Saul Good and Co.

Bittersweet Symphony

All things must end, even mediocre missives published over a dying medium at increasingly sporadic intervals. In other words, I'm retiring this blog. It's not for any one reason, but I'm doing an overhaul of my digital presence in light of my impending career change and it just makes sense. As I cull and lock down my remaining social media accounts (seems like a great opportunity to just yeet Twitter altogether), the idea to burn it all down and start fresh sounds tempting, freeing even. I don't think I'm quite ready for that, but it just feels right to close this chapter.

 

I don't think I'm finished blogging forever, but a deliberate break is never a bad idea. I'll keep the archives available, and I'm sure that I'll regale you with half-assed photoessays on my private social media accounts here and there, but Saul Good and Co. is going the way of Joyberry Pie and Bathtubmary (if you don't know about that one you weren't supposed to) before her. It's been a great run.

 

Thank you all for reading and commenting and indulging me as I indulged my own sads and outrage and weird obsessions and changes over the many years. One day in the not-so-far future I'm sure you'll see me post a link from a ridiculously named platform and you'll be like, "Ah, let's go see what swear word granny couldn't help but spew into the void." Until then, I just want you to know it's been a gift, having the ability to infiltrate each other's lives from afar, and I am grateful for my tiny fierce community.

 

Fare-thee-well, my darlings.

 

 

 

Worth a Million in Prizes

 

Hello darlings, and thank you for the outpouring of support and rah-rah regarding my last entry and our new professional adventure. It's straight-up overwhelming to be on the receiving end of such love and confidence in us and it's the kind of overwhelm I cherish. There's no big news to report this time around, just, THANK YOU. If we end up being spectacular failures, it won't be because we don't have an army of hype people behind us.

So yeah, it's f@$*in' summer again. HR finishes school tomorrow, and as a family we are booked up, save for maybe one weekend, all the way through Labor Day. It's all really great stuff I'm looking forward to, but how amazing to look at the calendar and see a season's worth of your time accounted for. It seems like every summer gets more packed. Though I'm a lazy homebody and I don't relish being busy, summer plans are different. So many memories to come. How fortunate can one person actually be? I mean, really. That's a polished stone of thought I'll keep in my hand today, turning it over and over. 

Thank you I love you thank you. 

Meet the New Boss(es)

Let's start the month off with some hot-off-the press, officially official news: as of November, Mike and I will taking on the job of Co-Executive Directors of The Boston House. It is a huge move for us, both professionally and personally, and even though it seems scary in ways we haven't had a chance to lay awake pondering yet, we're excited for the opportunity and as ready as we'll ever be.

 

The announcement to the masses may be new, but since our current bosses were so kind and forward-thinking as to give us the heads up about their intention to retire more than two years ago, we've had a lot of time to get used to the transition and to soak up all their hard-earned knowledge. Believe me when I say that we couldn't have had better mentors, colleagues, friends than Peg and Andy. Though we and the families of The House will benefit from all they have shared with us, we can't touch the legacy they have established over the past 38 (!!!) years. This is not a matter of trying to fill their shoes, because that's just not a possibility. We can only take what we've learned and do our best.

 

The thing is, being in charge has never been an ambition of mine. In the entirety of my life I've literally had two ambitions: 1) publish my writing and, 2) have just enough money to do whatever I want whenever I want (which is usually literally nothing), which goes to show that I am not an ambitious person in general. I'm not giving up on those, though. The point is, when my bosses first broached the subject of moving up, I was like, well, I look forward to having another ED to work for. I thought I'd happily stay Assistant Director until the cows came home, because I'm just a stupid baby who don't know nothin about nothin! And the more time and space I had to think about it, the more it made sense. Even though it doesn't seem like the truth, I have been employed there for over 25 years. I kinda know my way around The House, I'm capable, and at the very heart of it IS the heart. I am so committed to the organization for reasons beyond a paycheck, and if I lead with that heart-sense, then what can't I do? Especially since I get to share the responsibilities with the partner who has shown to be a pretty strong teammate on the home front for a long time. We have different skills and temperaments, different wheelhouses, and we've been professional colleagues for the past seven years, so it's not like we don't know how to do this. Doing it together makes it all seem a lot less daunting.

 

I never meant to share a job with my spouse. I never meant to still be in the same workplace where I started right out of college. I never meant to still feel like I don't have clue how the world works most of the time, and yet. So much of my life and the decisions I've made have been the result of taking advantage of serendipitous turns, so why should this be any different? The way we arrive at them doesn't make these choices any less meaningful. I don't know what the future brings, of course. I don't know how to be a boss. Do I have to stop being a dumbass in my spare time? Do I have to lock down all my social media? Do I have to start being ASSERTIVE? I'm intimidated and worried and kinda shell shocked and none of those are good enough reasons to not go for it. So thank you all who have supported us all along and I hope we do you proud. 

