An H and Five Ws with Amy Donohue, Comedian and Kidney Donor

“The Fabulous One.”

It took a while for me to really meet Amy Donohue. I knew her because she was famous … to me, at least. She is a recurring speaker at Ignite Phoenix and Ignite Phoenix After Hours. She has classic, bad-girl movie star style, and she’s a hot chick. When I finally met her face-to-face, we realized we “knew” each other via Twitter and I realized I had to know more about her. Amy is about to embark on an amazing road trip, so I caught her just in time for an interview.

In April of 2011, she donated her right kidney to a friend’s mom. She met the friend through Twitter, so social media played a big part in the process. Now, Amy is making a documentary about her experience and the experiences of other kidney transplant patients and donors. From foodie, comedian, and socialite, Amy has now become a hero; read on and get to know the lovely, brave Ms. Donahue.

An H and Five Ws with Amy Donohue,

Comedian and Kidney Donor

Once upon a time, you were a humble comedian and Phoenix foodie. How on earth did you become a heroic kidney donor?!

It honestly happened because of the relationships I’ve built on Twitter. I wouldn’t have responded to a random tweet. A woman (Kirti) I had originally met on Twitter sent out a tweet about how her mother was suffering from kidney failure.  I had already been tweeting with Kirti, and we got together with other friends for dinner several months before. I was getting into the tub, saw the tweet, and responded. Crazy, right?

Who is your biggest inspiration?

My mother. She divorced my father when I was just eight. I saw her go through a lot of hard times, financially and emotionally. Being the oldest and seeing it all firsthand made me the person I am today.

What made you decide to make a documentary about your experience as a donor?

I was on my way to a gig last July and picked up a couple comics. On the ride over, I told them I was thinking about making a documentary. I really wanted to meet all these donors who I had built relationships with over the past two years. What better way than a road trip? Wait. Let’s film it!!! There you go: Social Media Stole My Kidney.

Where do you feel most inspired?

Believe it or not, I am an introvert and my inspiration comes when I am alone. Whether I am walking Dexter or just sitting on the couch, that’s where my ideas come from. Oh, and some of my best comedy jokes were written in the bathroom.

Amy with Kirti’s mom.

When have you been most afraid? (I’d say “pre-op” is a fair answer …)

Honestly, I wasn’t afraid going into surgery. In fact, I didn’t have much fear at all, except for when I lost my job. I’ve been most afraid when, with my business, money isn’t coming in like I need. I think the biggest fear in my life at all times is financial. I’m slowly learning to let go of the worry and just work as hard as I can.

WHY is it so important to spread the word about kidney donation?

As of today, there are 118,095 people waiting for an organ. Of those, 96,086 need a kidney. My surgery took 90 minutes. I was out of the hospital within 48 hours of donating. Yes, there is ALWAYS the possibility of something going wrong during surgery. There are always risks. But you take a risk with your life every time you get behind the wheel, especially in Phoenix.

My life has changed drastically since donating. I look at everything differently. I have a greater appreciation for the good things, and I am not as concerned with the petty. I saved a life. I gave someone a better quality of life. Who wouldn’t want to do that???

(Learn more about Amy and her quest to travel the country at http://fabamy.wordpress.com/blog/. Follow her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/TheFabulousOne. See her Ignite Phoenix presentation about the donation process at http://igniteshow.com/videos/ignite-phoenix-10-social-media-stole-my-kidney.)

The documentary …. more to come!

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Joy and Fear

Family Fun World, c/o Joe Orman.

For the past three years, whenever we visit Jake’s family in Tucson, we drive past what appear to be pastel bird cages off the 1-10. For the past three years, I’ve said to myself, “I wonder what the heck is up with that” but done nothing. This year, on our trip down for Christmas, though, it came to my attention that my husband now owns a smart phone, and voila! Family Fun World.

Family Fun World was one man’s dream to bring an amusement park to Eloy, Arizona. Richard Songers was a construction worker with a dream—to open a park on the land he purchased outside of Eloy in 1995. Initial plans included a drive-in theater, wild animal zoo, race track, and concert venue. Songers apparently ran out of money before the park could open, and well, Family Fun World became a skeleton of unfulfilled dreams. Nothing remains, beyond these bird cages (originally part of a ride called “The Galaxy” from the Magic Mountain Amusement Park in California) and, from what I’ve read, a very angry guard dog.

