The Undercover Introvert

An Ode to All Good Dogs

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I want to tell you about a very good girl. The best girl. Our English Mastiff, Zoey. She was ten going on eleven, and we had to put her down right before the New Year. That’s considered a long life for a big dog, but it wasn’t nearly long enough for us. Even twenty years wouldn’t have been enough.

I can clearly recall the moment I met Zoey. We already had a puppy and I didn’t want another one, especially not one that would get so damned big, but I agreed to go see her. She was around nine weeks old and still nestled in a squirming, yipping collection of her other seven littermates. My ex plopped her into my lap, and she stayed there, staring up at me with her big, soulful eyes, like she knew I was the one deciding her fate, like she knew it was meant to be.

And she had me from that moment to this.

Zoey’s First Day Home

Zoey was perfect. Easy to train. Even tempered. Loving. Gentle with our other dog, a rat terrier named Amelie that never got any bigger than ten pounds. Zoey, on the other hand, got gigantic — one hundred thirty pounds at her heaviest — and her head was the size of an adult man’s. That meant her eyes were human sized too, and there was a depth of feeling in those enormous eyes, a knowing, such that you could read her emotions.

For the first half of her life, it was just her and me at home all day while I wrote. The dog was one hell of a listener, and she sat patiently by while I edited paragraphs aloud or tested out dialogue. She was almost always in the way, but in her defense, how can a dog the size of an adult woman not be in the way? I cleaned the house around her. I cooked in the kitchen around her. I tripped over her constantly but couldn’t be mad because she already looked ready to burst into tears. She was perfect.

Sisters

But dogs aren’t good dogs because they’re perfect. They’re good dogs because they’re our dogs.

I don’t understand why we’re able to become so close to them — why we love them so much and that love seems to be returned to us tenfold in their snuggles and wet kisses, in the way they look up at us with bold, naked trust — only to lose them way sooner than seems fair, necessary, or right. What I do know is that we don’t even come close to deserving their devotion. Zoey made me the center of her universe. She was always happy to see me and was there to lean her big old self against my legs even before I knew I needed her moral support. As is true with all dogs, she gave freely without taking much in return.

I knew from the beginning that bigger dogs don’t live long lives, but that knowledge hasn’t helped much. Over this last year, her health declined. It got harder for her to get up, and she sometimes fell when she was walking. I could feel the end nearing like an impending storm cloud, though I turned consciously away from thinking about it, preferring to focus on something more positive: how healthy her appetite was or how mentally acute she still seemed. Those dark thoughts would creep in at odd moments, though, seizing me with dread. Because I knew the end was coming, and I wasn’t ready.

Are any of us ever ready? If I think of the dogs that have enriched my life over the last few decades, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to any of them. Not a single one. The sunny feeling of having them close to us is counterbalanced by the cosmic unfairness of losing them much too soon. A cluster of consolation can exist if the dog lived a long life or is now out of pain. But, still, only time will dull the sharpest ends of grief after such a loss, no matter how much we expected it.

If You See This, Run!

My big blonde girl with her soft, floppy ears and ginormous head that she would plop down onto your knee was one in a million. But nothing I’m experiencing now is unique. The heartbreaking loss, the anger at the stolen time I’ll never get with her, the consolation of the long, happy years Zoey lived as part of our family, the relief at knowing she’s no longer hurting. It’s all pretty standard for the humans left behind.

Dogs shoot across our lives like comets, brilliant and sparkling, before disappearing forever.

This is for all the good dogs we’ve loved for such a painfully short time before they left us to miss them forever. Mine — Skippy, Brandy, Gecko, Sassy, Amelie, Zoey — and yours. Long may they flash and sparkle in our memories.

Bye, Zoester

Resolutions Remix, Roaring 20s Edition

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What would the new year be without my obligatory annual blog post about my dearest hopes and dreams for the next twelve months? Probably less annoying right off the bat, but indulge me once again, as I wax aspirational at the exact moment one year dies and another begins. And this is more than a simple baton hand-off from one year to the next. We’re leaving a decade behind by crossing this threshold. Luckily, we can celebrate the stubborn passage of time even as we mourn it.

