Things About Being Famous

 

I am almost there. I can pretty much taste it. It’s a very short matter of time before I close the gap between myself and Jayden K. Smith and become the world famous writer you all knew I would be. I have spent an unreasonable amount of time, sandwiched between reading “You Are a Badass” (highly recommend) and writing stories about Billy Ray Cyrus (don’t worry, he’s not really changing his name), obsessing over how to get people to share my writing on the viral scale that Jayden K. Smith’s hacking threat spread. Maybe if I was more threatening. Maybe if I had hacking skills. Maybe if I had a name like JAYDEN. Then I would be famous by now. I thought about shotgunning out a blog link out to every single contact I have on Facebook. (In case you didn’t know how pseudo-popular I am, that’s about 628 people, give or take the ones that will unfriend me after my most recent blog post wherein I didn’t capitalize The Lord’s Name.) (I apologize.)

If I shotgunned out a blog link with a minor threat of 14 years of bad luck or puppies dying tragically if the material goes unread, or worse - UNSHARED (gasp!), and at least three of my “friends” succumbed to my manipulation by sharing, and another six shared it accidentally because they are Of a Certain Age and don’t know what the Facebook buttons are for, I would increase my audience by at least 13%. That’s a lot when your audience is currently 6.5 people, and at some point, someone’s great Aunt Ruth is gonna share that piece of vital literature with her entire social network and her interweb savvy great-grand-niece would be some super cool literary agent or publishing house employee, or even the editor of a Small and Insignificant Magazine, but she would read me, and WANT me, and I would be FAMOUS. Two steps from a book deal, y’all.

I am dreaming here. I can see it now. In between worrying that Google Docs is going to suddenly realize that I have used up ALL of their internet space with my constant rambling and shut me down, and wondering if I bought a sophisticated pair of booties to wear with skinny jeans if people would take me more seriously, I am conjuring up a picture of where I am headed, and it’s frighteningly exciting.

Ever since I watched Romancing The Stone, I knew I was destined to be an eccentric writer with a messy bun and stacks of random literary starts scattered around my airy, high-rise big city apartment like so many tiny plants, just waiting for the exact right amount of sunlight and moisture to germinate into flourishing specimens of literary AWESOME. Except I would have more dogs than Kathleen Turner.

Of all of the GREAT IDEAS and CREATIVE VISIONS that come to me in my dreams (no, really, they do, but they’re kind of weird), I have yet to settle into the focus that is really the thing that will get me where I want to go. I, in predictable fashion, am all over the place like a ping pong ball in a zero gravity capsule, floating indiscriminately in and out of lost food particles and droplets of drool. I need a weighted vest to hold me down to my couch and brain blinders to keep my mind tracking down one path. THE PATH. I have proven that generating material is no issue at this point, cranking out thousands of useless words every day with no specific mission other than PAY THE BILLS. But it’s time to direct all of that wanton energy into something good. Good enough to get big. Big enough to open doors for All The Things (see video below).

But then I am gonna need things like trendy photographic head shots for my professional portfolio and business cards. I have business cards right now but I am mildly embarrassed to give them out, maybe because they don’t have a trendy head shot on them. Or maybe because I don’t like my phone number. Or maybe because handing out business cards makes me feel too much like a grown up. But only grown ups make the Big Bucks so I guess it’s time to embrace the business card suck.

Anyway, that’s a lot of rambling to basically express my displeasure at how much work it takes to become famous. Not that I am against work, but… If you know of any shortcuts (i.e. literary agents looking for the Next Big Thing, etc), I am all ears. (And feel free to share me with your great Aunt Ruth.)

Things That Are Seedy

When I was a kid, I remember my mom referring to “seedy hotel rooms”. Actually I am not sure if she was referring to hotel rooms, but I felt like when she used the word “seedy” it must be in reference to hotel rooms, because what else can really fall under that classification. For that matter, what in the world does “seedy” even mean? In my juvenile brain I imagined something like a dried up orange, sour and sticking to your teeth, and definitely hard water stains in the bathtub. That is seedy for sure.

I started hashing through all of this on a recent sleepless, yet thought -provoking night at a hotel room that could probably pretty fairly be considered seedy. I was trying to be thrifty since my employers had been reticent to pay for the nicer hotel the last time I needed one for work. There were hard water stains on the bathtub for sure, but no dried out oranges to speak of. If I had to define seedy I would probably say it something akin to the opposite of “classy”, i.e. low quality, unkempt, and questionably legal. The ACTUAL definition of seedy is much better than mine:

Seed·y ˈsēdē/

Adjective

1. sordid and disreputable.