A bird cage at Family Fun World, Eloy.

What became of Richard Songers? I guess he still lives near Eloy, since one Family Fun World visitor claims to have met the guy. What does he do with his days, I wonder? Has he moved on to the next dream, or does he mourn the loss of the dream unfulfilled?

It’s a new year, 2013. I’m not going to get into my goals (they’re not “resolutions;” they’re goals). I look toward this new year with joy and excitement, because so much can happen in a year. So much can happen in a month! However, there’s been an unfamiliar feeling, too—an invisible finger itching the back of my brain. This feeling woke me up almost every morning when I was home for Christmas in Ohio. This feeling wakes me up at 2 AM sometimes, too. The feeling is fear. Now, I love horror movies. I love haunted houses. I love dark walks with no flashlight. Fear is a feeling I usually embrace, because, like the time I swam with sharks in Belize, fear makes us feel alive. This fear is different. This is the fear of never amounting to anything.

This is the curse of the “artist.” I’m not talking about the movie, The Artist, although the theme fits, as we watch George Valentin sell off his possessions and sink into anonymity. Fear of failure is the curse of anyone with a dream, although artists generally are more susceptible, because we rarely have anyone tell us “good job,” “here’s your promotion,” or “you need a raise.” I live behind a computer screen in pajamas, and although I have a couple essays published, the accomplishment is not enough. I want my novel published, and as I try to sell the one from last year, I work on a 2013 manuscript and hope, because the doubtful voices get louder every year.

What if your book is never on a shelf at Barnes and Noble?
What if you never become that smiling author on The Daily Show?
What if professionally, you never become anything but a marketing copy writer?
What if? What if?

By Kelly Rae Roberts.

I have crushing days of failure. I have days when I pay my career no mind at all. I have days when I don’t want to write and days when I can think of nothing but writing. So here we are, in 2013. What will this year bring? Will that long-awaited call from a literary agent arrive, or will I be crushed beneath the weight of my own terror?

I bought something while we were in Tucson, after passing Family Fun World and spending a good half-hour thinking about poor old Richard Songers. My recent purchase was an ornament from a coffee shop: a painted picture of a skinny girl like me with three words: “create (tell it).” The ornament sits on my desk, because that is what I do. I create and I tell it like I see it. I can acknowledge my fear, but I must also acknowledge a tireless drive to dream. Not even fear can blow that candle out.

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How to Meet the Punch Brothers

1. Befriend their roadie, their merchandise guy, and club security.
2. Send the band shots of tequila and a note.
3. Basically … just show up.

I saw my favorite band of all time last night. I was nervous. So nervous. Why? I was worried I wouldn’t meet them—that they would be so close, here in Phoenix for the very first time, and I would miss them somehow. I felt the endless anxiety over dinner with my gal pals pre-show. Then, we entered the venue, and I talked up the merchandise guy, who said, “Yeah, if you buy them shots, I’ll send them to the green room.” What better than tequila? I mean, we’re in Phoenix, right? I sent them their shots, along with a note with my name. I’m sure my girlfriends thought I was just a nut, but I didn’t care. I had to meet THE PUNCH BROTHERS.

The phenomenal Chris Thile.

I’ve known their music since the band’s foundation, thanks to an amazing performance experience back in Charleston, SC, at the Cistern Yard downtown. Once I moved out here, I pre-ordered every CD, every single. I wrote a letter to their rep, begging they come to Arizona, because they never come to Arizona (something I was not aware of when I moved here, ah-hem). In response to my letter, I got an autographed poster, but still, no word of an upcoming show.

Then, months ago, while enjoying cocktails at Carly’s, I saw the flyer: the Punch Brothers were coming to Crescent Ballroom. I remember staring at the flyer, thinking, “No, it can’t be true. I’m obviously hallucinating thanks to this delicious jalapeno-infused tequila.” Some kind of Mexican agave voodoo? Nay. They really were coming to Phoenix. That night, I bought my tickets: good thing, too, since they apparently sold out.