As always, I’m a glutton for tradition as well as for punishment, and these yearly plans of attack have become downright necessary, at least in my own head. So, here it goes, the 2020 remix:

Prioritize my writing

Last year, my writing suffered almost criminal neglect. Had it been a child, I would’ve permanently lost custody and served time in jail for abuse. Had it been a significant other, I’d have returned home one day to find all its things missing and a Dear Asshole letter on the kitchen counter. This unforgivable neglect didn’t come about due to a shortage of ideas — those were plentiful and rapid fire as usual — but from a jam packed schedule and lack of appropriate prioritization. If I’m being real, I dropped the ball.

Let this serve as my solemn oath that I will not allow this to happen again in 2020. Hold me to this, y’all. I mean it honestly and truly. Writing is my first love, and, like a long suffering spouse, it has watched me pursue professional opportunities and success over the last twelve months while it waited at home, patiently putting away another slow cooked meal I never made it back in time to eat.

I have a few dozen ideas brewing for future pieces — both fiction and nonfiction — and a fully built out digital plan for my blog. You’re going to hear a whole helluva lot more from this woman in the new year. That’s good news for some. Bad news for those clinging to racist, patriarchal, and backward views. Also bad news for those without a sense of humor. How do y’all live?!

Keep building something out of a whole lot of nothing

After the 2018 midterm elections, I had a sizable chunk of nothing to do around mid November, which was awkward, considering I’d spent the entire year working 70+ hour weeks. I think my life as a military brat made life as a campaign staffer a little easier to stomach, because the uncertainty of no paycheck combined with zero prospects didn’t trouble me as much as you might think it should. My childhood was one long ticker tape parade of starting over and wandering into unknown places. You learn to roll with massive changes in your environment. Suffice to say, I didn’t freak out too much at my sudden unemployment. I had a cushion where money was concerned (a surprise half paycheck at the end of November combined with savings I’d socked away during 2018, mostly because I stayed too damned busy to spend it), which allowed me the grace of considering what I wanted to do next. This period of reflection really is a beautiful thing in this work. Usually, folks have to jump at whatever comes next, even if it’s only temporary, because we all need money to live, and bill collectors don’t give a shit that most of this work is fleeting by design.

That doesn’t mean I spent the last six weeks of 2018 doing fuck all. A friend and I jumped right on the development of an organization that was just beginning to come into focus for us. Before the end of November, we’d put together our first proposal. Before the winter holidays shut everything down for the last few weeks of the year, we had the second iteration of that proposal. In January, we had a meeting that changed the course of the organization we’d end up creating. By the final week of February, we were off to the races, and we’ve been plugging diligently along ever since, doing better than I ever allowed myself to imagine possible in December of 2018.

It’s amazing to think of how far we’ve come over the last year. The two of us, in the trenches, making shit happen. And, in 2020, we’re going to take this to another level. That’s a threat and a promise, depending on where you’re standing.

The best part about all of it is that we made this organization, almost completely out of nothing. That doesn’t mean we didn’t have help. We absolutely relied and thrived on the goodwill of friends that took a chance on us, propped open doors so we could force our way in with the brute strength of our shoulders, and created space for us to set our folding chairs down at the table where the important shit happens. Not to mention our long suffering families that supported us and put up with the late nights, early mornings, road trips, and seven day work weeks. All of these folks know who they are and how much I love and appreciate them. They should also know I intend to do everything in my power to make 2020 our year. This isn’t just about the two of us. It’s about all of us. And we’re going to win, together.

Get tons of my writing published

No, y’all aren’t experiencing deja vu. This is a perpetual resolution and, damn it, I’d love to see it happen on a massive scale this year. What I can tell you is that I’m going to write more blog posts. I’m going to self publish a novel. And I’m going to shop around a nonfiction book that incorporates some of the marvelous gems y’all have already read in this blog, as well as some gems you haven’t yet had the pleasure (or annoyance) of allowing to light up your screens. If I’m being honest, you’ll likely see this resolution in 2021 too. At this point in my life, it’s an antique.

Accept what I cannot control while controlling damned near everything else

I’m a planner by nature as well as nurture. In this case planner is a fun little euphemism for control freak. I’ve caused myself great distress over the years by attempting to manage all the chaos in my little corner of the world. On Sundays, I used to envision the entire week ahead and then make sure every day went exactly as planned. If you invited me to a dinner party midweek, it’s unlikely I’d attend because that wasn’t on the schedule when, days earlier, I constructed the plan for that evening. If an event outside of my control knocked me off schedule, it was the cause of great anxiety and annoyance. As you can imagine, these types of events happened with unfortunate regularity. Oh, safe, silly me.