As I lay contorted in a bed with undefinable lumps in it, I decided it would be helpful to develop an identification strategy for anyone who wonders if they might be staying in a seedy hotel room. Here are the parameters I came up with.

1. If you walk into the room and smell wet carpet, it’s a pretty sure sign you’re at a seedy hotel. Chances are also good that where you smell wet carpet there is wet carpet and it will be a relief to discover that it’s mostly from the leaking air conditioner, and probably not from that suspicious stain by the bathroom door.
2. If you find yourself playing the “floor is lava” by yourself, leaping from bed to table to entertainment center to cracked bathroom tiles to avoid carpet stains, you’re probably in a seedy hotel.
3. If the table you lept to from the bed does not support your parcours adventures and breaks into 5 pieces, you’re probably in a seedy hotel.
4. If the paper cups wrapped in saran wrap by the coffeemaker are so biodegradable that they biodegrade during one episode of House with a little bit of ice water in them, chances are good you picked a seedy hotel.
5. If it sounds like there is a middle school game of twister going on above you and they all brought their toddler siblings with them, you might be staying at a seedy hotel.
6. If the guy in the room down the hall has his door open and an ACTUAL boom box stationed to blare into the hallway some unrecognizable cross between mariachi and Celine Dion, yeah, you’re probably there.
7. If the coffee for your room is two scoops of folgers in a zip-lock baggie…
8. If the circa 1987 wallpaper still matches the bedspread and the paint is rubbed off of EVERY CORNER, it’s a good sign.
9. If there is hair in the bed BEFORE you get in it, well, that’s just gross.
10. If there is no discernable difference in color, smell or viscosity of the shampoo, conditioner, body lotion and shoe polish - good chance you’re at a seedy place.

of course I have. 

Things About Loving Myself

The Universe has been talking to me a lot lately about self-love. Self-love is a concept, much like self-forgiveness, that has never sat well with me - violating my self-flagellating conscience with associated character flaws such as Pride, Arrogance, Selfishness and Self-Righteousness. But what I am slowly coming to understand is that self-love, and even self-forgiveness, is a much different thing than the justification of flaws. It is the acceptance and acknowledgement of flaws. It is the graceful peace that come with understanding that I AM WORTHY of love because Someone saw fit to breathe into me the Divine Spark that we all possess, each differently and independently.

I am not worthy of love because I am part of creation as a whole, I am worthy of love because I am A CREATION - unique, specific, flawed, imperfect and 100% ME. These are hard things for me. Hard to get past the guilt of perceived failures and sins and hard to see through the ugly opaque sheen of mistreatment and being told for far too long in far too many ways that I am unworthy. But I have been listening to the wrong voices. Certainly not the voices that created me. Certainly not the ones that matter. But the loud, clamoring voices, the ones desperate for power over their own perceived unworthiness.

So here I am, at 40 years old, learning about self-love. Learning about myself, and how to love it. It’s a tricky thing, because for every thing I can find to love, I can find the ugly underside of that same thing to loathe. I have decades of practice at this. I am a professional at self-disqualification. But I am finally realizing that the only thing that has kept me from BadAssing my way through life is this method of self-destruction in my own head, and I am kinda over it.

So here’s to finding all the things about myself to love. And to loving all the things about myself that I find. When I think about how I love other people, it’s all the little things that make them THEM that come to mind. Like how they sigh audibly when they feel content. Or how they drum their fingers when they think. Or that deep-rooted sparkle and wild eyes behind a genuine smile. So I am trying that with myself - noticing the little things and loving that they make me me. Like the fact that I don’t like to write with my shoes on because it makes it hard to think, or that I feel a compulsion to rinse my hair in cold water, or that my laugh sounds a little like a sea lion with a head cold. Once I start to love the little things, maybe I can move on to the bigger things - like my hard headed unwillingness to ever settle for BLAH. Or the way that I can feel the pain of other people, physically, really, truly. Or the gift of childlikeness that I know I possess when I am not murdering it with cynicism.

Back when I was a kid and believing in all of my fallen darkness, I also believed so much in the redemptive power of faith. I BELIEVED in things unseen. I believed in the Desires of My Heart. I believed in Happily Ever After and True Love. I got bitter when all my believing took a little longer than I expected to pan out (still waiting?), but bitter isn’t a good fit for me so I think I will go back to believing, and it seems like the place to start is learning how to truly love myself. There’s a lot more life in believing. There’s a lot more life in hope and love than there is in fear and loathing. Feels like an upgrade for sure.

what's not to love? amiright?