I’ve been waiting for weeks, counting down the days to December 5th. Then, yesterday, the day arrived. I did nothing productive all day. I got a massage and laid around my house, so panicked was I at the prospect of not meeting the Punch Brothers while in my hometown.

At Crescent Ballroom, after sending my note and the round of shots, I was pretty confident I would make an impression. Then, I waited. The Milk Carton Kids opened for them—a fabulous duo from LA who were equally talented at music as well as comic repartee. Loved them. Then, my boys came on stage, and I’m pretty sure I almost passed out. It was unreal. I mean, the Punch Brothers were three feet in front of me (because I was obviously at the front of the crowd).

Always moving …

The show is a blur. They played a lot of new stuff, some old stuff, mostly upbeat, although I do love their sad ones. Thankfully, they played my most recent obsession, “Another New World,” and their song list gave me a chance to do a lot of clapping, knee-slapping, and general “woohoo”-ing. They have such presence, these boys. They thrive off each other’s energy. They dance around the stage (which made it very hard to get good photos). The audience can feel that energy, and by the end of the show, we were begging for more, more, more. On several occasions, vocalist and mandolin player Chris Thile made the comment, “I can’t believe we’ve never been here before!” I agree. Punch Brothers, Phoenix has been waiting, and we expect you to come back.

After the show, I literally ran into Gabe Witcher, the phenomenally talented fiddle-player who I love. I almost fell over myself trying to make coherent conversation. Then, I turned around, and there was banjo man Noam Pikelny, who I also approached for an autograph and to give extreme kudos. I didn’t see the rest of the band, and I was all set to go home. I left the venue, dejected at not having met, okay, my favorite band member, Chris Thile. That’s when the roadie I met earlier said, “He’s standing outside the bus right now.” In high heels, I ran, damn it, and it was true: there he was.

Me and Chris.

I walked up and said, “I’m Sara. How was the tequila?” to which he replied with much hugging. We reminisced over their Charleston performance years before. He signed my Moleskin and gave me another hug before we had our picture taken together—a fan’s freakin’ dream. Then, I waved and was gone, making him promise the Punch Brothers would one day come back to the Valley of the Sun.

So meeting the Punch Brothers? Pretty easy. Probably because they’re five charming, humble, hilarious dudes, who love good bluegrass and love their fans. I’m so thankful to have discovered them years ago. I’m thankful they came to Phoenix. I’m thankful God made such talented musicians, because the Punch Brothers manage to inspire and entertain with every show. Thanks, boys, for a great night! I’ll see you next time!

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Tubing the Salt River, aka War of the Marshmallows

Tubing the Salt River is like Mardi Gras, except it takes place on inner tubes in a river, and instead of beads, you throw marshmallows. I didn’t know any of this going into it. I just knew we needed to bring water shoes, snacks, and a hell of a lot of beer. Oh, and sunscreen. Gobs and gobs of sunscreen.

The Salt River is a short drive from Phoenix, located in the Tonto National Forest near Mesa. Upon arrival, it was hard to believe such a beautiful, mountainous, untouched-by-man place could exist so close to the city. I was reminded of Zion National Park, the Narrows hike—a river surrounded by two sheer cliff faces. Once we had our tubes (a fifteen dollar rental, which includes the bus ride to the “launch site”), we were ready to go.

Or not. See, first you have to make your raft. Jake and I went along with five other people. You don’t want to lose these people (which, trust me, did happen once or twice, thanks to unexpected rapids and one cooler rescue mission). Using rope, you must tie your inner tubes together, ideally with the coolers tied in the center for easy access. I watched all this happen while drinking a beer in a bikini on a beach at, oh, eleven AM, under the scalding Phoenix heat.

I could totally do this for a living.

Another thing: you gotta cover your inner tubes with sheets to keep them from getting too hot. I also learned that the sheets acted as a support system, which allowed me to balance in the middle of my inner tube, Indian-style, for most of the trip … whenever I wasn’t going Navy Seal-style on marshmallow attack missions.

So what’s the deal with the marshmallows? I honestly don’t know. I know we were told to bring marshmallows, but I didn’t fully understand the fire-fight (or pastry-fight) that was due to ensue. Strangers, complete strangers, barrage you with marshmallows all the way down the four-hour river ride. Of course, retribution is sweet. By the end of the day, I was like Upton throwing a run-saving line drive to Montero at home. The huge marshmallows were like prized possessions, and several of our group often went diving halfway across river to grab one of those monsters.

