In Defense of Giving Up

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Lately, I’ve made it my mission to try to reconcile these two statements. Easier said than done. As I wrap up my second full year of retirement, I’ve been fortunate enough to have the time and motivation to experiment with all sorts of new activities. I’m a naturally curious person, and I’m also game to try almost anything. To be clear, it doesn’t mean I'm brilliant, or even competent at everything I attempt. But I'll surely never know unless I dive right in.

Unfortunately, success has not been consistent, and some of my failures have been pretty spectacular. In those moments I’ve experienced sadness, anger, shame, humiliation, or even a fancy combo platter of two or more of those. It’s pretty uncomfortable.

Speaking of discomfort, I was so excited to go horseback riding the very first week I was retired. I hadn’t ridden in about 20 years (when I had really short hair), and looked forward to sharing my love of horses and trails with my neighbor. I was not prepared for the excruciating pain that surged through my body with every step. Apparently, that hip replacement of 2013 may have affected my ability to ever be comfortable in a saddle again.

But I digress…

I went into retirement looking for who I really wanted to be. I spent almost three decades doing a job at which I was more than competent, but one that really did not define who I was as a person. On the weekends, competing in dog sports, people’s jaws would drop when they learned I was a lawyer. What did that say about me in that moment? How is a lawyer supposed to conduct themselves in a dog sport setting? What do people think of when they think of lawyers?

Never mind, don’t answer that…

Part of being authentic, in my opinion, is having a certain level of self-awareness. I’ve had to have some serious talks with myself about my temperament. There’s the type of person I wish I could be, and there’s the type of person I actually am. The older I get, the more I realize how baked in some of my behaviors and attitudes are. Don’t get me wrong, they are not all good or all bad. None of us are all good or all bad, despite our best efforts to convince ourselves otherwise.

What I’m trying to do at this point in my life is simply play to my strengths. I’m my own boss and I love learning new things. It’s delightful and extraordinarily frustrating all at once, probably because those two words define exactly the kind of person I can be in any given moment. But as I go forward, I want to showcase the delightful side, and try to avoid getting myself into situations where I end up frustrating myself and/or others.

This summer, I made a decision to walk away from an activity that I’d hoped I’d be better at than I actually was. It wasn’t easy, but in the end, I know it’s the best thing for me and my sanity. At almost the same time, another opportunity I had been hoping for opened up, bringing with it a renewed sense of purpose and joy.

Since retiring, I think I’m ahead on the “success vs. failure” tally sheet. I wrote a book. I also successfully grew sweet corn, tomatoes, melons and asparagus, and replaced a bathroom faucet. I learned new ways to  train my dogs. I learned to make pickles and salsa. I learned how to feel good about myself…and how to give up things that cause me pain, like horseback riding.

Best of all, I’ve given up comparing myself to others and trying to be perfect.

I highly recommend it.

To All the Dogs I've Loved Before (Part 3): Josie

As Molly (see Part 2) approached her fourth birthday, I decided the best gift I could give her was a puppy. Molly had never done well being left alone all day while I was at work. Although she had a room with a window, this room provided far too many opportunities for destruction. One day, I came home from work to find that, for some reason, she chose to shred military orders for my two weeks of active duty. Perhaps that was her way of protesting my impending absence?  

Most dogs are pack animals, and sporting breeds like to be with their person. Because my job did not allow for that, my decision to expand the pack seemed to be the next best thing I could do for Molly.

Now, looking back on all the “planning” I did for the new addition, I cringe with embarrassment: so many choices that were so utterly random. I had a big dog; I now wanted a little dog. I had a golden/yellow dog; I now wanted a black dog. As a child, I loved the best cockapoo in the world, now I would get another who would be just like that perfect cockapoo because all cockapoos are perfect, right?

By 2001, the internet was a great source of information, so all I had to do was type “cockapoo” into whatever search engine was available at the time and all of a sudden, the choices seemed limitless.

Turns out, there was a black cockapoo puppy waiting for me, just outside of Green Bay, WI. That was a sign, right?

So… on a cold winter’s day, my parents and I set out in their Buick Park Avenue for the drive across Wisconsin to pick up puppy. We even made a bonus stop at Lambeau Field, a place I had never visited, despite growing up three hours south and being a huge Packers fan…

But I digress…

After spending the night in a Green Bay hotel, we ventured out into the country and found the farm that was home to the litter. It was quite quaint and seemed perfect. The puppy, whom I named Josie was adorable (NOTE: all puppies are adorable). We bundled her into a cardboard box and I sat in the back seat with her in my lap while Dad navigated the trip back home to Minnesota.