 

Ladies and gentlemen, your new Charlses in Charge (starting in November):

 

 

Oh, You're Thirteen? Name Five of His Albums

 

While we were busy making other plans, this guy turned 13.

 

 

Pretty rude, right? Imagine me, the mother of a teenager. Preposterous! Yet, true. 

 

I like having a teenage kid, now that I've had a few weeks to get used to the idea, but as with all things HR, so far his teendom is anything but typical. He's just one hundred percent who he is and that's that. Much of this milestone time in our lives has been taken up with the journey of solving his medical mysteries. It's stressful! His condition (celiac that hasn't improved with 6+ years of a gluten free diet) is chronic, but not fatal, thankfully. Sure he's the size of a fourth grader, and maybe he'll always be small, but if something is out of whack and he's malnourished and who knows what else despite everything, it's our job to do everything we can to make him better, to give him the healthiest and best possible life. I worry, no matter how aware I am that it could be worse. I'm so grateful that this loving, creative, funny and original kid is ours, and in exchange for the gift of HR, Mike and I have to deal with witnessing and guiding him through the scary and difficult bits, like the repeated endoscopies (he had the pleasure of swallowing a tiny camera last week!) and adventures in prednisone. NOT MY FAVORITE PART OF PARENTING. And again, I know all too well that we could be facing something so much more devastating, but I reserve my right to fully freak out on occasion. I want my kid to be ok and happy and well all the time, that's the bottom line. And for the record, though he's not particularly adept at rolling with it, whatever "it" may be, in general, he takes the appointments and procedures in stride. As soon as there's any news, I'll post it here. 

 

It will be a shocker to nobody that I'm not gonna hit my goal to finish my current manuscript by Memorial Day, not even close. Hey cut me some slack, my kid's an oddity! JK, it has nothing to do with anyone but me and my bouts of being inconsistent (as if anyone but me cares) but I'm doing some reworking that will make it a stronger piece overall. It might be nice if y'all get to read it someday.

 

Gotta go do life now. Geriatric Teen Mom, out. 

 

Ballad of the PC

Families, you got one? You like 'em? Me, yes and for sure. I'm pretty vocal about my love of a fam jam so it's not a big surprise to hear that. I always love hearing about families' quirky bits, and I wonder if mine is unique in some ways or if they're universal and I just never knew it. For example, my family has a "thing" (well we have a bunch of things,) but one of our big things is the concept of the PC (perfect child) and the FC (favorite child). The PC is usually the eldest (though not always) and is marked by their responsible nature and their ability to follow rules at all costs. The PC is trusted and revered, but don't have a ton-of-fun reputation. The FC is marked by their ability to be extremely lovable and irresistible while pushing every button and breaking every rule. These guys have the ability to be entirely themselves, unburdened by the weight of others' expectations. If there's a third child in the mix, they're the baby and nobody messes with the baby or if there are more kids they get to be whatever. I have no experience with one-and-dones beyond my son so your guess is as good as mine. I guess he gets to be all or none, or he gets to just shine it out and carve his own path as we go along and that's a gift. The point is, there can only be one PC and FC per family and everyone knows who they are. 

Guess which one I am. There's no chance you're getting this one wrong. 

 

It's all in jest, of course. I mean I don't think anyone actually likes my sister better then me (well I mean sure a billion people do and why wouldn't they, she's awesome), not solely based on her role in the family, anyway. It's just that we've inhabited these selves for so long, I do wonder if at some point we molded our personalities around these designations rather the other way around. Because I am who I am and my brain is scabby from my inability to stop scratching at it at all times, I've been examining the way that this idea of perfection has messed with me. For a long, long time I really did want to be perfect. I took it on as my duty, I took pride in the way that people saw me and trusted me and depended on me, and even when it felt like a mighty weight and an impossible standard to maintain, I genuinely wanted to achieve it, and if I felt I was falling short, I faked it. The appearance of being 100% together was very important to me, and I don't need to spell out the ways that that is... not ideal for mental health. Being human is cool, and I've seen so much humanity embraced around me, I don't know why I thought I'd be outed as a failure if I owned up to mine. I would never have admitted it, even to myself for an lengthy spell, but I was borderline resentful of the FCs, jealous of their perceived freedom. 

