Something new in my routine is standing in the backyard at night while Mabel does her business. I have not spent a consistent amount of time under the night sky in a long time and I am finding it restorative in a touch-grass sort of way. I mean it is also a big pain to put on real clothes post-bath and go out there and I hope by the time the weather is truly dreary she won’t need a chirpy “go potty, c’mon go potty” partner at her side but in the meantime I am enjoying being regularly dazzled by the stars and the impossible-seeming vastness of it all. The moon has been especially bright the last few days and last night it looked like an x-ray of a lemon slice.

I had already been talking to Billy but now I carry out full one-sided conversations most of my days at home, Mabel’s main response to being spoken to is to wriggle with joy and with such a warm reception how could I not develop a maybe-weird narration habit? Sometimes I singsong my activities: paper towels go in that cupboard there, this here yogurt goes in the frigidaire… while Billy watches with avid curiosity and Mabel does ecstatic tippy-taps.

There’s no loneliness with these guys, they trail me everywhere. Everything is a bit messy now too, toys strewn about and sticky tree pods tracked in from the backyard and the pervasive whiff of Nature’s Miracle in the air. Sometimes I think back on the time before pets when I was wholly unfettered and only had to clean up after myself and how delicious that was, but of course it’s like children. Incompatible with tidy care-free living; worth it.

A dog does a better job at helping fill the ache of missing hands-on parenting, I think. There are potty schedules and various things that require care, while a cat can slink into the background and coolly smoke a cigarette on its own. With a dog you get a little of that shared dopamine feeling where their enthusiasm lifts your own spirits. They can be needy and it can feel so very good to be needed.

Or maybe obsolete is the better term, at least for my particular skill set. Oh, you don’t need someone whose marketing expertise and knowledge is largely based on a world that simply does not exist anymore? You’re not looking for someone who hasn’t worked from an office environment or among coworkers for, what, sixteen years now? You don’t need writing language and tone that can be if not duplicated outright at least workingly mimicked by any number of free LLMs? You don’t have an eager Gen Z team that’s looking for a 52-year-old whose software skills are pretty much limited to text editing docs and photo apps and whose water cooler banter could not rise above “How about that new season of Euphoria, crazy amirite fellow kids???”

I do think I would enjoy something very different from what I have done before. As an example, I volunteered with a conference recently in a fancy-ish hotel. After setting up the tables for the attendees, my job was to help check them in, which mostly involved light chitchat and offering to validate their parking. I found this DEEPLY pleasurable, so I feel I would very much like a job that:

• Is somewhat limited in nature to providing a service rather than potentially annoying people (ie, nothing that involves people being mad about what a thing costs or how long it takes, etc)

• Nestles me amongst likeable coworkers (the other volunteer was so nice to chat with!)

• Gives me the chance to greet people with a smile and be friendly with them, because I truly feel that nearly everyone has become much more wary/closed off and it is a delight to see them relax when met with good energy

• Allows me to provide helpful info, like ‘oh the restrooms are right over there’ or ‘yes, we definitely can validate that ticket!’

• Is part time, has easy parking, isn’t too far away

• Doesn’t matter if I am older and also have weirdly colored hair and a 90’s armband tattoo

Let me know if you have ideas! I immediately thought of the wonderful often older-people ushers at events where they help you find your seat, but there seem to be too many downsides: actually needing to know where the seats are (row what now?), wearing a uniform with a vest, and the real deal-killer: having to be at a place when it is WELL past my bedtime.

Well, I am working on it. I keep taking her out, praising her to the heavens when she goes outside, and correcting her with a sharp but not scary “AH!” sort of sound (as opposed to NOT AGAIN JESUS FUCKING CHRIST ARE YOU KIDDING ME) when she goes/starts to go inside and then hustling her back out.

(It has occurred to me many times that this will be all more difficult/maddening when the weather is not so pleasing and summerlike and the yard is a treacherous mudzone.)

On a friend’s suggestion who also owns a very small unreliable dog, I have ordered some dog diapers. Apparently some/many dogs will not go with the diaper on and so that might be a way to let her at least romp around the house without me having to keep my eyes glued to her at all times.