It was love at first sight when I introduced Josie to Molly. Despite the size difference and my propensity for worry, things went smashingly. Almost too smashingly…my bungalow, after all, was still small and puppy chasing resulted in furniture and other things being knocked about. Also, there was the small matter of containment…or in my case, lack thereof. I will never forget that queasy feeling coming over me as I glanced out the back window and realized my dogs had disappeared. I bolted out the back door just in time to observe the two of them strolling into the neighbor’s garden, two houses down the block. 

That would never do.

It’s that very scenario that prompts most breeders and adoption agencies ask if the potential owner has a fenced back yard. Josie's breeder made no such inquiry of me.

Deeply chagrined, I dutifully hired a pricey contractor to fence my backyard. From then on, all fun and games would be restricted to my own property.

After completing puppy and beginner obedience classes, I decided that Josie should also participate in agility and flyball. By that time, Molly was a pretty good flyball dog and absolutely loved the sport. Back in those days, little dogs were a valued asset to any flyball team, as they determined how high the jumps would be for the rest of the dogs on the team. I was excited for the opportunity to provide such a dog for my team.

There was just one problem. 

Josie had no interest in balls. Oh, she might occasionally grab one and carry it around, but it was only to play keep away with Molly. We went to flyball practice and one of the team members told me I would have to “force fetch” her, and demonstrated by cramming a little ball into her mouth and gripping her mouth closed around the ball. 

I was horrified.

Taking a different approach, I boiled small tennis balls in beef bouillon, smeared them with Braunschweiger, peanut butter, and any other tantalizing substance I could think of – all to no avail. 

Josie’s flyball career ended before it ever began.

We also tried agility. At an outdoor class, the instructor recommended attaching a clothesline to her collar, so we could catch her when she ran off. Apparently, I had not yet learned how to train a decent recall.

Oh, how Josie loved to run around - providing much entertainment for anyone who was lucky enough to see it. They called it “the zoomies.” Most onlookers would chuckle and tell me how much fun she was having. As I began to learn more about dogs and dog training, I came to ponder whether it was fun, or actually a manifestation of stress. To this day, I’m not sure how much fun agility was for Josie.

She was almost five when Casey Mae (CM) joined our pack. Molly was eight, and within six months of CM’s arrival, tore her ACL chasing after a ball.

All of a sudden, Josie was Marcia Brady - the middle child - stuck between the rehabbing old dog and the most brilliant puppy ever, who had the capacity to make a very novice trainer look good. Josie moved into her role as mascot with great enthusiasm, and never seemed to mind that more attention was being directed at her older and younger dog sisters.

Two years later, after Molly died, Josie and CM’s relationship was uneasy at best. I remember Josie’s groomer calling me when he found several tiny puncture holes in one of her earflaps. She always wanted to start something and apparently CM was the one who would finish it. I rarely saw the skirmishes, which meant they were happening when I was at work.

In 2010, the American Kennel Club decided to allow mixed-breed dogs to compete in AKC licensed events. Casey Mae was competing at an advanced level, and a friend suggested that maybe, at the ripe old age of eight and a half, Josie might be able to take competition a bit more seriously. We entered a local trial and, wouldn’t you know, Josie became one of the first mixed breed dogs to earn a qualifying score. She even took first place in her class! 

I’d have to go back and check to see whether she ever got a title. That’s the thing about titles, ribbons and Qs…after a while, they mean very little in the grand scheme of my life with dogs. What makes me smile when I remember Josie, is how she was always up for a good time. 

Josie died in 2012 - the same year I went to the AKC Agility National Championship with CM and welcomed a flat-coated retriever puppy named Jet into the pack. My views on dog ownership were changing, as I began to understand the difference between a "pet" home and a "performance" home.

More on that to come...

  

Nostalgia and the Power of Music

The band was wrapping up the last of the sound checks, meaning the show would start in a matter of minutes. I'd said I was just running to the restroom, but here I was…stopped in my tracks, my heartbeat increasing in anticipation.

I’m just waiting for him to go on so I can snap a pic

I shot a quick text to my friend Laura; in case she and her husband Pat became concerned at my prolonged absence. After all, I left them at a well-situated table for people of our age to listen to Stephen Pearcy, billed as “The Voice of Ratt.” 