It's only very recently that it occurred to me that that's all it is - perceived. I can be as free as I want, I just chose to keep myself in that box. As I sidle up to the half-century mark, I'm hyper aware that time grows ever shorter and why on earth would I waste another second of it trying to chase and maintain the image of perfection? To be as good a person as possible, to stand up for what's right and take care of my loved ones, yes, but do it as an authentic person who messes up sometimes and admits that she messes up. There's no shame in it. That's obvious to so many people, but to those who identify as a PC, you might relate to the mindset that we don't have a choice. If we're not impeccable, who even are we?  I am so relieved, so much happier, that not only do I understand that nobody expects me to be perfect or even cares if I am, but I actively don't even want to be. I just want to be me, whoever this weird stranger I'm getting to know is. It's not too late. Hallelujah, it's not too late. 

All that said, I'll carry my hard-earned family PC badge to my grave. Peace, the happily imperfect perfect child. 

Mary Oliver Plagiarism Society

 

I am hopelessly addicted to lists, as you probably know. I find them them soothing, they help organize my brain, and it's satisfying to cross things off when when they're of the to-do variety. In this modern age, I keep a lot of lists in my notes app. Books I've read, books I want to read, my all-time favorite books. There's even some non-book content such as daily tasks, my mother's bread recipe (which I will perfect one of these days), restaurants I want to try, and ever-evolving rankings of my top ten songs and shows and voices and celebrity crushes. My longest list by far is a collection of quotes and lyrics, anything that catches my eye or ear that I keep for a rainy day, for example, when I need a caption for a picture, a title for a blog post (knowing that might explain a lot) or a spark to inspire a bit of writing. I'm thumbing through this note today which has a larger magpie's mishmash of other people's words than I can probably ever use, and nothing there is serving as the prompt I was hoping for at the moment, but it does make me laugh to see what piques my interest. Never know when Nelly's perfect opening line, "Good gracious, ass is bodacious," is gonna come in handy! 

Maybe this reliance on lists is a little more than is healthy, I'll be the first to admit, but I genuinely can't fathom how people function without them. Just willy-nilly, raw dogging life. How, though? Honestly, HOW? I'm in awe of you and you stress me out. 

Now that's off my chest, I can get back to important things like letting the soft animal of my body worry about the things it worries about like transphobia and fascism and school shootings. That list keeps itself for me.

 

 

Style Council

You wouldn't know to look at me these days, but if you've known or followed me for any amount of time you're aware that I am and have always been a clothes lady. I don't know or care about fashion per se, not from a "rules" standpoint. I understand things being well-made and brand loyalty, but whether things are designer or not is not a concern. I just like to have fun getting dressed. I've had strictly jeans-and-tees periods in my life, but I eventually gravitate back to dresses and fun, interesting pieces. 

 

When the pandemic started three whole years ago and it became apparent that I wouldn't be leaving my house for a spell, I made it into a leisure-fashion challenge, trying to make sure I utilized every piece of comfortable loungewear in my arsenal. What can I say, we all thought that's what losing our minds felt like back then, what cute dumbasses we were. The point is I leaned into that stretchy clothing life and I still haven't leaned back out, not really. 

 

I'm back in the office a couple days a week but very few people see me and even fewer care what I look like, so I haven't had any incentive to get back to dressing myself for the aesthetic experience. I miss it, though. I have some profesh events coming up soon and I'm looking forward to spiffing up. The problem is that now I'm looking at my closet and I'm like, bleh. But I'm trying to do that thing where I participate in "fast fashion" as little as possible. I buy almost everything second-hand, and I even though I love browsing and picking up new items here and there, I'm trying to be as mindful as possible with that. So I guess I'll just spoonful-of-sugar this bitch and make another challenge for myself. Cue: OPERATION DRESS THIS MESS, 2023. 

 

The thing with me is, as I love a lot of dranks and have never settled on a signature cocktail, I don't have a signature style. I have preferences and I definitely know what I don't like, but there's not one look that's like, oh-so-Dawn. I've always envied people who have a set style, but on the other hand I like to mix it up. Some of my muses and inspirations have been TV characters - Eve Mackey from "Mrs. Fletcher," Devi Vishwakumar from "Never Have I Ever," Johanne from "Hjem til jul," Andrea Warren from "I'm Sorry," Jean Milburn from "Sex Education" and Sharon Morris from "Catastrophe." I also love the make-up artist Bobbi Brown with her clean, simple wardrobe that seems to be the same top and jeans in every color - her every day look is an uncomplicated sort of uniform. My ideal wardrobe is a combination of that of all my aspirational fashion faves. One of these days I might even figure out which elements are purely me.

 

I don't even really have a point to this entry, but what a dang pleasure it is to write something purely superficial. Bye then.