Oh, and I have a dog trainer scheduled for later this month! This is a behavior-focused specialist who comes to the house, and I’ve requested that we work on 1) potty, 2) barking, and 3) walking on leash properly. There was a field to enter the breed, and I assume whoever reviews these will take one look at “miniature dachshund” and burst out laughing. Ma’am, a meth-addicted incontinent donkey would’ve been less work.

Taking her on walks around the neighborhood has been a comical new hobby, sort of like being hauled around by a crazed centipede. She’s eager to explore everything but also hugely overwhelmed by traffic, which is unfortunate since you have to cross busy areas in all directions to get somewhere more peaceful. She does seem good with other dogs and people when we are outside, which I’m thankful for.

I myself have been on less of my own longer, exercise-focused walks; I find that I’m kind of bushed after all the hyper pet wrangling and just want to secure Mabel in her crate for a while and hunker down. Thank heavens for crate training, honestly. At first I was hesitant to pop her in there, but it’s clear she views it not as a cage but rather her tiny little private wolf cave. I put some soft bedding in there and she likes to root around until she is fully burrito’d and it is both cute as hell and a massive relief: okay, time for a breather.

So this is Mabel!!!

This is how I introduced her on Instagram: Mabel is a miniature dachshund, a breed famously known for their reliable chill and obedience, loljk they are most definitely barky Pringle cans full of hilarity and stubborn mayhem! She is 2 and needed to be rehomed from a not-ideal situation and I was apparently looking for a way to add more stress, vet bills, and carpet cleaning to my life. Truly she is the sweetest, most playful, most adorable little peanut of a dog and Billy finds her greatly entertaining. I always liked to picture myself with a ridiculous small dog in my Caftan Years, and here we are! Mabel is excellent at tiny kisses, gentle chupacabra attack modes, WWE cat wrestling, meme-worthy side eyes, and adding joy to everything with her ecstatic wriggles and tippy-taps.

Mabel is a darling little dog and she is also completely bonkers, her whole personality is an exclamation mark. She loves cuddling but it is like holding a small otter on a large amount of methamphetamines, all wriggly caterpillar legs and darting tiny snoot. Everything is very! Exciting! to Mabel and I have been enjoying the deranged joyous enthusiasm directed at me over my every move.

(One thing about cats, even unusually doglike cats like Billy, they don’t really spend their time gassing you up, while a dog can be a wonderful source of dopamine simply for the fact that they visibly celebrate your existence at all times.)

She’s been home with me for about a week and a half, long enough to settle in, establish her territories, become Billy’s best playmate, and use up about half a bottle of Nature’s Miracle on the carpeting. Mabel’s potty situation beforehand involved being confined to a hardwood type area in an apartment and hoping for the best with potty pads, so we are essentially starting over from ground zero. She’ll go outside, but she’ll go inside as well, her field of fucks is barren when it comes to location. I’ve had her in a training boot camp type situation where she’s basically always leashed to me, in her crate, or being taken outside — and she has still managed to do her business everywhere she shouldn’t. Not only is she sneaky, but it is often straight up hard to tell when a very very short dog is having a restroom moment! Like, is she squatting, or is she just briefly paused in motion??? Oh. Puddle.

MISS MABEL DOG also came with some overly sensitive factory settings in the barking department, which I am addressing with a training collar. She is used to being corrected that way (I have one that just does vibration/noise, no shock) and it does stop her from getting into a frenzy of barking at house visitors! Ideally I would like her trained to respond to a “quiet” command but while she is very smart she is also very much driven by a nervous system that seems bigger than her actual body, so this tool is a good in-the-moment workaround.

The ongoing interactions between Billy and Mabel have been very interesting and funny to observe. They wrestle, chase each other, and generally act like siblings in the backseat driving everyone nuts: guys don’t make me pull over!! Since Mabel is often on a leash for quick potty outings, she goes tearing around with Billy in hot pursuit of the dangling lead, or they will hang out near me with Mabel goofing around and Billy fixated on Mabel’s ever-wagging tail.

I have one of those twisty stake things for the backyard with a lead line that they both can be clipped to in their respective harnesses, and I have to say that is quite a sight! The enormous lynxlike cat, the tiny ferret dog, sniffing around companiably and laying in the sun.