If you are, as I am, a member of Gen X, you will have at least heard of Ratt. They were one of a number of heavy metal “hair” bands who ruled the stage in the mid to late 80s. I will proudly admit to being a huge hair band fan, even though I never looked the part. It’s fascinating to me that a few of the bigger hair bands are selling out stadium tours this summer. I’ve watched some footage of those concerts and - sorry to say - cringed, as the lead singers struggle to hit the notes they were once able to screech so effortlessly back in the day.

The rockers are old, just like us. But those that are still out touring and performing create the illusion that they are not old. Or at least they are giving it their best effort. Just last week there was a debate on social media over the wisdom of the B52s headlining a 4th of July concert. Apparently some felt they were past their prime. 

These aging musicians can continue to command audiences because we remember the music. Music is an extremely powerful conveyer of nostalgia. We can all hear that song on the radio and be immediately transported to a specific time and place from the recesses of our past.

For me, that place is Wisconsin and that time is mid-late 1980s. I get nostalgic every time I visit Wisconsin – the state where I grew up. I get nostalgic every time I hear music from the 80s. I get nostalgic just thinking about Summerfest.

Summerfest is one of Wisconsin’s gems. At one time, it was declared the biggest music festival in the world. Conceived in 1968 by then-mayor Henry Maier, it became the not-to-be-missed summer event by the time I was allowed to attend my first one in 1984 (strict parents and all). I don’t remember much about that concert except that Huey Lewis and the News headlined and the experience was super fun.

1984 was thirty-eight years ago.

Since then, I’ve been to Summerfest at least twenty-five times, always with my college besties Pat and Laura. It’s become a tradition almost as sacred as family holiday gatherings, only without the stress. Summerfest provides an opportunity to relax, enjoy Milwaukee’s spectacular lakefront, listen to some bands of varying quality, eat mostly good food, and drink cold beverages. 

After a six-year hiatus, during which Pat and Laura moved away and then moved back, and a pandemic swept in and shut everything down, we made our triumphant return.

How would it be?

The band lineup was not optimal for the one weekend we could all make it work. But it was more about nostalgia than anything else. Personally, I couldn’t be more excited that “The Voice of Ratt” was playing a 6:15 p.m. show on a small stage at Summerfest in Milwaukee. I haven’t been out to hear a live band in ages. I go to bed at 10:00. We joked that this schedule was going to work out just fine.

We got there shortly after they opened the gates. That’s when the old people arrive.

Wait, we are the old people.

We paced our alcohol consumption. Turns out, during the hiatus, Summerfest did away with the red and white wine coolers for $2.50 and replaced them with $10 beers and $20 craft cocktails. It was a bit surreal to see new stages and food offerings along with the new fancy expensive beverages, but one must either adapt or be left behind.  This meant no crawfish for Pat. To be honest, I wasn’t going to miss the spectacle of him sucking their heads.

But I digress...

We sat through a couple of songs by another band from our past, The Smithereens, whose lead singer had passed away in 2017. Truth be told, the new guy didn’t quite measure up. But we gamely sang along until it became just a bit too much. We also listened to a couple more lesser known but really good bands. It rained a little and we watched people don those large plastic bags passing for rain gear. 

After dinner, the rain lifted, and there I was, frozen, waiting for “The Voice of Ratt” to take the stage. I checked out the audience. It looked about right.  After all, we Gen Xers are now parents and grandparents. The men are losing their hair and the women are coloring theirs. Many of us, me included, have opted for sensible shoes, although the bikers can still rock out in tight leather and stilettos. We had gathered here, hoping that "The Voice of Ratt" could transport us back to a time when we were carefree and had few, if any significant responsibilities. A time before physical, mental, and emotional scars would burden our bodies and souls. 

I am pleased to report that Stephen Pearcy did not disappoint. My guess is he colors his hair. He also has managed to keep the weight off, and I don’t dare speculate on how. But once the opening chords of the first song crashed down upon us, the audience went wild. Or maybe it was just me. Standing there, all by myself, pretty much sober, I danced like I haven’t danced in years. Actually, it was more of a shuffle, due to all the arthritis, but I found myself inexplicably filled with joy.

I don’t think I’m coming back

As I hit "send" on the text, I noticed my phone battery was down to 5%. I briefly considered what might happen if I lost contact with Pat and Laura. If worse came to worse, I would just go to the car. Isn't that what we would do back before we had cell phones?

Halfway through, Pat and Laura found me. They indulged my dancing, and then, before I knew it, the show was over. Pat and Laura picked up one last souvenir, while I listened to a pretty awesome cover band playing more songs from our youth, and then we called it a day. Walking back to the car, we dodged the incoming crowd arriving for Wu-Tang Clan and the other headlining hip hop acts.

