning all of his 9 pounds against me and resting his head on my arm. He never made a sound, and once he was settled, he hardly moved.

I couldn’t put him down, so I filled out the adoption paperwork with one hand while I held him with the other. I paid the rescue fee, and he was mine.

I named him Webster, after Webster’s Dictionary. After all, I was a copy editor at the time. Having been born in 1985, I had no idea there had been a hit ’80s TV show of the same name. Oh, to be that young again.

One of the first pictures I took of the little guy

The three of us drove back to Hollywood and stopped at Petco to buy all the supplies we needed. With what money, God only knows.

By the time we got home around 11 p.m., I was in love. Terrified and immensely broke, but in love. Webster, on the other hand, was not.

But who could blame him? As soon as we got home, I whipped out my newly purchased flea shampoo and dumped that little rugrat in the tub. After scrubbing and combing and washing him as much as I could, I used the blow dryer to dry him off. I doused his neck in Advantix and then finally, around midnight, I let him out of the bathroom. After all that, I'd hate me too.

What happened next is still a blur, but somehow someone opened the door and Webster took off down the filthy, dangerous streets of true Hollywood. Barefoot and in my pajamas, I frantically ran after him. So here I am, a barefoot, young (probably crazy-looking) woman running down a Hollywood street at midnight. Awesome.

About two blocks down, I caught him. And I shook with relief. I almost lost him once.

A month or so later, it was clear Webster would never intentionally leave me again. I became his very best friend and he became mine.

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

It is clear that every risk I’ve taken for him has been worth it.

Webster has helped me through countless breakups and heartaches, career frustrations and tragic deaths. He has (anxiously) made two moves with me and made each new place feel like home. He snuggles with me when I need it and he gives me space when that’s what I need instead. He is my quiet, calm, snuggly little buddy, and I can’t imagine another dog being more perfect for me.

On Sunday, I took Webster into the vet for sudden increased appetite and unexplained weight loss. All signs pointed toward diabetes, the vet told me. I had feared this would be the diagnosis.

As I waited for test results, thoughts of daily shots and extremely regimented schedules danced through my mind. Though I surely make more money than I did right out of college, the extensive lifelong costs of a diabetic dog ran through my head as well.

But just as he has been worth those other risks, so also would he be worth this one. We’ll take this next step together, I realized.

The call came yesterday that he did not have diabetes but simply needed a diet change. And I cried I was so happy.

Far too often, it takes the dread of something terrible to make a person appreciate how good they have it. Today, I’m grateful for Webster. I’m grateful that at least for today he’s still healthy. He’s still mine. And I am his. He is worth it.

Photo by Marissa De La Torre

Who AM I?!

I went to Michael's, the art store, to buy things for a couple projects. I had started these projects with good intentions.

I needed to get supplies to kick off the toy drive I help organize at my office for the kids at Peace4Kids, the group I volunteer with on Saturdays. And I was buying cake-decorating supplies for my friend's birthday cake. See? Good intentions.

The store was a zoo. By the time I was in line, I'd been there for nearly an hour. The man in front of me told the clerk he'd had a helluva time finding the pieces he needed to complete his holiday wreath. To which she replied, "A wreath? What's a wreath?"

My head went into text-speak. "SMH," I thought, while trying not to actually physically shake my head. A Michael's craft store employee who doesn't know what a wreath is. No wonder I couldn't find anything I needed. I tweeted this sentiment above while in line.

When I got to the register, I asked the young girl, probably about 20, how she was doing. With a very cheery, sincere smile she told me she was just glad to be here, working. I asked if she was being facetious, and she said, "Nope, I'm glad to have extra hours and to earn money. I'm saving up to buy a car."

Immediately I regretted this tweet. This wasn't a lazy employee who didn't care to learn about the items in a craft store. She wasn't some ignorant, clueless girl who didn't know what a wreath was.

She was a hardworking woman, just happy to have a job. She's working and earning money to buy her own car. She also was aware enough to ask what a wreath was, which takes courage and shows a desire to learn.

What kind of snob am I that I would fault some minimum-wage-earning 20-year-old for not knowing what a wreath was? She's working at Michael's. Depending on her background, income and upbringing, she may never have had a wreath. Wreaths are decorative items people buy when they're not busy worrying about food, bills and school.

Who am I to be so judgmental? Who am I to be so elitist? Who am I?

I'm someone who has been fortunate enough to get an education and keep a job. I'm someone who understands that some people are less fortunate, and generally, I care about them. I am also a professional editor who pronounced "misled" as "myzld" for years into adulthood. It doesn't mean I'm not good at what I do, just that I always have room to learn. Just like the Michael's craft store employee who didn't know what a wreath was -- she has room to learn. We all do, right?

Obama and a Hug From the Universe

I prepped all the taco toppings Monday night and marinated the chicken. The plan was to come home after work the next day to a fully prepared meal so that we could flip on the TV and get straight to watching the election results trickle in. 

Tuesday night, after anxiously checking the news during my final hours of the workday, I finally got home. I checked the simmering seasoned chicken in the Crock Pot then flipped on the TV. 

And something disconcerting happened. The TV did not turn on. On election Tuesday. Now, this may not seem like a big deal to you. But me? Well, I panicked. My friend K, who came over to eat dinner and watch the results with me, walked in. I told her the news. In a tizzy, I called my landlord. Of all days, today the roofers had come to redo the roof, he reminded me. And they’d knocked down my satellite dish in the process. Freaking marvelous.

There was a brief moment I worried this would ruin my night. My natural inclination was to let it. But then I decided my presidential candidate was going to win, and I would do all I could to enjoy it. We quickly shoveled in our tacos while calling nearby bars to see who was broadcasting the news. We grabbed our jackets, poured the remaining margaritas into to-go cups, and headed out.

We ran into my very fun neighbor guys on the walk, and they told us the election had been called; Obama won. I let out a little whoop. My night was made. It didn’t matter that I was now surrounded by Republicans. We walked to the bar together and watched the speeches and talked and joked and enjoyed fun inter-party banter.

There was no way I would’ve had as much fun just the two of us sitting in my apartment, though we can be a lot of fun. We embraced the misfortune of a toppled satellite dish. We broke party barriers and broke L.A. misconceptions about neighbors not being friendly. We said yes, and it was worth it.

It kinda felt like a trust game I played with the universe. The Universe caught me when I thought the night was plummeting down. And we still got to enjoy these delicious, completely homemade chicken tacos.