Real talk, I do sometimes feel like I kind of napalmed my easygoing life by answering the Facebook group post that led me to taking home this little peanut. Billy has become more clingy and yowly, I can’t go anywhere without at least one animal superglued to my side, I have to continually get Mabel out for potty breaks without breaking my ankle getting down the steps while trying to block the cat from escaping, I can’t take my eyes off Mabel in the house for one second without her happily taking a dump on the floor, Billy takes advantage of every distraction to get on counters and knock over lamps, everyone moans and whines if I go in the backyard by myself for a single second, someone is always stealing my socks and rooting through my jewelry drawer, someone is always underfoot, it is A LOT.

But now I am a single woman with a huge cat that looks like a mythical forest creature and a comically tiny sausage dog! I have entered a new era, here in my perfect yellow house, dingy carpets and all. Never lonely, never bored. Billy, Mabel, and me. I could never have imagined this, and yet if I had been able to, this is maybe just what I would have dreamed of.

Their house is perched on a hill overlooking the Strait of Juan de Fuca, with broad views of the harbor and Vancouver Island in the not-so-distance. Behind them, the Olympic mountains rear up in their white-topped glory, their small town nestled between mountains and sea. It is a staggeringly beautiful place, especially in good weather which I was lucky to have during my stay.

One of my favorite things to do there is to park at the entrance to the Ediz Hook, a narrow sand spit that extends from the peninsula out into the water, and walk to the end and back. It’s about a 3 mile trip with plenty to observe along the way, including a feral cat colony that lives among the boulders on the northwest side. I was thrilled to see otters for the first time, three that came up on shore and obligingly squirmed around doing Incredibly Cute Otter Things while I took a million videos.

I also like walking the neighborhoods near their house, where I routinely encounter deer who are so used to humans they don’t do much but raise their heads and gaze calmly as you go by. Sometimes I walk their dogs, one at a time. They have three: Logan the gentleman Great Pyrenees, Dottie the semi-bonkers Maltese, Jinx the sweet American Eskimo mix. All mild-to-medium chaotic in their own way and deeply lovable.

Being in their home always gives me a liminal space kind of feeling of being caught between worlds. I am the child Linda Lee, I am the adult, I am cared for and I can provide care. I feel too far away from my own home, yet deeply AT home. I’m reminded of my grandparents’ house in Michigan, down to some of the same furniture and ticking clocks, while looking out at some of the most classic PacNW sights there are.

Amidst it all, an undercurrent of worry that never quite leaves. Probably those of you with aging parents know this feeling: that things are precarious. My mom has had some tough health issues, the house is not set up well for a lack of mobility. As I said to my aunt, you two are one rolled ankle away from total catastrophe, and she agrees, but what can you do.

And I suppose all of us are all one event away from our lives being upended. I myself would not be in a great position if I were to sustain a mobility-limiting injury. There is never any end to the anxiety of imagining how things could be worse.

But for now, all three of us soldier on in our own ways. All of us flowing in and out of caretaker mode, tending to our own hearts as well as each other’s. Fragile as petals, strong as roots.

It’s been the sort of weather that makes a person nervous to enjoy it, really. I mean, I know we get the full mixed springtime bag in Oregon, but 80’s in April is pretty wild. On the one hand, I’ve been happily soaking up the vitamin D(opamine), on the other, I’m like … am I the frog who is cluessly splashing around praising the water’s comfort as it makes its way towards boiling point?

Well, probably. But what am I going to do about that, right? I bought those stupid resuable straws, I did my part!! (Just kidding. Although I DO have some v strong butthurts over the lie foisted upon consumers that it was up to us to save the planet by guiltily scrimping on paper toweling etc while the corporations doing the actual damage continued with full toxic impunity.)

It’s sort of like how I view AI tech. Do I increasingly believe it’s going to ruin our culture and ability to believe anything we see or read and possibly kill us all, yes, do I also enjoy using its tools for all sorts of things, also yes. It’s here, it’s far beyond my ability as one person to effect its advance in any way. May as well lie out in the deadly laser sunshine/ask ChatGPT how to fix my disconnected CarPlay.