As I mentioned, there were moments when people were almost lost. The Salt River is not, I repeat, not free of rapids, and they have a way of sneaking up on you. All you can do is hold on tight—to each other and to the coolers—and hope for the best.

If I could spend every Saturday tubing the Salt River, I would. It felt a lot like the Rockville Regatta in Charleston, South Carolina, where a bunch of strangers tie their boats together and have a day of romping. On the Salt River, you’re best buddies with everyone. You do strange things for beer (things that will not be mentioned here) and make great friends with funny lesbians (don’t ask). You get body-slammed into deep, blue water, and it’s great. It’s all great!

The Salt River is a place where fully grown adults can pretend, for one afternoon, to be kids again. Nothing wrong with that. In fact, I would suggest you go, as soon as possible. Don’t forget your marshmallows, and be sure to buy more beer than you think you could possibly drink—because it’ll be gone by the end of the day. Just remember to have fun, relax, and pretend, if only for a moment, that you’re a kid again on summer break, and school doesn’t start for another two months.

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A Letter of Summer Heat

Dear, Phoenix: I write you this letter to express my current discontent, although it’s not really your fault; it’s mine. This is my third summer wrapped inside your hellish embrace, and every summer, it seems I grow more impatient with you.

Through winter and spring, I adore you. I offer you metaphorical rose bouquets and heart-shaped chocolates from November through to blessed April. We have a good thing going for over half the year, don’t we?

True, I curse you in October, because let’s face it: you have no respect for Halloween. You don’t realize October should smell like clove cigarettes and wet leaves. You don’t understand that the month should be overtaken by spooky gray clouds and thunderstorms. You don’t even know to be cool and crisp at night, so focused are you on your singular goal of being temperate. I understand you want to make everyone happy. You are a people-pleaser, Phoenix, but consider watching a couple horror movies in order to hone your Halloween craft.

I get a little weirded out in December too, because Christmas is supposed to be cold. Last year, I locked myself in my house behind dark plantation shutters. I used the fireplace function on Netflix and turned our TV into a red-orange inferno. I lit all the Christmas lights in the house, including the pine-scented Yankee Candle. I pretended it was snowy outside. I pretended it was cold, because let’s face it, Phoenix: Christmas is supposed to be cold and covered in snow. As a reference, please see National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

From January to April, though, you are a thing of beauty. Flowers bloom early. The skies retain a cerulean hue for endless weeks, and in early spring, the city is overwrought by the sweet smell of orange blossoms. As a populace, we uncover pools and start swimming mid-March. Because we can. By your grace, dear Phoenix, you offer us paradise while other states still cower beneath cloud-cover and melting snow. You are a saint, Phoenix, and we frankly do not deserve you!

And then. And then …

What did we do to deserve your summer heat? What offering did we forget to give? What song of praise did we not sing? The fires of hell descend upon us from May through September. Pavement smolders, plants die, and I wilt beneath the merciless summer sun. We say it’s a dry heat. We tell out-of-staters that it’s not that bad, that we can manage the heat because there’s no humidity, but I can admit, I am full of it when I make such claims. I don’t like the summer heat. I don’t want it. Please, Phoenix, take it back.

I cheated on you two weeks ago. I cheated on you with Ohio—a state that is gray six months of the year while the desert sun shines on. Despite horrendous winters, Ohio has something on you, Phoenix. Ohio has warmth but not fire; blue skies that can be enjoyed in the summer, while we in Arizona huddle in air-conditioned homes, praying for respite. Ohio has lush gardens, cool mornings, and cooler nights. Coming back to you was hard after my foray into brief unfaithfulness. As much as I love you, I did not miss you. It pains me to say it, Phoenix, but I only broke your heart because you first broke mine.

You give me sunshine when I want rain. You give me blistering heat when all I want is a cool night. You rob me of seasons because you want me surrounded by sunlight all year round. It’s not your fault; it’s mine. I’m growing older, and the summer heat has become a punishment—your punishment because you know I sometimes long for the east coast, humidity like a rain forest, and summer storms that shake foundations.