Working in politics has disabused me of my near compulsive need to control every single aspect of my life. I rarely know what I’m going to be doing from one week to the next, and no two days are even remotely alike. I have come to accept that chaos is constant, and I need to plan what I can but be prepared for my calendar to explode without warning, leaving me to pick up the pieces ASAP, and rearrange them into a completely different order. Things often change radically depending on the news cycle, funding, the race, etc. I’ve mostly made my peace with it. Don’t get me wrong, I still have my mini-freak outs (I am a type A, after all), but they come under control rather quickly, because there’s nothing I can do, save drive myself batshit crazy over the fact that I can’t do anything. In 2020, I just want to lean all the way into this embrace of the unknown, the chaotic, the — gasp — unplanned, because I know I’ll be happier for it.

Continue being guided by what I know my worth to be

The best part about 2018 was that I gained an intimate understanding of my own worth and my own potential. And 2019 only enhanced that understanding, as it was the year I truly stepped off the beaten path and into the wilderness. As a daughter of two extremely supportive parents that made it clear I could be whatever the hell I desired, I did already possess an appreciation for my own intelligence and ability. But I’m also a black woman born in a country that values whiteness and maleness above all else, and the world does its best to chip away at the self confidence of anyone it doesn’t place at the center of all things.

I made a few very tough career choices this year, based solely on the gap between my own estimation of my worth and the estimation of my worth made by the person offering me the position. It was hard to turn down some of these opportunities, many of which I would have jumped to take only a few years earlier. But, ultimately, it was the right choice, because if I don’t value myself and operate in that deep understanding of my worth, no one else will either. In 2020, I want to make these decisions without worrying I might be mistaken. I do know my worth, and that in itself is a gift. I want to live that worth all day, every day, and do it unapologetically.

These are my hopes, intentions, and promises for this brand new sparkling set of 12 months. In 2020, may we be successful in all we undertake, may our causes be just, and may we operate with empathy, resoluteness, and humility.

Happy New Year, y’all. Let’s make this one count.

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The Art of Sheltering in Place

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So, you’ve decided to shelter in place.

Looking over your massive checklist, you feel pretty damned good about your progress thus far: you’ve boarded up your windows, fully stocked your pantry with a variety of unhealthy snacks and wine, filled up your car, polished off the remaining tubs of ice cream in your freezer (you know, in case of power outages), and put together a workable plan B for evacuation if the situation takes a sudden turn for the worse.

Now you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The distance between when the hurricane first shows up as an indistinct circular blob far out in the Atlantic and when it finally rakes across the boarded up expanse of your coastal community can be upwards of ten days. In that prolonged period of frenzied activity followed by anxiety laced nothingness, you’ve had time to watch your friends go batshit on social media as they publicly decide whether to stay or go, posting a nonstop flood of pictures depicting destruction and terror from past storms that manages to seriously harsh your mellow. You’ve fielded panicked texts, calls, and emails from out of state friends and relatives who are freaking out on your behalf as you take time away from conducting precious hurricane prep in order to soothe them. You’ve bought eighty dollars worth of the unhealthiest garbage you could find, along with several bottles or cans of your alcohol of choice. You’ve returned to the store to replenish that first round of snacks and booze because, after a few days of the storm barely moving at all, you shoveled everything you could find in the cupboards and fridge into your mouth, despite your solemn pledge not to gain ten pounds during this hurricane. You’ve watched too many hours of the Weather Channel, gasping when you see correspondents broadcasting from your nearby sleepy little expanse of beach (looking at you, Jim Cantore).

But, mostly, you’ve just been waiting, because work, school, and all your social activities have been canceled, leaving you plenty of time to imagine the worst (days without power and air conditioning in the sweltering heat), scarf down round two of your snacks (the store’s still open, anyway), and pull up Expedia.com long enough to check out a few hotels further inland before scoffing cavalierly and refusing to be dislodged from your own home (also, what clothes would you bring? You’ve already gained five pounds).

The wait is mind-numbingly boring and yet also weighty with fear of the unknown storm, which is currently spinning hundreds of miles southeast of your location. What you need is something to take your mind off of this.

