6-27-15

Thank you, Honeybyhive wedding photographers, for being brilliant.

David and I were married two weeks ago in my home town in central Vermont. There were six different flavors of cakes, about which I will go into great detail in further posts. It was a hell of a show, and to be frank, I'm perturbed as to why The Times hasn't run a full spread, cover page, recounting every glamourous detail from the minutia (the bride wore Astral) to the riveting (the festivities came to an abrupt halt at the appearance of an uninvited, prehistoric guest.)

After the wedding, we took off on a honeymoon to Maine which was equal parts breathtaking (the views from Acadia Mountain, bright boats bobbing in the mist of Southwest Harbor) and depressing (meth use at the gas station, seafood.)

We should be home in a few days, and I'll start posting, except I'm going to start at the beginning. Forgive me for being so backlogged, but I was busy wrangling a circus for the last six weeks.

part one. the bachelorette.

The things that led up to where I am today.

Part 1.

One night before I left for New England for the summer, I woke up with something sitting on my chest. In the last filmy remnants of the dream, there had been something living, exotic even- some type of small zoo animal. I'd been enjoying playing with the creature until it crawled up onto my lap and rammed its head between my breastbone, bearing down into my chest until I had to fight against its weight in order to draw a breath. That's how I woke up, gasping and gripping the comforter, and when I did, the thing was gone but the pressure remained, invisible and searing.

The next few moments felt cliched, as if I were a character in a movie who suddenly grows purple and keels over while mowing the lawn: I gripped my chest with both hands, eyes wide, quick forced breaths and completely helpless, wondering how long to wait until I did something- but what? Call 911? Get to the car? Get in a bath? (My answer to everything.) David was in Costa Rica and I was alone in the house.

I was sure I wasn't having a heart attack; even with my anxiety and hypochondria that spikes like a fever any time anything interesting happens in my life, I knew the odds of that were pretty slim. Was I fighting for breath or had I just worked myself up to the point (in my sleep, somehow) where I felt as if I were fighting for breath? I kneaded my fingers up and down my sternum, feeling the xylophone bump of each rib, and found myself beginning to calm down. But the pain, the feeling that something was crushing my chest into my lungs, did not alleviate. What the hell is that? I wondered. And then I had the same thought that comes with every new symptom my body invents: how long will this one last?

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My friends threw me a bachelorette party before I left, a proper one a veil and flowers, always someone warmly holding my hand as they led me through the streets of downtown Asheville, Pauline loudly leading the way, declaring at every intersection and to every passing stranger that THIS GIRL WAS GETTING MARRIED!!!

 To their credit, every person we passed was more than agreeable, giving me a pat on the head or a companionable slap on the back or letting out a supportive cheer, but what made me the most happy was how Pauline danced around me in the street, making such a fuss, making me feel so special. "I forgot!" I exclaimed to Kelli, who had linked her arm in mine. "I forgot how fun it is to go out! I never go out! We should do this all the time!" Kelli tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear and said, "Absolutely. All the time."

Bands of bridal parties roamed the town that Friday evening, always in the same formation: a gaggle of women in florid dresses loosely surrounding the one in the middle, who had a cheap veil like some malarial prophylactic drawn over her face and was usually a bit stumbley, hoisted up from the shoulder by one of the sturdier ladies in the pack. When we passed another tribe we'd cry out, pump our fists in the air- isn't this grand!! or, later in the night, exchanging embraces that were quick but warm, always with the element of cheerful confusion that accompanies the latter hours of these types of events.

My friends, a handful of girls and Yonton, kept the tempo speedy, which I liked. One place, one drink, one song, and onto the next. Let's keep it moving, people. Someone bought apple-pie shots at The Southern and we danced alone on a dusty stage. Then we were in a basement with some type of artificial fog piped into the air, a laser show of bouncy neon squiggles landing on our faces and stereos blasting excruciating electronic music, and much later I found myself posing for a portrait on a very elaborate victorian theater set, in a bar I'd never heard of before even though I'd walked passed it at least forty times.