I love you, Phoenix, I truly do. Just not today. And possibly not until November.

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My Time in Prison

Good pal Sue Ellen Allen harassed me (in a good way) for two years before I finally agreed to volunteer at Perryville Prison. Sue Ellen and friends started a book club, and what better place for me to be than a book club, right? So why the initial hesitation?

Was it because my father was once a parole officer? No. Was it because I don’t like to volunteer? No. Well, I mean, yes, I dislike volunteering (not very Christian, I know), but the main reason I didn’t want to volunteer at Perryville Prison was because I was scared. I had visions of Con Air. I just knew I would end up running from some Steve Buscemi freak show. Or maybe end up murdered. Or kidnapped. Something. Because to an outsider, that’s what prison is—a dark, scary place filled with hardened criminals who know how to turn a toothbrush into a lethal weapon. Was I wrong? Of course.

Getting into Perryville the first time wasn’t fun, however. There were intimidating security guards and metal detectors that went off because of my underwire bra. Once inside, it was obvious I was in prison, what with the barbed wire, heavily locked doors, and women in orange. Then, I met the girls, and they didn’t look much like hardened criminals to me. They looked like waitresses, lawyers, mothers, aunts—normal people in abnormal and unfortunate circumstances.

Jessica, pre-Perryville.

Many women who end up in Perryville are there because of drinking and driving. Think about that. How many times have you driven a car under the influence? One of the saddest stories I’ve heard is that of Jessica Robinson, whose mother, Jeanne, first introduced me to the world of Perryville Prison. Jessica was in radiography school, on her way to a successful career, when her life changed forever on September 5, 2008. She went out with friends that night, had a couple drinks, stayed up late, and fell asleep at the wheel on her way home. Her car accident killed someone, and she received a seven year sentence at Perryville. Her full story is here, at Jessica’s Operation Orange. The same thing could have happened to me. Or to you. Or to your best friend.

I’ve been to Perryville three times now. During each visit we discuss books like The Secret Life of Bees and Vinegar Hill—novels that beg to be discussed, especially by women. Last night was my first time rolling solo, and I had the chance to meet eleven spectacularly intelligent women trapped in unfortunate self-made circumstances. Yes, they feel guilt over what they did. Last night turned into a full-on therapy session as we discussed forgiveness and how these women worry that their children will never love them again because of the mistakes they’ve made. Then later, we laughed together, because women like to laugh, even in prison.

Inside Perryville.

Has my life been altered by my experiences at Perryville? Yes. Do I still have visions of Con Air? No, because I’ve come to see these women for what they are: human beings who made horrible mistakes.

I believe in the inspirational, healing power of books, which is why I’m glad to host the monthly book club. I believe in second chances, which is why educational activities are necessary at Perryville. How can we expect inmates to be rehabilitated if they do nothing but rot in a cell for seven years? They need to be reminded that there is hope, because someday, the women I’ve worked with will be free. They will need forgiveness and support, so why not give them both while behind bars in order to make the transition easier?

I’m a volunteer at Perryville Prison—once hesitant, now empowered. I do it because I’ve made bad mistakes, too, and I want the women in orange to realize their lives aren’t over. When they are free, they will be given new lives. It won’t be easy for them, but I hope in some small way I’m helping by teaching them the beauty of books and the beauty of sisterhood, even in the most dire of circumstance.

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An Excessive and Irresponsible 30th Birthday Celebration

Ms. Jenny.

This past Friday night, Jake and I were sitting around watching Trollhunter—a B-horror movie from Norway—when our pal Brandon showed up at the front door. I had a couple seconds to think, “Huh, why is Brandon showing up at our house when he knows Jake has to work tomorrow?” Then, a girl walked in behind him, and I swore I knew her from somewhere. Then, in the dimness of our living room, I recognized the smiling face of my chica from Charleston, Jenny, who Jake had secretly flown in as a super spectacular birthday present to me. The next minute is kind of a blur, but I’m pretty sure there was a lot of hugging and cheek kissing and crying. So began my thirtieth birthday weekend.