The Lady of Shalott (1832)

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

The Lady of Shalott - John William Waterhouse, 1888

Part I 

On either side the river lie 

Long fields of barley and of rye, 

That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 

And thro' the field the road runs by 

       To many-tower'd Camelot; 

The yellow-leaved waterlily 

The green-sheathed daffodilly 

Tremble in the water chilly 

       Round about Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens shiver. 

The sunbeam showers break and quiver 

In the stream that runneth ever 

By the island in the river 

       Flowing down to Camelot. 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers 

Overlook a space of flowers, 

And the silent isle imbowers 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

Underneath the bearded barley, 

The reaper, reaping late and early, 

Hears her ever chanting cheerly, 

Like an angel, singing clearly, 

       O'er the stream of Camelot. 

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, 

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary 

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy, 

       Lady of Shalott.' 

The little isle is all inrail'd 

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd 

With roses: by the marge unhail'd 

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd, 

       Skimming down to Camelot. 

A pearl garland winds her head: 

She leaneth on a velvet bed, 

Full royally apparelled, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

Part II 

No time hath she to sport and play: 

A charmed web she weaves alway. 

A curse is on her, if she stay 

Her weaving, either night or day, 

       To look down to Camelot. 

She knows not what the curse may be; 

Therefore she weaveth steadily, 

Therefore no other care hath she, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

She lives with little joy or fear. 

Over the water, running near, 

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. 

Before her hangs a mirror clear, 

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot. 

And as the mazy web she whirls, 

She sees the surly village churls, 

And the red cloaks of market girls 

       Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 

An abbot on an ambling pad, 

Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, 

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

       Goes by to tower'd Camelot: 

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 

The knights come riding two and two: 

She hath no loyal knight and true, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 

To weave the mirror's magic sights, 

For often thro' the silent nights 

A funeral, with plumes and lights 

       And music, came from Camelot: 

Or when the moon was overhead 

Came two young lovers lately wed; 

'I am half sick of shadows,' said 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

Part III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 

He rode between the barley-sheaves, 

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 

And flam'd upon the brazen greaves 

       Of bold Sir Lancelot. 

A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd 

To a lady in his shield, 

That sparkled on the yellow field, 

       Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 

Like to some branch of stars we see 

Hung in the golden Galaxy. 

The bridle bells rang merrily 

       As he rode down from Camelot: 

And from his blazon'd baldric slung 

A mighty silver bugle hung, 

And as he rode his armour rung, 

       Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 

The helmet and the helmet-feather 

Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

       As he rode down from Camelot. 

As often thro' the purple night, 

Below the starry clusters bright, 

Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

       Moves over green Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 

From underneath his helmet flow'd 

His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

       As he rode down from Camelot. 

From the bank and from the river 

He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' 

       Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom 

She made three paces thro' the room 

She saw the water-flower bloom, 

She saw the helmet and the plume, 

       She look'd down to Camelot. 

Out flew the web and floated wide; 

The mirror crack'd from side to side; 

'The curse is come upon me,' cried 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

Part IV 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 

The pale yellow woods were waning, 

The broad stream in his banks complaining, 

Heavily the low sky raining 

       Over tower'd Camelot; 

Outside the isle a shallow boat 

Beneath a willow lay afloat, 

Below the carven stern she wrote, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight, 

All raimented in snowy white 

That loosely flew (her zone in sight 

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright) 

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot, 

Though the squally east-wind keenly 

Blew, with folded arms serenely 

By the water stood the queenly 

       Lady of Shalott. 

With a steady stony glance— 

Like some bold seer in a trance, 

Beholding all his own mischance, 

Mute, with a glassy countenance— 

       She look'd down to Camelot. 

It was the closing of the day: 

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; 

The broad stream bore her far away, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

As when to sailors while they roam, 

By creeks and outfalls far from home, 

Rising and dropping with the foam, 

From dying swans wild warblings come, 

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot 

Still as the boathead wound along 

The willowy hills and fields among, 

They heard her chanting her deathsong, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, 

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly, 

       Turn'd to tower'd Camelot: 

For ere she reach'd upon the tide 

The first house by the water-side, 

Singing in her song she died, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden wall and gallery, 

A pale, pale corpse she floated by, 

Deadcold, between the houses high, 

       Dead into tower'd Camelot. 

Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 

To the planked wharfage came: 

Below the stern they read her name, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest, 

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. 

There lay a parchment on her breast, 

That puzzled more than all the rest, 

       The wellfed wits at Camelot. 

'The web was woven curiously, 

The charm is broken utterly, 

Draw near and fear not,—this is I, 

       The Lady of Shalott.'

Things About Guilt

Two things about me: 1) I live a guilt-saturated existence and 2) I am a compulsive confessor. Both of these things lead me to believe that I am an excellent candidate for Catholicism, and I am seriously considering trying it. I was raised with the deeply held believe that humans are fallen, hideous creatures. My favorite bible verse when I was very young was Psalms 22:6, when David says "But I am a worm, and no man, a reproach of men, and despised of the people." (KJV, Obviously). Why that verse out of the hundreds and thousands I read resonated so deeply with me, I do not know, but if you read any of my childhood journal entries, they basically say the exact same thing, but less King Jamesy. Self-loathing, self-blame, self-chastisement was the theme of my life. I have always considered myself the black sheep of my family, even back when I was a zealot wearing ankle-length denim jumpers and floral turtlenecks (know you know where the loathing comes from). I always considered myself the chiefest of all sinners, worse even than the apostle Paul who coined the phrase in 1Timothy 1:15 - and he was pretty damn bad.

David — Oh that I had the wings of a dove! For then I would fly away and be at rest by Frederic Lord Leighton, P. R. A. (1830-1896)

I live my life now a little more guilt free. I have not identified whether that's because I quit caring, or I seared my conscience to the point that it became dysfunctional, or because I just decided I was a lost cause and not "fit for the kingdom" anyway. Mostly the last one I think, because if my conscience was seared completely I would not still have the abysmal fits of guilt and shame that overtake me from time to time, like when I drink too much and do stupid shit, or when I wear capri pants. Or when the dogs don't get fed for 18 hours. Dark, deep, guilt. With words like "why are you even alive" "what a waste of skin" (I learned that one from a friend), and "no wonder no one can love you" swirling around my brain for hours or sometimes days.

This is the product of stern, inflexible religion pressed into a developing brain. Like juveniles who learn to binge drink before their pre-frontal cortex is fully developed, I grew a brain groove, a natural addiction to guilt as a normal, necessary part of existence. Out of the guilt stems compulsive confessions. Of everything, and nothing - much of which this entire blog serves to deliver. If I can express in words EVERY POSSIBLE WRONG I have committed, admit, confess, repent in some eloquent fashion, or better yet apologize in the most literal way, then my guilt will be alleviated. Y'all are my priests. Didya even know?

Hester Prynne. So relatable. 

I would be willing to bet there are other kids like me who find themselves occasionally paralyzed by guilt and the knowledge that no amount of good behavior can atone for one sin. I'll bet there are even some of those kids reading this. Maybe we've learned over the years to turn our confessions into tongue-in-cheek exposes, or our self-flagellation into relentless physical activity and deprivation, or our penance into all-consuming community service. But it's still there, the guilt, the knowledge of absolute failure, absolute fallenness, absolute wretchedness. It's an ugly beast that rears its head in ultra-defensiveness or ultra-repentance, blame shifting or taking the blame for every.single.thing. That's my MO. I'd rather own it and eat it and be the responsible party if there is even the remotest question of whom is at fault. Give me the lashes. Give me the punishment. Like Hester Prynne, bearing the full wrath for the sins not just her own, I don't mind. Just please, please, give me the forgiveness too.

This is a monster that I wrestle with. Not one I have slain. One who lives in his cave and comes out when I least expect to try to eat me alive. Some days I can beat him back. Some days, he wins. But he's always there. Maybe one day I will find the right weapon to kill him, the silver bullet, the holy water. Maybe one day I will be strong enough to do it with my bare hands.

I watch my children as they grow and I think about how guilt influences them. I see the tell-tale signs from time to time but I think somehow, they managed to avoid the deep programming of their own evilness. Maybe because as they were growing their little brains, I was too busy trying to survive my own to press anything too sternly into them. Maybe because they watched the uncertainty that their grown mother faced life and every decision with, the overpowering fear of doing the Wrong Thing, which, inevitably, I always did somehow in spite of all my worrying. At least according to Them. The Others. The Voices who saw my monster in the cave and learned how to manipulate him. But looking back and seeing my amazing kids, it occurs to me, maybe I didn't always do the Wrong Thing, because all of those Wrongs could not have equalled four beautiful Rights. Get back in your cave, beast, you're not as strong as you think.