It was a steam-punk speakeasy, I think, although don't ask me to explain to you exactly what that means. Everyone had feathers on their hats, creamy gloves and sharp suspenders, plum colored gowns and eye glasses two inches thick, and certainly belonged to some thing, or some order or some understanding, that me and the hearty remnants of my party (some had already dropped out, gotten lost, or slipped away between bars) did not belong to. This did not bother us in the slightest. I sat straight backed in my crushed velvet chair, sipped a ginger whiskey drink through a tiny star, and gazed solemnly into the old fashioned black box camera with a look of great dignity. Someone behind the half curtain surrounding the camera looked confused, or maybe it was annoyed, but she gamely took the photo anyway, or at least pretended to.

That's the last thing I remember.

David said when I came home that night (Kelli treated me to an Uber) I announced my arrival by stepping squarely on the dog, who let out an almighty squawk, and then I plunged face first on the bed and remained motionless.

I believe that the term "living hell" was coined to describe my condition the following morning. "Leave," I said to David, desperate, limbing my way across the hall to the bathtub, aware that the most unpleasant of fireworks was about to begin and that he had not signed up for this parade. "Leave- run- don't come back- don't come back until nighttime!!" It took very little convincing. He grabbed his kayaking things and sprinted out the door, and not one second too soon.

Hi. Help. Thanks.

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I have been writing the wilder coast for nearly seven years. Now that school is out forever, I can finally turn my focus back towards this space. That means not only writing, but actually going out, taking pictures, and doing things that are worth writing about.

I've been thinking a lot about what to do on this blog. I think about it nearly all the time, to be honest. When I'm in the shower, when I'm standing in the grocery line, when I'm biking. Most of all, when I'm trying to fall asleep. 

Naturally, things are very different than they were when I was 23 years old. Some readers have moved on. Their interest has wained now that I'm no longer single, recording my treacherous dates and going on different climbing adventures every weekend. Some have stopped reading because I moved away from Washington State. I don't blame them- there are moments throughout each day when I miss that girl, too, and everything she had to say. 

On the other hand I've gained a new audience, one that is interested in matters that are more close to home. I have heard from many people who appreciate reading about the honest struggles that come with transitioning to a slightly more domestic lifestyle, and also with finances, job searching, and all the expectations and frustrations that come along with that. Some have reached out and asked for tips on photography, adventures, and even frugality. Upon hearing this, my sister laughed and laughed. (Anna- I've improved in that area. You won't believe me but I have.)

I've also received letters from people thanking me for writing a blog that does not include recipes and tips and such, because there is plenty of that out there. (By people who actually know what they're talking about.) 

All of this was swirling around in my brain until the answer hit me one morning. Such a simple and obvious answer: why don't I just ask you? What sort of content would you be the most excited to read? Do you have any ideas for me? What are your favorite things to read about or see on this site? I've gotten to know quite a few of you, and I'd love to hear your input. I should mention that we are also in the process of redesigning the whole layout of this blog. 

I am happy to carefully read all of your thoughts. And because we love to Make More Mail, a random comment will be chosen for a limited-edition-not-monday Mystery Prize and a handwritten photo card. 

Thank you so much for reading. I like you guys a whole lot.  

-Melina

all of us, exploring

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This summer we are exploring Apalachicola and St. Augustine, Idaho's mountains on a shoestring, the French Alps, New Caledonia, Kure Beach, Kauai, and crossing the Yukon into Alaska. It will be our last summer before children, and our first summer traveling with a newborn. Our family is a glutton for the epic roadtrip, so picture us with our three daughters rolling through British Columbia in our rickety minivan, and wish us well.

 It's also worth mentioning that we are wrapping up our PhDs, and touring Harvard, starting our Med/Surg clinical rotations and finally, after all this time, selling the business. We are also searching for a new job, if you hear of anything.

This summer we are diving into the Enchantments with our tiny children and organizing the Hootenany for the hotel's centennial summer, and yesterday we graduated with our masters, holy hallelujia! and the freedom we felt the next morning when we woke up - without an alarm, late morning sunlight streaming in - was astonishing. In the early evening, when the mean eye of the summer sun has dropped, we're planting a garden (our first!) and at night we're reading the books we've been meaning to read our entire lives. (How did you put it? New worlds in new pages. I like that.)