Is the age of thirty any different from twenty-nine? Not particularly.  I guess people make a big deal out of it because it’s a nice round number, and it signifies the entrance into a new decade of life. I remember twenty didn’t mean anything, because at twenty, you were old enough to be in college but still too young to legally drink. At thirty, I gain nothing except a three where a two once was, yet because Jenny was here this weekend, I felt like thirty did mean something—because my weekend meant so much.

I met Jenny at work in Charleston, my very first week of habitation in South Carolina. That same week happened to be my birthday week, but I had no plan to celebrate, because I didn’t know anyone. Jenny, however, brought me a cupcake the day of my birthday. It was shocking to have a perfect stranger come into my office and put a cheerfully decorated pastry on my desk. We’ve been friends ever since.

Once Jenny got settled into our new house here in Phoenix, we went out Friday night to Ground Control, where we met friendly bartenders and patrons who bought us expensive shots of Frida Kahlo tequila, bless them.  We laughed and laughed until my ribs hurt and I was reminded of all the times we used to cackle on the beaches of South Carolina. Going to bed sounded terrible. Like a kid on Christmas Eve, I was too excited to sleep. I wanted to play, play, play, but since I’m thirty, I’m too old to play, play, play all night … or was I? Friday night, we slept; Saturday night, we didn’t, but we didn’t know what was to come as of Saturday morning, when we put on bathing suits and got mani-pedis together at the spa.

Following a highly productive trip to Total Wine, we went and hung out at a friend’s pool all afternoon. Jake met us there at lunch time, and it was all about the Absolut Miami and pineapple juice. I could have taken a nap, sure, but I didn’t want to miss any Jenny time. We reminisced about Belize, where Jake and I spent every day like Jenny and I spent Saturday.

At five, we showered and dressed, me in a highly out of character skin-tight lavender satin dress. The skin-tight was normal; the pastel color was not. We met the rest of our crew at Hula’s Modern Tiki downtown, where I enjoyed fresh fish and my cocktail of choice, the Dark & Stormy. As a collective, we consumed a Volcano Bowl—a thirty-dollar chalice of mixed liquors and fruit. I received copious offerings of expensive whiskey, tequila, and rum as birthday gifts (I love my friends). The rest of the night was composed of dancing at Sage and Sand, drinking cinnamon-flavored liquor, an after-party at my place (where we tasted all my birthday presents), and an eventual bedtime of 4:30 AM. Who says thirty is old, right?

Volcano Bowl. Mmmm.

I hated seeing Jenny leave on Sunday, and I already miss the lady friend who makes me laugh the most. I will be on a detox schedule, yes, for the next two years, but it was worth it. Huge, excessive birthday celebrations are always worth it, as long as friends are along for the ride, and great friends, I do have a few. By a few, I mean many, and maybe that was my favorite part of Saturday: watching a group of very different people converse, argue, and bond over preferred movie villains, shots of Fireball, and an obsessive love for seventies disco music.

Age doesn’t have to do with a number. It has to do with the friends you’ve made—and kept—along the way. I’m so blessed to have friends all over the country who I still keep in touch with. I’m blessed to have friends here in Phoenix who brighten my life on a daily basis. I’m blessed to have my very best friend, my hubbie Jake, who Jenny refers to as her Xanax substitute. That’s how all good friends are: they relax us, calm us, and keep us from going nuts … even on my dirty thirty.

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We Bought a House

For the past two years, Jake and I have lived in a two-bedroom, 900-square-foot apartment with one bathroom. As of last April, we added Ripley the sixty-pound dog to that equation. Then, in November, we got married, and once you get married, people assume you’ll do “adult” things like have babies and buy expensive cars. We did neither.

In fact, we wouldn’t have even gone house shopping if not for my claustrophobic stress levels—and the boxes filled with unused wedding gifts in my so-called “office,” which doubled as Jake’s closet. We thought maybe we’d consider buying a house in June of 2012. Then, in April, crushed by the weight of our belongings and lack of yard, Jake said, “I think we should start looking at houses.”

“Give us more space!!”

Was I initially excited? Not really, but it was no one’s fault. Well, on second thought, it was the fault of real estate developers and builders in the Phoenix metro area. From what I had seen at friends’ homes and while house shopping with my parents, the houses here were built too close together. (For instance, if you need to borrow a cup of sugar in Phoenix, all you have to do is open a window and yell into your neighbor’s kitchen. You pass the cup of sugar in a similar fashion, by merely reaching arms across.)