Good for them, I thought. More nostalgia for those who can stay up late! 

Fighting Inertia

“When did you get skinny?”

I will never forget those five words hitting me like a punch to the face, as I stood in the doorway to Mike Freeman’s office. It was early 2017. I was fifty-one years old. As I absorbed this greeting, I wondered if I had heard Mike correctly. I lost my focus. How does one respond? In the moment, I had to shake off my discomfort, as I was prepping the man who was my boss for a meeting with a downtown business group. The show must go on.

Later that day, I confided in a colleague. I first wondered if I should make a report of some sort and then wondered if I was overreacting. I googled "hostile work environment" and studied the concept of sexual harassment. Was this that? In the end, I did nothing.

I recently read an article in the Star Tribune: “Veteran Hennepin County Prosecutor Receives $190K Discrimination and Retaliation Settlement” and my own experiences in the office came flooding back to me. Amy Sweasy and I both started in the office during Mike's first term. As law clerks in the early 1990s, we joked about our preference for “Law and Order’s” Manhattan District Attorney Adam Schiff (not to be confused with the Congressman from California) as the ideal boss. I have to believe D.A. Schiff would never have uttered those words:

“When did you get skinny?”

Amy's complaint, as reported by the Star Tribune, alleged that "Freeman made sexist remarks in a staff meeting, claiming a female attorney in his office had 'the judgement of a toad.' He also stated that 'we already had to let the white girls in because we need someone to keep our feet warm at night.'" The complaint also alleged that he treated female employees differently from males, especially if they “disagreed with him on the handling of a case”. The story also said Sweasy claimed Freeman “ostracized” her and “took away job duties”.

I know only too well what that feels like. In 2015, I was at the peak of my career and one of a declining number of experienced prosecutors in the office. Just a few years earlier, I successfully prosecuted Amy Senser, the wife of a local NFL hero, in one of the highest-profile cases in our office’s recent history. Significantly, I had also begun to speak up about directives I could no longer follow, office cultural problems, and professional disagreement with certain charging decisions. 

Shortly after I reported my concerns, I was involuntarily removed from my trial team and assigned to cover a probation violation calendar. While never considering that I might have been subjected to discrimination or retaliation, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of worthlessness. How did I go from prosecuting countless serious violent crime cases, including Amy Senser’s, to being sidelined to staff a court calendar of routine probation violations?

The same thing happened to me in 2017, within a month of the "skinny" comment, and that downtown meeting, at which I was complemented for the work I had been doing. Without prior warning, I was transferred to our Civil Division, essentially annihilating all those community relationships I had so carefully forged on behalf of the office.

I retired on September 25, 2020. On that final day, I came in to clean out my office and learned that Mike wanted to see me. Once again, I found myself standing awkwardly in his doorway listening to him talk about himself and my big case.

“And then we rewarded you by sending you to the Civil Division…”

On my very last day working for Mike Freeman, I decided I would not tolerate any more of his gaslighting.

Fighting the queasiness in my stomach, I told him firmly that the transfer was no reward, but instead, represented the absolute worst day of my career. I then described how I shut myself in my office that day, so nobody could see my tears as I came to grips with losing an assignment I cherished.

He was unmoved and swiftly changed the subject.

Amy’s career took a different trajectory from mine, and we did not have much contact during my last few years in the office. As I read the reporting on her settlement with Hennepin County, my heart ached for her. I then caught my breath as I read Mike’s response:

“In 24 years, and among thousands of employees, no claim of discrimination has been found to be true.”

Mike is, first and foremost, a politician. The thing about men in power is that they maintain that power with these types of statements. When I consider his “greeting” to me back in 2017, I now see it as a deliberate attempt to knock me off my game.  Another thing: Mike would never make that comment to a man. While my story may seem inconsequential, I believe in my heart that there are many more women who, like me, experienced disturbing conduct, but opted to not take any action.

I am so proud of Amy for doing what the rest of us could not find the strength to do. My hope is that this is the beginning of a new era for the Hennepin County Attorney’s Office: one where women are respected for the work they do and the talents they possess, rather than being characterized as foot warmers and toads.

It's 2022. It shouldn’t be that difficult.

When Does Positivity Become Toxic?

It was sometime in 2009 or thereabouts when I realized I might not be a very good listener.