Don’t you have some work you could be doing in the meantime? Oh, you’ve already done it.

Hurricane prep? Done and done days ago.

Perhaps you could visit a non-evacuated friend and commiserate over shared snacks? Well, your car is already barricaded in the garage, which is locked from the inside and lined with sandbags on the outside. Moving all that seems like way too much work.

Well, maybe you can dig into some of those round three snacks then. Technically, you’re under Hurricane Warning, which means all snacks are fair game.

The calm isn’t terrible, come to think of it. Neither is the way all your professional and social responsibilities have momentarily fallen away, leaving you oddly free, besides being trapped in the shuttered fortress of your home. And isn’t it kind of nice hearing from all the people you knew from school and all of your former coworkers who live out of state? You know, the people you never talk to in real life, just via Facebook whenever one of you posts a cute picture of your pets.

But now you’ve ventured into day seven of persistent hurricane watch, and your patience is tattering at the edges, as though it’s already weathered the howling winds and pouring rain of the incoming Category 4 (or 3? Or 2?) storm.

Can it come already? Even if it means losing power? Because you can’t do anything until it does. This phase of the game is better known as hurricane paralysis. You can watch and stuff your face, but you can’t carry on with life until the storm either puts you through the ringer or passes you by.

So you continue sheltering in place. You check in with friends. Have they evacuated? Are they staying put? Have they heard some precious tidbit about the coming storm that you somehow missed despite your white-knuckled cable news vigilance?

No one knows anything.

No one is doing anything.

Everyone is on edge, bored to tears, and eating themselves out of house and home.

Fortunately, thanks to an endless stream of updates and satellite images, you’re basically an amateur meteorologist at this point and fully capable of projecting where the hurricane (still seemingly weeks away from where you sit in front of your television, double-fisting Doritos and jarred cheese dip) will make landfall. You estimate the probability of your county falling outside of the Cone of Uncertainty with near scientific indubitability, despite your past shaky performances in high school and college level math and science courses.

This is your life now. You might as well embrace it.

Sartre once said that hell is other people. But maybe it’s actually hurricane paralysis.

In the meantime, thank god for snacks and air conditioning. Long may they last.

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Don’t Forget to Tip the Writer

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I make things up. That’s the definition of what a writer does. Some things spring from my head out of nowhere, fully formed. Some things come more slowly, coaxed with hours of careful research and focused thought. I move words around the inside of my skull all the time — when I’m reading, showering, running, driving, staring oddly into space while other people are talking. I look at a blank sheet of paper and put down all the lovely, helter skelter chunks of sentences and bits of half-formed imagery, adjusting, editing, deleting until I have something that rings true to my own sharply critical ears. And then I edit again. At that point, it’s ready for public consumption.

There’s a funny thing about writing, though. Because it’s literally described as ‘making things up’, folks seem to think that my words, as well as the time I spend crafting them, aren’t worth very much at all, if anything. On more occasions than I can count, I’ve had people request hundreds of words worth of content at no cost because, as they casually comment, it will only take me a few minutes.

While it’s true that I can often knock out a thousand words or more in under an hour, that ability didn’t arise from the same nothingness in which I find most of the sentences I cobble together. I’m a damned good writer and I enjoy doing it, but I’ve been writing daily since I was in middle school, penning short shorties, articles, essays, and novel length projects, grinding out words that were subpar as well as spectacular. I’ve devoured the work of other authors for decades as I honed my own particular voice — anyone who wants to write but doesn’t read like they need books to live should not be taken seriously, IMHO. I’ve worked for well over twenty five years to get where I am right now, and I’m still working.

I write, I rewrite, I make things up, ad infinitum.

I started with all that so I could say this: creative work product has inherent value. Full stop. Digest it. And here it is again for those in the back who might have missed it:

CREATIVE WORK PRODUCT HAS INHERENT VALUE.

Now that we’ve established that, let’s establish this: if you want someone to write content for you, or take pictures, or paint a picture because you recognize their talent, then you should fucking pay them. And if you reference something they wrote, or use a picture they took, then you should fucking give credit where credit is due. Plagiarism isn’t just a no-no for high school and college students. Another word for it is theft. Just. Don’t. Do. It.