Furthermore, the houses here had no character. They were faceless, soulless, and lacking in history or sentimentality. Based on my claustrophobia and my love of all things classic, I felt a teaspoon of hopelessness as we set out to shop.

Let me tell you, it wasn’t easy at first. We started with models in neighborhoods at the base of the White Tank Mountains. The models were excellent (that is their intended purpose). However, lack of yard and far off location deterred me and suffocated my enthusiasm. There were the occasional nightmare houses, too: the one that smelled like cat urine, for instance, or the one that had a carpeted master bathroom with no door separating the toilet from the rest of the room. I had visions of waking up in the morning to Jake on the porcelain throne. Shiver.

Then, we did find a house we liked with a perfect view; a nice, updated interior; and a family who seemed happy to move. It was located at the base of the Estrella Mountains, which was fine, except I knew it would be a lifestyle change. No longer would we be within five minutes of our friends, our gym, or our dog park. We put in an offer regardless, and I prayed and prayed that we were doing the right thing. God is a smart guy, however, and He allowed the offer to fall through. Back to square one …

The soon-to-be Bauer abode.

Two days later, Jake was looking through the listings sent from our incomparable real estate agents Andy and Cristina Altman when he said, “This one. We have to go see this one. Today.” I was still frustrated, and unlike my husband, I take longer to recover from disappointment. I went along for the ride, though, and as soon as we walked into the one-story ranch on West Westview (ah, redundancy), I was in love. I had the distinct feeling that This Is Our House. We put in an offer that afternoon. We finally get the keys this week.

From 900-square-feet we will grow to 2800. From two bed, one bath, we have become four bed, three bath, with a massive kitchen and a large backyard, vacant of nearby neighbors. There isn’t even a house behind us to block the view of blue Arizona sky, and I feel like a spoiled rich girl.

Ripley’s new playground.

Will there be emotional repercussions? Yes, and not just for Ripley, who’s been pouting all day because of the strange cardboard monsters in the living room. Surely, she suspects we’re going on another vacation and leaving her behind, but I told her we aren’t leaving. We are taking her to doggy paradise, but she still frowns, because true, there is a light veil of melancholy.

We’re leaving her first home. We’re leaving the first place where Jake and I became an official and legal “us.” We have memories here on Old Litchfield Road, and we always will. However, we are very adult now, married and such.

It’s time for a bigger house with more space where we can’t hear our neighbor sneeze through the wall. It’s time to find room for our wedding gifts. It’s time to become homeowners and finally, for the first time, have room to stretch our legs in our own home sweet home where we are free to live happily ever after!

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Published in Canyon Voices: Here but Fading

Tonight, I will attend my very first magazine launch party at ASU-West for their literary magazine Canyon Voices: Journal for Emerging Writers and Artists. A non-fiction essay I wrote entitled “Here but Fading” made the cut for their spring 2012 edition. Although this may have been the hardest essay I’ve ever written, they’ve asked me to read it at the launch party tonight. Idiot that I am, I agreed. Wish me luck. For your consideration, an excerpt from my most recently published work.

Here but Fading

My grandfather turns ninety this year. As usual, the family will take him out to Red Lobster for his birthday. He won’t remember it. My grandfather has dementia.

His name is Barney Schwind. He joined the Navy when he was just out of high school, left the family farm in Ohio, and headed to Chicago. He would later admit the only reason he joined the Navy was to get a college education for free. See, Papa is a smart guy. He met my grandmother while visiting a buddy in New York City.

Papa’s buddy’s name was Vernon Cochran. Everyone called Vernon “Rusty” because he had red hair. According to the story, Rusty said, “Hey, Barn, you doing anything tomorrow?” My papa said no, so Rusty invited him to a picnic. Rusty promised food, beer, and girls. Papa’s response? “Put me down for three.” He met my grandmother at that picnic. Although he now says he liked her “knockers,” I think he liked a lot about my grandmother. Hell, they’ve been married for over sixty years.

When he tells you the story, he gets a far-off look in his eye—like he’s watching a black and white film version of that particular day. Papa remembers everything from the old days. He remembers classes he took in college. He remembers the one time he stopped over in Charleston, South Carolina. He used to tell me that story all the time when I lived there. I probably heard it a dozen times. The story got old, but hearing his voice never did.