Shame - Max Klinger

Things About Being Heard

I met a listener. I am not sure if you know how rare that is, but you probably do. If you're lucky enough to meet a listener, it's a good idea to keep them around, because you never know if and when you'll run across another one. Somehow I got super lucky and the listener I met seems to like me, so we hang out a lot. Being listened to is one of the Best Things In the Whole World, because being listened to is the first step of Being Known and Being Known is the one thing in the whole world that matters, especially if you are, like me, a Tigger.

Being Known is basically the same thing as intimacy, which I have heard comes through discovery, which it turns out is the exact same thing as listening. See how that works? Listening = discovery, discovery = being known, being known = intimacy, intimacy = mattering to someone. So the bottom line is that having a listener means having someone that thinks you matter. This, my friends, is a big, big deal.

My listener is the best kind. The kind that takes the listening and turns it into actions. The kind of listener that actually hears, and then actually does. Some listeners are good hearers but not doers. My listener picks up on the little things that I say, sometimes without words, and believes them, and acts upon them. My listener hears things both with his heart and his ears. He's not a perfect listener, sometimes he forgets the things I say, but with the Really Important Things, which are occasionally the Really Small Things as well, he always remembers. Like if I like marinara sauce and what my favorite socks are and how I feel about turtlenecks. He might not remember if I said I was coming over on Tuesday or Wednesday, but he always remembers how I like my coffee, which is much more vitally important.

I don't think there is a way for me to say how good it feels to have a listener, because it's a feel that they haven't made a word for yet, unless maybe it's love.

Things About Driving

I have had this recurring nightmare for several months. It changes setting and the details are usually different, but the overall theme is the same, and the horrible feeling that comes along with it. In every dream, I am being pushed backwards by some invisible force - like gravity. Sometimes I am in a car, or walking, or some other mode of transportation, some of which I don't remember, but against my will I begin to roll backwards, picking up momentum. No amount of braking, dragging my hands and feet, screaming, or trying to jump off will stop the ride. Into traffic, against traffic, I roll, going faster and faster. In one of my dreams, a friend's young child was behind me and I couldn't stop my car. It was the most horrific, helpless feeling. I woke up in a cold sweat with tears running down my face. I had the same dream last night, but it was me and Aspen, maybe on a bike or something, rolling back down a huge hill with no way to stop. Traffic rushing at us, gaining speed with every second. We were locked on and couldn't bail off. I was completely out of control.

Some days this feels like it's happening to me when I am awake.

I am hearing it now, the message. The voice of the universe is whispering to me about the powerless route that my life has been taking for years. The forces driving backwards against my will into chaos and danger and destruction. I want off of this ride. Last night something in my dream shifted and I began to push back with my hands and my feet and my voice with all of my might. I barely slowed the momentum, but I was doing SOMETHING. This is where I am. I am ready to push back and fight and not be ruled by the bad decisions and fears that have been directing me for more than 20 years. Maybe I won't stop the train right away, but I am gonna create a hell of a drag until I can get it turned around and heading the right way.

I am ready to be in the driver's seat of my life for once, as much as somebody can be. Not being blown around by every landmine and catastrophe that falls in my lap. Not being distracted by the easy outs and hand outs and bail outs and escape routes (beer, anyone?). I want to push through until I crest that hill and gravity takes me where I want to go. I want to quit coasting backwards. I want to quit having nightmares. I look around at my friends and family and realize that I have so much to be thankful for, and we all have things in our lives that are out of our control. It's how we handle the hits that define who we are as people and I have spent many years coasting around my circumstances instead of wrestling them back to the place I want to be. Its the action (or the inaction) that I take that determines my direction. It's time to be the driver of my own life.

Things About Cougars

meow. 

So we’ve been watching this reality show on the History Channel called Alone. It’s sort of like survivor, but colder and more… northwestern. These ten guys get dropped off by themselves at super remote locations around Vancouver Island in British Columbia where the wildlife population outweighs the number of humans - by a longshot. The premise of the show is that these guys fancy themselves survivalists, so the one who lasts the longest out in this “temperate rainforest” (read - soggy and barely above freezing wasteland) gets to take home $500K. That’s a lot of beers in dollar money.