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Many of us are going to Ireland, so let's plan on meeting up? Somewhere by the water.

In a small number of weeks we will be boarding an inflatable raft and plummeting down the rapids of the Colorado River, one mile deep in the earth. Away from all contact with the world (that sat phone is just a prop- we tried to use it once.) Wave hello to Elve's Chasm, the blue falls of Havasu, Red Wall, Lava, Crystal, Soap Creek and all the gems and all the rest of the big miracles down there. Remember, if you fall in love on that trip, it might fall apart once you reach dry land, but it will work out in the long run, very different and even better.

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We will also begin Ethics and Accounting this summer. And Practical Reasoning, Biological Anthropology, GI Science. We will be in the classroom a fair amount, but there's something sweet about summer school, the wide open campus, the sweating glass of iced coffee and liquid ink fountain pens. We are celebrating our first homeschool graduate, and we're moving! How exciting! We're moving to New Mexico, Maryland, Maine, Vancouver and Vail. And Boston (go directly to Mike's pastries, buy a pound of Italian cookies and eat them at Waterfront Park.) We're so proud to be taking this leap. Moving means a blank canvas and there's nothing quite so tempting as a blank canvas.

We're finally pregnant, it took a great deal of effort and it's paid off at last, so we're exploring slowing down this summer. We're exploring joyful nausea. And we're lightening up- a surprisingly grand adventure- eating only the things we're supposed to eat, whittling down and recognizing ourselves in the mirror after a long time away. And we're going to Mt. Rushmore on one day and Acadia on the next. We'll be doing a lot of driving.

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And that's to say nothing of all the state parks, the local swimming holes, restoring the boat, the lakes of North Georgia and the shores of Northern Minnesota, marshmallows, star gazing, Mississippi day trips, Mt. Rainier and upstate New York on the same trip. We'll be doing a lot of flying.

This summer we will be wandering the PCT alone with our daughter. If that isn't a beautiful sentence I don't know what is.

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Some of us, on the other side of the world, will be taking our four year old skiing for the first time. Some of us on this side will be choosing snow, as well. For those amongst us who will be guiding in the alpine this summer: have a safe season, polish off a few jars of Nutella for the rest of us because mountaineers can eat whatever they like, good luck, and send us a post card.

Finally, the other day we went hiking with our son, and we found a glass bottle that had been cracked and half and looked exactly like a peace sign. We think this bodes well.

Much love and happy adventures,

From all of us.

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The DuPont Triple Threat

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This past week, I created and then won the DuPont Triple Threat challenge. 

The Triple Threat is something that my friend Megan and I dreamt up one afternoon while we were mountain biking through Bent Creek. We ride there a few days a week, usually in the evenings after work. We're very happy in Bent Creek, but we were hoping to get a little further out of town and spend the entire day outside. After months of classrooms and textbooks, ten hour shifts three hour labs, that sounded like true luxury. 

My favorite place to ride in the Southeast is the Ridgeline trail in DuPont National Forest. It's a long but pretty mellow climb that zig-zags through the woods, cuts across fields and up an old gravel logging road, followed by the sweetest soaring single-track downhill through a cool pine forest.

Megan and I were talking about going out to ride Ridgeline and then stopping at Dolly's, an ice cream place at the edge of the Pisgah National Forest. Dave took me there last spring after my first hike through Pisgah, and there hasn't been a day since that I haven't thought about it. There are over one hundred flavors of ice cream. For the unfortunate souls such as myself who are cursed with sugar cravings and get a little bit weird around cake (distracted, unable to focus until its been sliced and handed out, the issue of seconds, thirds) it's the mother ship.   

I'd recently written about a place called Hooker Falls for an article on Asheville Swimming Holes, but had yet to visit in person. We got the idea to stitch together Ridgeline, Hooker Falls and Dolly's together into one perfect day and call it The DuPont Triple Threat. I like pairing together and labeling my adventures. It makes me feel satisfied at the end of the day, as if I'd completed a triathlon. 