I don’t know if it’s possible to pinpoint the onset of dementia. Dementia is one of those sneaky diseases that creeps up in the dark and makes a home in your head. We knew it was bad when Papa went mad. He claimed Grandma was sleeping around. The accusation would have been funny, considering my grandmother more closely resembles an apple every year. I should have laughed when my mom called to tell me about the incident. She giggled while she explained.

But I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t. Papa was gone, replaced by something foreign and sick. I would later realize my mom had no choice but to laugh. What else could she do? …

(There’s plenty more where this came from. Head over to the Canyon Voices website to read my essay in its completion.)

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Week of Wonder

I’m extremely fond of Veronique Vienne, author of masterpieces like The Art of Doing Nothing and The Art of the Moment—small, square-shaped books that hold a lifetime of French wisdom. In the latter of the two aforementioned books, Vienne dedicates a chapter to “The Art of Wonder.”

Quote: “Your attention can allow you to see the beauty of a vacant lot, of an overpass, of a parking lot, even of a blank wall. … In contrast, when you are self-involved (when you are held hostage by your internal dialogue) everyday reality feels quite banal. If you are in a distracted mood, everything is a blur, a drone, a blah—a so-what. … Absorbed in your thoughts, you are not mindful of what’s going on around you. Why should you be? As far as you are concerned, nothing is happening. But wait a minute! Are you sure that nothing is happening? Or could it be that what you assume is ‘nothing’ is, in fact, the lull that precedes a really important event.”

Last week, I experienced events that pulled me out of my banal internal dialogue and threw me into the magical world of wonder. Let me share them with you.

First, I attended a beautiful luncheon at the Phoenix Art Museum. Following my lovely lunch, my companion and I walked around the museum. We almost missed the exhibit that would change my day—and possibly my entire mindset—until a museum guide said, “Did you see the fireflies? You have to see the fireflies.” The fireflies were hidden on the second floor. The only indication that they were actually present was a small white arrow painted on a big, black wall. That little arrow led me into a true out-of-body experience.

The installation is called “You Who Are Getting Obliterated in the Dancing Swarm of Fireflies” by artist Yayoi Kusama. Walking in, you are consumed with blackness until your eyes begin to focus and then you see them: the fireflies. They’re really just a bunch of LED lights, hung at different levels, reflected in mirrors on the walls, ceiling, and floor. Sounds simple, and yet, inside the installation, I lost myself. I lost any sense of my body or mind. I lost the worries of today and the fears of tomorrow. I just stood there and allowed myself to be obliterated. Now, in moments of stress, I try to remember the fireflies, and I plan to go back as soon as possible.

On Thursday night, I attended a volunteer appreciation event at the Arizona Science Center. I was there for one reason and one reason alone: Van Gogh Alive. Combining the troubled artist’s work with light, music (the one they played with Starry Night HERE), and animation, this exhibit is a must see. There are strategically placed benches, and I could have sat there for hours. Not only was the art stunning (especially when projected on room-size canvases), but Van Gogh Alive felt a lot like the fireflies. I lost myself. I had no worries. I felt peaceful, relaxed, and very Zen. The exhibit will be open until June 17. Don’t miss it, and try to go very early in the morning or late in the day. It’s more fun when there are less people around.

Finally, Friday, Jake planned a super-secret date. He told me to wear a nice dress, and we headed to downtown Phoenix, where we enjoyed appetizers and happy hour drinks at District Kitchen. Then, the big surprise: we had tickets to see Florence + The Machine. Florence is wondrous when simply witnessed via audio, let alone on a huge stage, spinning in a wide cape and matching green dress. On a huge stage, she was a goddess of motion and song. When she played Cosmic Love, I almost melted with glee, and again, I didn’t worry about homework or deadlines or moving into a new house. I worried about nothing, because Florence made me feel free.

Perhaps the most wondrous thing about last week, though, was Jake, because what could be more wonderful than being married to Jake? Jake, who works so hard, while earning his Master’s degree. Jake, who takes me on super-secret dates. Jake, who is a true wonder. Have a wonder-ful week, my friends!

Florence.

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