Maybe it’s due to the surge in warm temps and/or being outside so much, but I’ve also been in full-scale histamine overkill the last two days. I would actually suspect something more serious except for how this presents, classic allergy hell of nonstop sneezing/itching nose/itching and watery eyes. THE WORST. Okay, the worst is having a president who openly declares his intent to commit genocide (wtf wtf wtf the whole world is shoulder-deep in a cycle of abuse by this dipshit psycho), but shitty allergies are no fun either. I don’t remember ever having so much trouble with allergies so perhaps that is something else that aging surprises you with. “Welcome to 52! Now your legs are saggy and breathing air makes you want to claw your face off!”

I am tired of blowing my nose for sure but it is worth it to have spent so much time enjoying my backyard. The yard was one place that still didn’t really feel like mine — aside from a bit of planting last fall, it had no personality to speak of. Now there are more flowers, container pots here and there, and some inexpensive places to sit and lounge. I’ve discovered that it’s a very quiet place, with no neighbors seeming to be in their own yards that touch up against mine. It’s different from my previous yard, smaller with less privacy, fewer trees, more far-off road noise. It’s got a lot of unpretty power lines strung overhead. The lawn is in a deathfight between grass and dandelions and the weeds are surging ahead.

But it is MINE, all mine. I was out there all weekend for the most part, with Billy hanging out nearby on his harness. Sunshine overhead, music playing from my little speaker. A yard full of potential, with some well-established plants and plenty of room for more. All up to me to decide how I want it to grow over time.

Then the day approached and I still didn’t have someone to go with me and I was like that’s fine I can do this, I can go to a show on my own, and then it was the day itself and I did not go. I just … couldn’t muster the gumption. I got in my head about it and the effort of going started to feel insurmountable and that was that, two wasted tickets, and I was SO mad at myself about it.

He came back to town last Thursday and this time, I was there. With a friend, in excellent balcony seats that offered both a great view and place to sit. It was an incredible show start to finish, even the songs I was lukewarm about sounded terrific, and my favorites — Mr. Tillman, Hollywood Forever Cemetary, Ideal Husband — were just next level. The lights, the set, his band, it was all so good.

It felt like the best do-over. Maybe the actual best would have been to go by myself, to prove that I can in fact do that (and I’m pretty confident I would have), but it was really nice to share the experience. And frankly I was glad to not be alone when we got to our seats and there were people in them, who showed us their ticket with full confidence and I was like fuuuuuuuuuck, because my tickets had come from StubHub, and the venue has all these grumpy statements on their website about not being able to endorse tickets from third party sellers, and of course I figured I had bought fake tickets and NOW what??* Thankfully an usher was able to determine that the other people were in the wrong section and so I did not have to 1) engage in any sort of conflict with anyone or 2) slink away in adject humillation.

(*Actually, the now what would have been to use the two additional cheaper general admission tickets I bought as a backup in case the StubHub situation was a no-go. This time around, I was taking no chances.)

Last summer I went with Dylan to see ZZ Top at an outside venue, and that was pretty fun. Great people watching, a few songs that were nostalgic for me. But aside from that I think the last show I’d seen was maybe 10 years ago? More?

I felt so alive last week, filled with a crackling kind of energy from being around so many people who were just as into the music as I was. Singing along, bodies moving. A collective feeling. Probably many of you have actually been to concerts and shows in recent times and you’re like yeah no shit Sherlock have you tried drinking water too because wow the wetness might just blow you away, but it had been so long and also maybe I am just starved for any sort of feeling of group alignment.

I felt both older, in the sense that I was remembering being a young person at shows and having the energy to be in the front jostling with the crowd and the willingness to have my eardrums blown out by the speaker proximity, and also weirdly ageless? Like for those couple hours I could just lose myself to instruments and voices and vibes and forget that I am a crumbling stack of rapidly-expiring warranties who now takes a fiber supplement in the morning.

All to say, it was such a wonderful experience and now I have something to add to the various bucket-list goals I have for my golden years — pet a cabybara, ride an Icelandic horse in the tölt gait, visit a heavily cat-infested place such as Instanbul, get myself into the yoga crow position without breaking my nose, and for heaven’s sake SEE MORE LIVE MUSIC.

(This is definitely a divorced lady thing, for me anyway. I feel like it’s weird/embarrassing somehow to have an open dance card? As though my worth as a person is tied to a busy schedule? As though in family life you don’t get a free weekend and crow about it to anyone who will listen? “I didn’t do shit, it was just chill!” “Oh that is so nice, girl.”)