I was on the phone with my parents and once again felt myself getting sucked into the vortex of my mother’s histrionics around money. She and my dad, like millions of others, suffered significant financial losses when the behemoth financial firm Lehman Brothers declared bankruptcy. While my retirement savings had taken a big hit, I had plenty of time left to recoup those loses. My parents – not so much.

In her typical fashion, Mum sobbed uncontrollably while raging against their financial planner. She blamed him for being uncommunicative and untrustworthy. It didn’t help that he was in Wisconsin and my parents had moved to Minnesota, adding another layer of misgiving.

I immediately set out to problem solve. To fix the situation. After all, that’s how I was programmed as a child. We all were. Any time Mum was upset, the rest of us either rallied to settle her back down, or just tried stay out of her way.

Because I thought it would be rude to end the conversation (having not yet learned how to manage boundaries), I suggested they find a planner here in Minneapolis. At the time, it seemed like a logical suggestion.

Mum promptly lost any remaining thread of composure:

“Why must you always have an answer for everything? SOMETIMES ALL I NEED IS FOR SOMEONE TO LISTEN!”

By now, I was pretty well used to her outbursts, but for some reason, this one hit me differently. What good was simply listening? It seemed entirely a waste of time.

I hate wasting time.

I do not recall what I said in response, or whether Dad tried to smooth things over, as he was inclined to do, but thankfully, the call did not drag out. Immediately thereafter, I set out to ruminate on my inability to “just listen.” What I didn't know at the time, is that it is an upshot of being highly empathetic. More than just being concerned for another’s distress, I myself actually feel that distress. Like most people, I prefer not to feel distressed, so I usually do whatever I need to do to move through it and put it in the rear-view mirror. I've become so good at it, that oftentimes I am able to forget the thing that caused me the distress in the first place.

Some might call this repressing, and in the past, perhaps it was. These days, I feel a true lightness that comes from setting aside and letting go of such burdens. I also know that, for me, positivity and gratitude are beacons in a world that can seem ugly and overwhelming.

But I digress…

When I first became aware of the term “toxic positivity,” I had to look it up to make sure I understood the term correctly. I asked the Google for assistance and several answers appeared. I selected one that originated pretty close to home from the University of Minnesota:

Toxic positivity is the excessive and ineffective overgeneralization of a happy, optimistic state across all situations. It doesn't feel good to be on the receiving end of it, and it generally isn't helpful.

Huh.

What stands out to me after reading this description, is that the person on the receiving end determines whether another person is engaging in toxic positivity.

Just like my mother did with me, back in 2009.

I found another good discussion around toxic positivity from the University of Washington here:

https://rightasrain.uwmedicine.org/mind/well-being/toxic-positivity#:~:text=Toxic%20positivity%20involves%20dismissing%20negative,and%20a%20feeling%20of%20disconnection.

I then listened to a Brené Brown podcast, in which she defined toxic positivity as one person attempting to redirect another’s emotions. That was a little easier to understand. I have also learned that toxic positivity lurks on social media, oftentimes in Facebook groups. That doesn’t surprise me in the least. Facebook groups are comprised of hundreds, if not thousands of strangers, each with their own strengths and struggles. For some, coping with grief, illness, chronic pain, or any other type of discomfort means putting on a happy face and soldiering on.

For others, pulling oneself out of the darkness is not an easy task; thus making any blast of positivity toxic to the system.

I consider myself fortunate to be a generally happy, optimistic person, who suffers occasional bouts of anxiety. This anxiety drives me to want to fix the problems of others. But more often than not, others are only seeking the proverbial shoulder to cry on. Or the sympathetic ear to listen.

In other words, I need to talk less and listen more.

For those of you who know me, this is easier said than done. I was conditioned as a child to fill voids with my own cheerful chatter. To distract from the unpleasant. To soothe.

Because I am now much more aware of my own tendencies in this regard, I have decided that toxic positivity requires good and clear communication between both the speaker and the listener. This is where social media might not be the best place to open up and be vulnerable. I see people on Twitter sharing all sorts of distressing experiences and struggle with how to respond. Or whether to respond at all. I then see others criticizing those types of posts as attention seeking.

In the end, we all walk a slightly different path. I’m pretty sure most people who respond by invoking some sort of “this too shall pass” response are not trying to be hurtful.

Going back to the U of M definition, I would encourage those who feel that they are receiving toxic positivity, to advocate for themselves. On the flip side, I also believe I bear the responsibility to ask for clarification if someone close to me is expressing distress.

I can ask: "How can I best support you?"