Think of what you do for work. Would it be appropriate for me to ask you to perform that task for me pro bono because you are good at your occupation? Or because it would take you much less time to perform said task than it would take me? For some reason, writers and other creative individuals are routinely expected to perform on demand and without pay. And when we rightly request payment, we face short and snarky responses like:

But isn’t writing easy for you?

I thought you liked writing.

Can’t you just throw together a quick paragraph for me? How hard is that?

This is all shit I’ve heard over the years (including this year), y’all. And, it’s true: most of the time, writing is easy for me. I also happen to fucking love it. There’s nothing more magical than having a tiny spark of an idea, sitting down, putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard), and whipping that flame into an inferno of ideas, with my words as the kindling. I live for it and always have. But that doesn’t mean my words are worthless things that I should give away to you for free. If you want them specially crafted and on demand, then pay for them.

There’s another fun thing that happens to creative individuals when folks find out what they do best: people request other related services, also for free.

Can you teach me how to write? (NEVER doing this again because no good deed ever goes unpunished).

Would you mind looking over this doc and giving it a quick edit? (‘Quick edit’ always translates to complete rewrite, as well as research to fix gaping holes in the document; I’ve had a ‘quick edit’ end a friendship before, y’all, no joke).

Do you want to coauthor something with me?! (From the grammatical and spelling errors in this person’s various social media accounts, it’s best to back away from this in a goddamned hurry. Don’t just walk, run).

I don’t want to teach you how to write. I don’t want to edit your term paper, short story, or novel length project. I don’t want to collaborate with you on a project if we don’t have an existing relationship that involves a mutual respect for each other’s writing. Even then, I have to be intimately acquainted with your process and commitment to the craft.

I know not everyone can write, but just because I can ‘throw a paragraph together’ rather quickly doesn’t mean I should do it without being paid. I’ve watched mechanics change my oil before and it only takes about 20 minutes. I still pay for the service, because that’s how that person makes a living, and I’m paying for the mechanic’s skill as much as I’m paying for his or her time. It’s really that simple.

So, the next time you approach an acquaintance or stranger who writes, paints, takes pictures, plays music, etc. for a living, understand that what they do has value and takes skill. If it didn’t, you could do it yourself. The fact that you can’t proves my original point. Pay people. Credit work when you make use of it. Be a decent human being. We’re all trying to make a living over here…

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Good Riddance: On the Death of 2018

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As the end of another year looms, I feel the familiar urge to reflect. You know, for the sake of auld lang syne. If, as the worn cliche states, life is a journey, this year was the part of said journey in which I veered from the road less traveled and into the actual wilderness. Here I am, bedraggled, checking the sky for familiar stars by which to orient myself, stumbling through the underbrush, thorns tearing at my clothing, smeared with dried blood and dirt. But I’m still pushing forward, powering toward 2019 as I contemplate the death of the old year and the impending birth of the new.

As always, approaching the precipice of a new year triggers deep reflection of the year that’s passing. This, in turn, triggers the desire to share what I learned, my struggles, and hopes for the days and months to come…

You can’t win them all.

I spent the year working on political campaigns, toiling for 80+ hours a week to get folks elected that I truly believed could change my state and country for the better. These were people for whom I was willing to bleed, sweat, and cry. After the fire that was this election cycle went out and the ashes settled weeks past election day, it turned out that there was more losing than winning, and some of those losses were crushing. I understand that this isn’t the type of work you do for a short while, that it takes a lifetime to create the lasting change you want to see in the world, but the losses still land like a sucker punch to the gut. After you recover your breathing, however, there isn’t much to do besides learn from what went wrong, celebrate what went right, and get on with the next initiative.

When all else fails, read.

I’ve been an avid reader from early elementary school, and, as I grew into adulthood, it was normal for me to read 75+ books per year, devouring them as soon as I could get my hands on them. There isn’t much I value above a well formed collection of words, and I’ve fallen into many a book that has left me breathless with the author’s fantastic prose. Even less earth shattering books will do, provided they can hold my interest.

In 2017, however, I found myself so nerve-shatteringly busy that I only read 2 books all year. I haven’t read so little for pleasure since I learned how to read. I was ashamed, dismayed, and determined not to repeat the mistake in 2018. I knew I’d be busy, so I set a modest goal of 30 books. I’m happy to report that I surpassed that goal by 7 books (working on number 38 right now). Next year, I’m shooting higher, and I plan to make reading a little every day (and not just articles about how the country is on fire) a priority. Reading calms the chaos in my head. I need it to live well. That’s something I had to relearn this year.