 

In Search of a Grip

I don't think that anyone is really cut out to parent a sick kid, but some people are better at it than others. Certainly they're better at it than me. Not that I don't attend to my kid when he's under the weather, actually I think I'm great at doing whatever needs to be done in the throes of illness. It helps me for me to have a task, medicine to fetch, messes to clean up, a snuggle spot for a feverish napper, but the waiting and watching and feeling out of control, JFC. The mental part is where I'm all disarray, I mean, just the suggestion of a fever and I'm a wreck until full health is restored and I know this is due to personal trauma and the occupational hazard of seeing worst-case scenarios every day. Now that my almost-teenager-baby seems to have recovered from the worst of this weekend's stomach bug (as if he could afford to lose a single calorie as we try to solve the mystery of his latest growth plateau), I'm feeling more calm and in full acknowledgement of my issues. I'm also immeasurably thankful that I have Mike share the caretaking, which includes tempering my neuroses. I have no idea how anyone gets through a single day with a seriously ill child, how my parents did it, or, my god, how single people find the strength to deal. I know that they somehow do, because when you love someone on a cellular level, you just do it. (Or, you don't and I've seen that too in my time but it's another story.)

 

 

Anyway, we had a rough weekend, which also included the loss of my parents' pup Auggie. She was a pain in the ass and we loved her, but nobody loved her more than Gram and vice versa. 

 

Goodbye little Auggie (gone the same week as my cat-nephew Bert, who I didn't get to know but was well loved and much missed by his parents) and here's to some mental and physical recuperation and weekend do-overs for us all.  

State of The

Well I had this pointed ambition to blog more (Blogmore, sounds like a terrible fictional kingdom) and that went off the rails for a bunch of reasons, one being the loss of my dear Uncle Bob. I know that last time I wrote I was all rah-rah about authentically experiencing my feelings but I really was not putting it out there to court more sadness. Oh, Uncle Bobby, you will be missed.

In the midst of the grief chronicles, life has been happening in that blessedly annoying way it does. Work's work-y. Home's home-y. We're still trying to solve the mystery of the celiac boy whose gut won't heal, but I know all too well that it could be a lot worse. We continue to have fun times with family and friends, I've read a lot of good books, and if I can say that it's saying a lot. All of this combined has aided me in resuming my creative life, which went underground sometime in November. My small writing goals include:

 

-working on my current WIP for a tight, dedicated 25 minutes every weekday, with an eye to finishing the first draft by Memorial Day, or the last day of HR's school, at the latest;

 

-submitting 1-2 agent queries per week;

 

-blog more often, as I mentioned above (why? Some questions have no good answers). 

 

It's been 3 years since I finished the first draft of the book of my heart and like I said, I really believe in it, it just has to find the right fit. I haven't ruled out self-publishing, I just enjoy games and puzzles and it's kind of a puzzle game to figure out how to get a manuscript represented and ultimately published. 

 

I let my guitar get dusty again, but I've been making a point to pick it up for just a few minutes a day. It has to add up, right?

 

I'm overwhelmed with anxiety about life in this country on the daily, but again, that's being alive and engaged. I don't always talk about what I'm doing on my antiracism journey but it's ongoing. One of the biggest parts, honestly, is one of the hardest parts for confrontation-averse me: talking to my own people about it. But if I can't even do that, if I'm not brave enough to get uncomfortable, then what's the point? It's no good if I'm interacting in an echo chamber. For example, if you're someone I love and you truly don't understand why "It's OK to be white" is a problematic thing to say, talk to me. 

 

Anyway, it's March again and the world is still here and I'm doing all right so let's dance. 

One Day Closer

 

Whoa, February, eh?

 

Time flies when you're deep down in a fun new obsession with the fragility of life. It's really getting to me lately, both specific and general examples of how fleeting it all is. In the past few months I've read too many obituaries of people I sort-of know who met tragic ends, as well as been confronted with the stories of lives lost due to unjust violence, and the peripheral pain accumulates and intersects with the loss-centric worldview that is a personal chronic condition, creating an open wound of a woman. 

 

I think about it all the time, like, what is it like to be my grandmother, knowing that even though she's perfectly healthy, she's also 98? What does it feel like to be 20 years older than I am now, and know the clock is ticking whether you like it or not? What's it like to be there one day, and not the next with no warning? Welcome to me. This is where I am. 

 

The good news? I'm finally allowing myself to feel my feelings. Sure I'm basically a high-functioning mess, but it feels good to understand that it's a healthy mess. It's a relief to be able to freely examine my mindset, face the fear and sadness of it all, and not run away from what feels daunting. Life's heavy, the end of life is heavy, deal with it, bitch, you know? So I'm doing it. Wading through it every day with varying outcomes. Understanding that the uncharacteristic focus on my own mortality is part of getting older and loving people.

 

This is they year I see my shadow and not run back to my hole.