Until we all evolve to the point where we can read each other's minds, we just need to make an effort to communicate clearly with one another. If I know that you don't want a cheerful Band-Aid, I can take it upon myself to do better and simply sit with you in whatever place you are at.

But if I don’t, odds are that I will respond the way I would prefer someone respond to me. We act the way we are wired to act, based on many different influences going back decades.

By honoring our differences and speaking up for what we need, rather than assuming the listener inherently knows, or complaining about a response we don’t like, we can strengthen those relationships with the people we trust. With that trust established, we then can be free to open up our authentic feelings of loss, grief and pain.

What do you think about toxic positivity? How have you been impacted by it? Drop me a line at the link below:

https://debbie-russell.com/contact

Online Reading is a Contact Sport

 Gucci

5G Verizon

State Farm

Discover Card

Some sort of felt wool bunny stuffed toy thing

*** 

I recently spent a leisurely Sunday morning sipping my coffee and reading one of my two free articles from the New Yorker. Much as I would like to subscribe to all my favorite magazines, my current financial situation will not support it. Years ago, as a law student with even fewer financial resources, I subscribed to the New Yorker as a means to convey an image as an intellectual - not that anyone actually bought it. I would read the latest issue on the bus ride to and from school, rarely finishing one before the next arrived in the mail.

But I digress…

These days, with the exception of the Sunday paper and magazines put out by AARP, Northern Gardener and Minnesota Conservation, I do most of my reading online. The difference in experience could not be starker. For the most part, I’m able to focus on whatever it is I’m reading, as the ads are adequately defined. I will get derailed if the ad is for something I like, or, in the case of the creepy algorithm, for something I’ve previously purchased. That happens with a paper version as well, but thankfully, there’s no way to click on the paper and get sucked in to spending more money I don’t have.

When I started writing for a certain online magazine, I did so believing they were a good fit for my writing. They describe themselves as follows:

We're community-driven. We're dedicated to sharing "the mindful life" beyond the core or choir, to all those who don't yet know they give a care. We focus on anything that's good for you, good for others, and good for our planet.

If I had to describe my writing to a stranger, I’d say I write about my own experiences as a way to share the human condition with others. I write about what it is like to feel flawed, and then push through that feeling, by learning from and appreciating everything life has to offer. In other words, I aspire to the mindful life. 

My last piece for this particular magazine was, in my opinion, rather timely. Russia was on the brink of invading Ukraine and grocery store shelves were, once again, not well stocked. I was struggling with how to cope with a world that seemed to be spiraling out of control. I wrote about how I adjusted my lens to focus on things I could control. I try not to lecture others how to act or think, rather, I share what works for me.

To be honest, I thought it was pretty good.

When it was published, I sent it around to my friends.

Shortly thereafter, one sent me this screen shot:

She found it funny.

I did not, as it was not the first time this particular “ad” had been dropped right in the middle of my article. The previous time, I wrote about the importance of mental strength when rehabbing from injury. When I sent it to my personal trainer, she responded:

Geez. What was it about my writing that attracted this particular ad? I wasn’t writing about anything remotely related to sex and sexual health. I decided to address this in a Facebook group of writers for the magazine. I suggested that I was considering other options for publishing my articles.

The initial responses were supportive and pretty affirming. One writer said “advertising is one thing on the site if the reader is not a member, but in-line ‘quotes’ like this are unacceptable.”

However, backlash soon followed. It was surprising, to say the least.

I was called “entitled” and admonished to be grateful for the opportunity to publish my writing. One fellow writer went as far as to say she was “appalled at the self-righteousness here.” I was also informed that ads were a part of keeping the business afloat and that the editors had no control over what ads were placed where. At the same time, I was invited to correspond privately with one of the editors.

“Hi Debbie, this is what we call an in-line ad and it’s for one of our Mindful Partners, companies that we’re proud to work with and that help keep [magazine] in business so we can publish and share mindful stories from authors like you.”

Ultimately, the owner himself entered the Facebook discussion, as several other writers were now espousing the same thoughts and feelings that I had. One reader commented that a similar ad had popped into her story about grieving for her dying grandmother. Another pointed out that the “ad” doesn’t even look like an ad, it looks like part of my content. One person thanked me for my post, saying it gave her the courage to bring up her own concerns with the editorial staff.

Wait…courage?

At this point, the entire experience of being a writer trying to find a home for my pieces came sharply into focus. As did this particular platform on which I was trying to compete for readers. Did I mention that I was advised to promote, promote, promote, as a way to boost my score and possibly qualify to be paid?

