This street is lined with houses of varying hues of pink. First we have the salmon-colored one. Then the cotton candy one. We’ll call the third one dusty rose. It’s almost as if cotton candy house went first, which either inspired or infuriated the homeowners to the left and right. Regardless, this is no coincidence.

I’m looking out the window of Cellar Door, a local coffee house in Southeast. The latte was exceptional and went down way too quickly. If you’re in the vicinity of SE 11th and Harrison I recommend you drop in and try the espresso, maybe even buy a bag of beans for the road. While you caffeinate, sit in the window and watch people pause before entering the A-1 Food Market across the street. For some reason they all reemerge with nothing in their hands.

I got the most ridiculous letter in the mail on Monday. The author was a doctor whose care I came under last summer (2008, to be clear). She said she hoped the letter found me well. She informed me that due to 60 days of inactivity, she was closing my file. At first I was dismissive, ridiculing the correspondence because I’d actually been inactive for over 6 months and the bitch was LATE. But, the more I made fun of it, the more I thought about what it meant. My file was closed. It was CLOSED. And that stupid piece of paper morphed into a certificate of accomplishment. This morning I dug out my emergency stash of medication and threw it all away.

Thanksgiving. That’s today. We’re excited about it. That’s the royal “we”, man. A lot of people aren’t, though. There’s a certain dread a lot of folks feel around the holidays. I know because I talk to a lot of people and most of them have horror stories ready for the sharing. On the surface, folks spin yarns to entertain, but it’s all deeply rooted in emotions and personal truths. We laugh, wave a hand and utter cheerful exclamations. Then we sigh and think while we sip our beverage, waiting for someone else to tell a chuckler. And we’ve all got ‘em. But that’s not the important part of this paragraph. The important part is the thinking.

In between the stories and the laughs I’ll think about that letter; about the journey to which that letter vaguely refers, and to the ending that it signifies. And I will be thankful for it, among many, many other things.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

I remember the satisfying mental image that materialized when I first heard someone speak of “throwing the elephant into the middle of the room”. It was a combination of Dumbo’s drunk hallucination and that World’s Strongest Man event where they hurl beer keg shells backwards over their heads into a trailer which they must then drag the length of a football field. Last one who still has his kneecaps wins!

What sound does an elephant make? I mean, what do you CALL it?

Trumpet. Oh. Who picks these anyway?

And who thought it would be a good idea to have a mouse coerce a baby elephant to funnel beer through his nose and blow bubbles? And put it in a kid’s movie, no less.

First keg stand on record. Only it was a bucket. And the subject was on his feet.

It’s a wonder parents are flabbergasted at the behavior of today’s college student.

Seriously. If I could blow bubbles with my nose after a few glasses of booze I’d have everything I need for a fun time at home.

It’s easily been 15 year since I’ve seen Dumbo. After viewing this clip, I get the trumpet thing. You win this time, science. Er, beer.

Not me. The elephant. It’s a freakin’ weeknight! What do you take me for?

It will take every remaining bit of 2009 to recap the year. There’s 1/6th of it left, I know. If I wait until 2010 then I’ll get behind on recapping THAT year. And lookit: I’m not exactly on top of this stuff. Slow, even. I offer my last blog post, written two months ago, as Exhibit A. Bailiff, please add it to the list of evidence. Who’s that shouting at me from the back of the courtroom? You! You there! Kiss m–

A guy just sat down next to me at Barista. He spoke to me, then looked at my wedding ring. He’s not talking to me anymore.

Yeah, I know. This is shaping up to be disjointed and distracted. I like shiny things.

I’m not going to talk about 2009 in any particular order, because that would require cross-referencing. I don’t have a whole lot of spare time. The reason why I get to sit, sipping a latte, anywhere besides my office at 3pm is because I went to work at 7am. And I didn’t take a lunch break.

There are ZERO shrieking babies at work. There are two of them here. You can’t exactly teach a brand new baby the meaning of quiet, and these babies aren’t screaming because they’re mad.

It’s all swirling around now. The events, the fights, the joys, the losses and gains. So much to say and a lot that needs to be left alone. This isn’t the place to air out the laundry soaked with stinky drama–I want to celebrate the year of massive change and thank the people who rode shotgun through it with me.

Mounted police just trotted by. In 2009 I decided that I would never name my child after a month, a city, or a deity. However, it’s completely okay to give an animal a human name. I wonder what police name their horses?

When I went back to work in January, I was ready. So ready. I wanted an office chair and a computer with a big monitor and good benefits. What came with those items I couldn’t have known to request. I got a big fat lesson in what it means to take care of myself. And I learned a lot about what this “self” thing is.

Look, a story!

Previously, I worked retail. To be good at retail, you have to be what the customer in front of you needs you to be. Doing that for three years, I gradually came to believe that it was my job to be everyone’s mother. When I got back into the office environment I frustrated myself to tears over the fact that no one was taking care of ME as much as I felt I should take care of them. Inside, I pouted, “Don’t I deserve to be treated the way I am treating YOU?”

Then, one of my genius coworkers told me to sit down at a picnic.

“You must expect great things of great people. When you do not treat them like great people, you send the message that you believe they are mediocre people. Are they mediocre people? If not, why do you feel you need to do so much for them?”

YES. Great. People. Don’t. Need. Me. To. Stress. Over. What. I. Perceive. To. Be. Their. Every. Need.

Perceive is the key word there. I was addicted to people relying on me. Stuck on the feeling that they might roll over and DIE without me. Who will remember that ONE thing or BE there to help with that OTHER thing? If not me, then I’ve failed miserably! MUST be me. It can ONLY be me.

Thanks to my genius coworker, in 2009 I became a recovering coddler. In 2009 I stopped expecting to be coddled back. So much pressure lifted. And I got a good start at being a better–GREAT, even–person. Who doesn’t need every little need taken care of, because I’m not mediocre. And who now can trust that other people can be great on their OWN. It took me how many years to realize that? Bailiff, there’s Exhibit B.