Not everyone on your side is a friend.

Democrats, y’all know how we are. We may be a big tent party, but say the wrong thing around the wrong group of Dems and you’ll be knocked out of that tent and onto your ass.

My home state happens to be one that had a very contentious gubernatorial primary, and, more broadly, many Dem incumbents were challenged in their districts by so-called ‘more progressive’ candidates. So, that created a perfect shit storm of division, hate filled rhetoric, grandstanding, prolonged character assassinations, and higher than thou pronouncements. Once the primaries ended, we were all supposed to go along to get along, and I think many of us did, but it damned sure wasn’t comfortable — like jamming your feet into a pair of shoes a size and a half too small. The constant sniping, back biting, and tearing down of other Democratic candidates created an environment similar to 2016. It would be a massive understatement to say that this was an extremely frustrating and exhausting experience.

I don’t know how we successfully move forward as a party, but I’m willing to commit myself to doing whatever it takes. However, I have come to understand that just because we are all Democrats doesn’t mean you give a shit about what would make life more equitable for black folks, for women, and for other marginalized groups. It’s depressing, but real. But the work must continue, even if the conditions make it difficult to stay positive and productive. That’s what happy hour is for, amirite?

Buy into selfcare or perish.

Selfcare isn’t some new age bullshit that can be written off with the roll of your eyes. I say that because I used to think of the concept in those terms. Being busier than I ever dreamed possible has quickly disabused me of those tired, narrow minded notions. There were many days that I woke up brittle and weary after a decent night’s sleep, simply because the exhaustion was all consuming and had settled into my very bones. To combat this, I created pockets of spaces that I used like temporary sanctuaries — dinner with friends, a movie with my folks, the quiet commute to the office or an event while I listened to an audio book in peace — and, next year, I plan to further carve out these pockets, to expand them into spaces large enough for me to fully occupy, if only for a short while. We need these spaces in order to go on being productive. And being an introvert only amplifies this need. This is yet another lesson I’ve learned the hard way this year.

You can figure most things out along the way.

How does a person go from never working on a political campaign to working on three in quick succession, the titles getting better and more responsibility-laden as she moves along? Well, there is a whole hell of a lot you can learn to do if only you’re willing to introduce nose to grindstone, set fire to your personal life (for a few months at a time), and jump all the way in, caution be absolutely damned. This is literally what I did this year, and, inexplicably, I found myself holding my own as I worked closely with people who have been doing this kind of work for years. I spent 2018 soaking up everything of value, pinpointing things that weren’t working, and then improving upon them. I believe a fresh set of eyes combined with the willingness to work 7 days a week for months on end created the space for me to grow much more rapidly than I ever believed possible. It also helped me move beyond the obstacle of my own doubt, and it’s a beautiful thing to see that stumbling block in the rearview instead of perpetually up ahead. Now I’m in this shit, and I have so many ideas for how to make things even better. More on that in 2019…

A sense of humor is vital.

In my family, you can’t hang unless you can crank up the sarcasm and crack jokes just about every 30 seconds. My sense of humor is very particular, and it’s not for everyone (their loss). So, I know I’ve found the right people when they get my sense of humor and, even better, counter it with their own. This year, I was fortunate enough to work with all kinds of funny, interesting, intelligent, irreverent people. Working fifteen hour days isn’t so bad if you’re laughing and trading jokes all day. I want more of that next year, and every year.

Changing the world is possible.

This is the best lesson learned over the last couple years, but this year I actually got to flex my skills and put them to focused use. Change is possible, and I can be part of what ushers it into existence. It might mean working for the rest of my life, but I’m okay with that. It beats the complacent alternative. I’ve had too many years of inactivity already. For me, the hustle will continue until the day hustling becomes impossible.

I’m not sad to see 2018 go (it’s last call, after all), and I value the lessons learned this year, including the losses, because there is more to learn in losing than in winning. I truly believe that. I want to slough off all the frustration that has built up over the last 12 months and enter 2019 with renewed spirit and fresh perspective. There’s so much work to be done, and I can’t wait to get started. Onward.

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