I did that with my very first article and made $50. This time around, I felt like the institution was shifting in such a way that no matter how hard I tried, I was not going to get the readers. It didn’t help that I personally hated the way the “ad” was placed in my piece. I spent a fair amount of time setting up my profile, recruiting followers as well as paying for my own subscription, which, should spare me from the ads, right?

No such luck! Every time I logged into my account, I encountered this banner…right across the top of the page:

WHAT’S YOUR SEXUAL ANIMAL? FIND OUT HERE >>>> 

At some point, my overactive brain went into high gear, prompting me to ask the editorial staff if, perhaps, I had misunderstood the gist or direction of this particular magazine. At least with respect to my account and my articles, I seemed to be drawing only one type of mindful partner.

In the end, the editors pulled all ads for my article. Not surprisingly, my piece never gained any traction, despite all my efforts. I did, however, gain an acute awareness of the atmosphere in which I had inadvertently stepped when I questioned the ads in the first place. The ensuing comments ultimately convinced me it was an environment I no longer wished to inhabit.

For now, my writing is homeless, except for right here.

I will keep looking for spaces to share my pieces. Truly, I’m not that picky. I understand a business needs revenue. If Gucci wants to plop an ad in the middle of one of my articles, you will not hear a peep from me!

To All the Dogs I've Loved Before (Part 2): Molly

 She was not at all what I expected.

I had turned 32, purchased a house with a back yard, researched breeds and breeders and thought I had it all figured out. After all, I had been planning for my first dog like many people plan for human children. Initially, that first dog was to be a West Highland White Terrier. They were adorable, full stop. 

Then I started researching the breed. Turns out, terriers are challenging, to put it mildly. Thankfully, I’ve always had a certain self-awareness that, while limiting at times, also is a decent guiding force. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I simply did not have the chops for a terrier. 

I then moved to my next favorite breed; the golden retriever. I loved the idea of a placid friend to come home to, after a tough day being a lawyer. I even had the fake fireplace, in front of which, my dream dog would lay contentedly while I unwound with a glass of wine and a book. I began the breeder investigation all over again. Luckily, a friend/colleague, along with her husband, had done all the research for me. I visited them and their dog, who was a delight. I got on the breeder’s list, and at the end of March, 1998, right after finishing up a year-long assignment as a public defender, I brought my puppy home. I named her Molly. I have no idea why, at the time, it just seemed to fit her.

I should mention that, during that year I spent as a public defender, I made some new fun friends. These fun, childless friends went off on a really fun trip to Vegas the same week I was picking up puppy. In essence, I became the first “parent” who had to sacrifice a fun time for the responsibility of another life. 

Did I mention that these friends were fun? They threw me a puppy shower, where others brought their dogs and it was a super fun time. Then they all started having human babies, and the fun times were scaled back into more sporadic affairs, each of which revolved around the availability of babysitters.

But I digress…

Before Molly, my only prior dog experience was with the sweet, mild-mannered Muffin. She was the salve to my angst-ridden adolescent soul. As Molly grew physically, her enthusiastic, rambunctious personality exploded. I panicked. I had no idea how to manage all of this energy. I learned about choke chains and alpha rolls and all sorts of questionable methods for managing a dog that I would later learn came out of field lines. 

Living in the city, I had to quickly decide how I was going to manage my wild child when taking her for walks. After quickly discarding the choke chain, I settled on a Halti Headcollar, which was supposed to control her lunging by turning her head, rather than pulling on her neck. I will never forget one of the first times we tried it out, as she hurled herself onto the ground in the middle of the intersection while we attempted to cross the street. A car had stopped for us, and I was convinced the driver would be contacting the humane society, animal control, or maybe even the police. 

I enrolled her in obedience class, but merely walking her in heel position was a debacle. She lunged and jumped, trying to get the treat out of my hand as I worked to lure her into proper position. 

When Molly was three, I attempted to train her in agility. We managed to get through several sessions before the instructor recommended I take her back to obedience class. Along with humiliation, desperation set in. I loathed obedience. It seemed as though there was going to be very little I could do successfully with my overly enthusiastic first grown-up dog.

When she turned four, after a couple of episodes where she acted out on her separation anxiety (or maybe it was just boredom?) I got Molly a puppy…a silly cockapoo I named Josie. (More on her in Part 3). Molly loved her little sister and tolerated a lot of puppy nonsense. 

Then, when she was five, we discovered flyball.