I did however take myself on a local summit hike, Mt. Pisgah, which is technically less of a hike and more of a grueling deathmarch up a gravel trail. It’s short but quite intense, although I can count on being passed by a runner just at the point when I am wishing I had brought a cyanide capsule for a quick exit option. Or someone in a weighted vest, just COME ON NOW.

Once you get to the top, the misery is instantly forgotten and you can bask in the view along with the knowledge that getting down is far more pleasurable. I hadn’t done this hike in a good long while, and like many things around town it is a little haunted for me. I remember the kids leaving us in the literal dust on the way up. I remember sitting on the bench at the summit, flanked by both boys. I remember when it wasn’t just me, when I felt like a part of a bigger whole.

There are ghosts everywhere, though. I pay for groceries and remember when the same bagging clerk would say nice things about the kids. I drive past a playground and remember sitting there on warm days. I go to the movies and remember when we would thumbs up or thumbs down each preview. I see an ad for Sonic and remember getting treats there, watching the workers come out on roller skates.

This can all get a little muddled in my mind. Sometimes I find myself piling all the normal sad feelings that every parent goes through as their kids get older into a sort of divorce bucket, like it’s all part and parcel of one outcome. But it’s not, of course. Kids grow out of playgrounds, and that has nothing to do with my marriage status.

So I have to watch that. Being at the top of a hard hike is not a lonely feeling, it’s one of deep accomplishment (and relief). Being divorced does not mean I will never do this hike with my boys again. Sometimes the best way to de-haunt a place is to go back, perhaps not necessarily to playgrounds like a creeper, and be in it again. I was here once before, and I’m here now, and things have changed between those times, just like they changed everywhere.

Maybe what I felt when I got up there was the sense of being a deeper kind of alone. The same sneaky feeling that tells me I need to stay visibly, acceptably busy or I am of no value to anyone. The same feeling that prompts me to take a photo and post it on Instagram Stories or it will be like I was never there.

But I was there. That was enough. And you know, maybe that means I am enough, too.

Letting myself believe that, even a little, helps me stop clawing at memories and enjoy them instead. It helps me sink into a restful weekend without worrying that some unseen entity is shaking its head in pity at me. It helped me on that hilltop, feeling the breeze, feeling strong, feeling gratitude for what was instead of pain for what isn’t.

The stage I’m in now has been enormously tricky to navigate with public writing. I have this great desire to make sense of the reality I am living in, to be seen in it. Things can feel so isolating; I deeply crave commiseration, validation, reflection.

But that kind of support can be destabilizing to others in this story. The parts of my story that feel the most painful are live wires connected to people who are not me, who have stories of their own, who I love more than anything in the world.

So my work here is to find the truths that can be shared in a way that honors my experience, while staying fully in my lane. And let me tell you, that has been hard and I have messed up more than once.

I think the most honest, safe way to describe my life post-divorce is that it does not look like what I thought/hoped it would look like, and that is something I can keep talking about in general terms. It’s the part of my life that is the most difficult, the most painful, and it feels so BIG. Sometimes it feels like everything, this feeling that things are not as they should be.

That is where the struggle happens, right? What is that saying, Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional. Which is a deeply annoying thing to consider sometimes, like oh thanks I guess I just have to life coach my way out of this severed arm that got torn off by a wheat thresher. But I can understand the basic truth of it. If I’m stuck in a pouring rainstorm, I can either accept that I’m getting wet or I can get wet and howl in misery at the sky. Neither option keeps me dry.

It should be different is a thought I have to let go of. In part because the whole of that thought is “…because things would be better,” and I can’t keep trying to convince people to agree with me. Maybe that isn’t even true, no matter how it feels to me. But also because this is how things are, full stop.

Who knows about the future but this is how things are, there is no sign of change, and it’s time for me to stop scrabbling against it. Beating my wings on a hot bulb, nothing happening but my own ability to fly burning black.

There is a big difference between sitting with pain and spinning out trying to figure out how to get rid of it. Sometimes it feels like way too much to let that pain really come to the table. It tells me it is overwhelming, that I can’t handle it. It comes with a lot of sneaky no-good thoughts like this is all your fault and this is because you’re a bad person, you always have been and you always will be. It tells me that it is an endless black hole of hurt and it will never ever get better.