Within the first six days, five of these self-proclaimed “survivalists” had tapped out, and most of those were due to close encounters of the carnivorous kind. One guy was sure that he was being “stalked” by bears when the game cams caught a pair of black bears sniffing out his tent one night. He spooked them off but left the next day, sure they just ran home to plan up their feast menu. The next guy heard wolves howling on a ridge near his campsite and decided they were DEFINITELY headed his way, so he bailed. We got talking about wildlife behavior and how much you do, or do not know, about how these wild beasts act, typically, would definitely determine the fear factor. Also, the dark, and also, being alone, but still, knowledge is power.

Maybe it was bingeing the series that inspired it, or maybe not, but we decided to go camping at my friends’ beach this weekend. The beach is located off of a heavily wooded area right along the Columbia River just after it flows out of Canada with all of those wonderful Canadian gifts in it. You know, things like raw sewage, heavy metals and the occasional corpse. Don’t worry Canada, we’re not mad - I mean look at Hanford, how can we point fingers?

Anyway, camping on this beach seemed like an especially good idea since my friends’ neighbors had just sent her a picture of not one, or even two, but THREE nearly full grown mountain lions hanging out in a tree just above the river near the beach. Cougars. Young, hungry, curious, probably still in pre-frontal lobe development stages of decision making, cougars. Giant kitties with vice-like jaws, razors for claws and fangs for days. LET’S GO STAY THERE! We thought. I think secretly, we both wanted to pretend we were on Alone, except we weren’t Alone, and we took a camp trailer to sleep in. As well as guns.

We had a wonderful time on the beach and nary a sign of cat, kitten or otherwise. Maybe we were secretly disappointed. As we drifted off to sleep in our safe little box of protection and screens, we patted ourselves on the back for SURVIVING and talked about the amazing breakfast we would have earned after a night in the wilderness.

This is where I want to talk about cougar safety. This does not involve always having a wingman to make sure you don’t leave the bar with a woman who is twice your age minus seven (I think that’s the cougar formula?). No, the cougar safety I refer to is how to behave in the wild when a 200 pound cat is breathing down your neck. According to the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife, these are the steps that should be taken during a cougar encounter:

1. Stop, stand tall and don't run. Pick up small children. Don't run. A cougar's instinct is to chase.
2. Do not approach the animal, especially if it is near a kill or with kittens.
3. Try to appear larger than the cougar. Never take your eyes off the animal or turn your back. Do not crouch down or try to hide.
4. If the animal displays aggressive behavior, shout, wave your arms and throw rocks. The idea is to convince the cougar that you are not prey, but a potential danger.
5. If the cougar attacks, fight back aggressively and try to stay on your feet. Cougars have been driven away by people who have fought back.

This is a great and helpful list. I would improve it thusly:

1. Stop, stand tall and don't run. Pick up small children. Hurl children at cougar and move carefully to a vehicle. Drive fast.
2. Do not approach the animal, especially if it is near a kill or with kittens, unless they are VERY cute and you want to Instagram them.
3. Try to appear larger than the cougar. Never take your eyes off the animal or turn your back. Use your best Angry Eyes on the cougar.  Do not crouch down or try to hide. This would be useless anyway since if you are out in the woods you are definitely wearing some version of neon Patagonia outdoorswear.
4. If the animal displays aggressive behavior, shout, wave your arms and throw rocks. If this is what attracted the cougar in the first place, stop doing it.
5. If the cougar attacks, fight back aggressively and try to stay on your feet.  Cougars have been driven away by people who have fought back and Very Angry Mothers.

Being an expert on speculative wildlife encounters, I feel like there is a lot of useful information in both of these lists. But back to my story.

We had just drifted off into an oblivious slumber when I heard the cat. I woke Everyone Else up with a whisper-yell of “DID YOU HEAR THAT?” which I am sure the cat did. It turns out that the cat I heard was my friend’s housecat named Bob. Bobcat had no business running around the beach yowling like a wild animal at all hours. Now that we were awake we discussed protocol in case Bob had actually been a cougar. That discussion went like this:

“Where is the shotgun?”

“Under the bed.” pause. Possibly drifting back to sleep. “Wait, did you want to know where the cartridges are too?”

Pause. Possibly wondering if I should be strangled. “Yes.”

“Also under the bed. Should we load the gun?”

“No, let’s wait until you are half-eaten.”

“OK. I have my knife.” Pause. Sleeping?

“That’s great.” definite sarcasm.

We went back to sleep. Later we decided that the most efficient thing would have been to just throw the box of shotgun shells at the cat while screaming at each other  in confusion. Fairly certain that would do the trick but if not, check out http://wdfw.wa.gov/living/cougars.html for more information on this.