I remember walking into the facility for the first time and almost being overwhelmed by the energy. It was Molly’s energy! The dogs were crazy…barking, lunging, tugging, and having the time of their lives going down a lane of four jumps and getting a tennis ball out of a spring-loaded contraption of some sort.

Molly picked it up in no time and was actually pretty good! For the next few years we had a wonderful go of it. 

Then she tore her ACL.

While she acted like it was no big thing, I could not help but be concerned at the fact that she would put no weight on her left rear leg. After a consult, she underwent surgery and a long, slow, rehab. Keeping her calm was not easy. Doing figure eights and diagonal hill work challenged us, but we stuck it out, and Molly went back to flyball for about six months before completely tearing her other ACL. I had been advised to expect it, but nonetheless could not contain my disappointment.

Fortunately, this surgery and rehab went quicker than the first and she continued to enjoy life with her typical vigor. By this time, I had added Casey Mae to the pack, who quickly developed into quite a little field retriever. I began to realize how fabulous Molly would have been at that game, had I only known about it when she was young. 

One day in late August, I drove all three dogs to a large cattle farm to meet a friend and work on CM’s retrieving. My vehicle, a 1999 Saturn coupe, was completely unsuitable for transporting a three-dog pack through the bumps and ruts of the property's primitive trails. It had, however, been the perfect vehicle back in 2000, when Molly and I took our epic road trip together out to the Badlands, Black Hills, Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. She slept contentedly in the back seat, her head resting on the picnic basket, while I navigated the sometimes-treacherous mountain highways. 

But it was now 2008, and Molly was mostly retired, while I focused the bulk of my training energy on CM. After finding the perfect spot to practice some retrieves, I left the car windows down, as the weather was pretty warm. I lined CM up for her retrieve, my friend blew her duck call and threw the bird. Before I knew what was happening, Molly ran by us at full speed, on her way to pick up the bird. 

She had, quite literally, jumped out of the car window.

Two months later, she hit a big milestone in flyball. We celebrated. In between races, I took her out to cool off. Molly loved to make snow angels and there was just enough snow for that.

I noticed that she seemed slower than normal, so decided to have her evaluated by a chiropractor, thinking she might have injured herself during the car escape incident. One thing led to another, and within the span of a few short weeks, she was headed for surgery to have her left eye removed. I approached this with as much stoicism as I could muster. I knew a one-eyed dog who ran flyball just fine. I reminded myself that dogs do not understand, nor do they bring emotional baggage to their physical condition that we humans do. They do feel physical pain, though. It was imperative that I alleviate the pain Molly felt in her eye.

When surgery day arrived, her system crashed and the optic surgeon called me to come get her. We drove directly to the U of M emergency department, where a veterinary student laid the devastating news at my feet: Molly was full of tumors – hemangiosarcoma. It was unlikely she would make it to her eleventh birthday, which was less than a month away.

The ER personnel drained fluid from her heart, temporarily transforming Molly into a new dog. She was ready to play again. But for me, it was as though the heaviness from her heart was transferred directly onto mine. I tried valiantly to be grateful for the gift of those last few weeks. I memorized every little thing about her. I took her for solo walks in the cold, dark January evenings.

I was scheduled to start a first-degree domestic homicide trial at the end of January. When I emailed the judge to give him a heads up that I might have to miss a half day due to the impending death of my dog, he chastised me for the informality of my communication, and made clear that he was not inclined to grant me any dispensation. “We can’t inconvenience jurors…” was his bottom line.

Mercifully, Molly left me on a day I didn’t have to be in court – Martin Luther King Day, 2009. The tumor on her heart burst, rendering her mostly unconscious. I sat on the floor with her, attempting to read jury questionnaires while giving her permission to die. And so, she did, just as my dear friend and neighbor was warming up his truck for us to take her to the vet. 

I remember letting Josie and CM come in to say their goodbyes. I shouldn’t have gone to the effort. It was fascinating – almost like there was a force field around Molly’s body that neither dog was willing to breach. I know people whose dogs will look for the one that is gone, or go off their food, or somehow express the loss of a member of the pack. That did not happen at my house.

In the end, it may have been for the best. My two remaining pack members pushed me through my grief, demanding that I focus back on them after ignoring them during the last weeks of Molly's life. It wasn’t easy, but with time, all the wonderful Molly memories began, slowly but surely, to dull the pain in my heart.

As my first grownup dog, Molly taught me so much about patience, perseverance and resilience. She taught me how to be responsible for something other than myself. She taught me that dogs will never live as long as we want for them to live.

Knowing that, I cherish each day with the ones who are here right now, with their tight grips on my heart.