I have been stuck at acceptance since day one, I think, and always trying to convince myself that I’ve progressed. Whew, that was tough but I think I’ve got it now lol!! The truth is that it was tough, it still is tough, it’s going to be tough.

This is tough and that’s okay. It’s okay for things to be hard because sometimes things are hard. Pain does not automatically mean I did something bad. Pain will not kill me, it is a natural thing to be feeling, and it will in fact evolve over time. It won’t always feel like this. Nothing stays the same forever.

I think it’s important for me to allow the bad feelings to come on in, and also to make sure they’re not bring a bunch of backchannel buddies. Yes, I feel loss, but no, it does not mean I am a bad mom, a bad person, or that I did not exist for the past 24 years. Yes, this is sad, but I am not erased. I cannot be deleted from life’s grid. I am still here.

My life meant something before and it still does. My whole life has taken on a different shape and not everything looks like how I wish it would look and that is how it is. If I manage to expand outside of my own navel-gazing, there are a GREAT many things that are not how I wish they would be, and that is how it is.

Don’t let this pull you back from being their mom, my therapist told me recently. Mom harder.

I like that, Mom harder, and I think it can apply to my own self as well. Oh honey. I know it hurts. I’m sorry. Let’s just sit here for a minute.

Dylan and I did a trial visit to see how the cat would do, and Billy initially surprised me by shooting under the bed and tiptoeing anxiously around with saucer eyes — I thought bro was fearless! — but it did not take long at all for him to warm up to a state of wary but obvious curiosity.

Here on their fourth day together, Ruby remains largely oblivious/occasionally cautious of Billy, while Billy has become obsessed/entertained with Ruby. Whenever she’s not sleeping, Ruby follows me everywhere in hopes of food, while Billy follows her close behind, visibly taking notes.

A little animal choo-choo train sounds delightfully festive and it sort of is, but also I get to the point several times throughout the day where I’m just like CAN ALL YOU HONEY BUNNIES PLEASE CHILL I AM JUST GOING TO THE BATHROOM.

Poor/resilient Ruby is quite elderly now. 14? I would need to look at the old-life birthday calendar to be sure. She has a hard time getting around, although once she’s up and moving she’s slow but okay. Her back hips/legs can easily give out on slippery flooring and then she’s unable to get herself up again without a boost, so I’ve strewn a real hodgepodge of rugs/towels around the kitchen which is the main area in my house without carpet.

I have taken her for a couple walks around the neighborhood, which she deeply enjoyed. I was unsure if she could handle it, but once we get past the chaotic transition of the garage steps, she is good if not exactly speedy.

In fact, her slow pace has been kind of a delight, because as we mosey along with her whuffling up the smells of the world I can more nosily peer at my neighbors’ front yards and stoops. One time I met up with my neighbor pal and her Lab and that was extra nice. I used to be anxious with Ruby on walks because she had some leash aggression, not sure that’s the right term for it but she could be kind of rude and barky at other dogs if approached when on leash. This does not seem to be any kind of issue now, perhaps like many of us in older age her once-lush field of fucks has reduced in size and focus over the years. Also she’s mostly deaf, has the aforementioned mobility issues, and while relentlessly sweet may be a little on the senile side now.

In the house, when they’re not trailing me around, Ruby mostly rests and Billy works up various approaches to try and scare her/entice her to play. If I’m nearby he gets especially bold, and comes in to lightly swat her tail then go shooting off at top speed. Or he’ll do this absolutely hilarious routine of morphing into the classic Halloween cat position — back arched, fur on end, ears in airplane mode — then somehow without adjusting anything he comes flying in with a Tokyo drift type maneuver before skittering away like a crab.

I’ve been going to bed earlier than usual because that is a surefire way to get them to settle. Ruby has her dog bed kind of wedged in one of my closets, and throughout the night she snores away down there while Billy lies in a cinnamon-bun swirl up near my face. The room gently fills with Eau de Elder Lab (strong undernotes of fish and musk with a Frito finish). I pluck a long cat hair from my mouth. The choo-choo train takes a beat.