Our friend Lee just returned from a winter in New Zealand and we invited her along. She's one of those girls who runs insane shit in a kayak, but this was her first time on a mountain bike.

Hooker Falls is a cold, clear, wide open pool deep enough for diving and rope swinging. The best moment of the day was picking our way over the slippery, dark rocks and up behind the waterfall. The pounding, roaring, veil of water sounds exactly like those moments when you're underwater in your kayak, getting hammered in a hole and clawing to get back to sunlight and air. My heart started beating faster and my breath shortened just thinking about it. I never exactly made my peace with that sport.  

I was the only one to finish the challenge, because I was the only one who wanted ice cream, which I guess puts me in first place. I won! 

This was a good idea. A good day. If we're lucky, it will be the first of many triple threats this summer all throughout the east coast. Things go well together in 3's. 

And now, the winner of the summer's first Mystery Prize Monday. Thank you everyone for leaving your comments! Reading about what and where you're exploring this summer was like reading a personalized guide book of the country. So many places to hike and eat and swim. As always, y'all got me fired up! 

 Jaime said...

My dad just restored an old boat. So, we'll be exploring the lakes of North Georgia this summer!

I also plan on trying to find a new job, which will certainly take me out of my comfort zone. Who knows maybe we'll move to a new city. I'm ready for a change.

Congratulations Jamie! I hope you enjoy a languid few weeks floating on the North Georgia lakes before your new job and your new city. Send me an email at thewildercoast@gmail.com and we'll get you all sorted.

Happy SUMMER everybody!! 

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mystery prize monday : exploring

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What a treat it is to be out of school. Forever. 

In the past week I've made it my mission to win back the good favor of my dog, who suffered under the brutal dictatorship of Organic Chemistry and Microbiology. I did the best I could during the past year and half, but my dog is not pleased nor satisfied with shuffling around the block or tracing the same figure 8 through the park each afternoon. She needs a more adventurous lifestyle and so do I.

The morose professor awarded me with a 105 in his class, which felt lucky, if a bit arbitrary. He never even collected our lab manuals, meaning I could have slept in every Friday instead of enduring his meltdowns and his admonishments, but so it goes. I don't know where that grade came from and I won't be asking any time soon. The 95 I made in O Chem was fair and hard earned; may I never live to have to repeat that class. 

Ever since then I've been free. Free to work, take greater care with my weekly articles, search (sometimes with a great deal of optimism, sometimes with a spinning sense of dread when I consider the looming financial difficulties) for more writing, free to pull open the windows and clean the house while the radio plays in the background (although I haven't gotten around to that yet), or explore the mountains for whole days at time without having to come home. Which is what I've mostly been up to. 

Here's a photo book of our first summer explorations. (And here is a tutorial I wrote about taking photos in Western Carolina, including some of my favorite photogenic destinations & filters.) 

Hometeam and I kicked things off by climbing the Art Loeb Spur trail to Black Balsam Knob. A wicked afternoon thunder storm rolled in as soon as we reached the summit. 

On Saturday, David and I went up to swim at Skinny Dip Falls. If you want to visit Asheville this summer, here's my recent article about Five Top Swimming Holes in the area. It will tell you how to get there and everything you need to know. 

When my friends and I ride at Bent Creek, we have time now to try the mysterious connector trails and stay late into the evening. In town, all these new places have surfaced while we weren't looking. 

I have two more weeks in the Blue Ridge. Dave is going to Costa Rica with his school and the minute he gets back, we are packing up the bikes and the boats (and the dog) and heading to New England for the rest of the summer. There, between the White Mountains of New Hampshire and the shivering Atlantic up in Acadia, Maine, and all the secret swimming holes I grew up with-  and somewhere in there getting a husband out of the deal- the adventures are going to go off. 

(And all with close to no money. We may be getting very creative with the camp stove.)

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For Mystery Prize Monday, leave a comment telling us what or where you're exploring this summer. Exploring can really mean anything- any realm, any place, any thing, inside or outside. As always, I'll choose randomly from the comments and someone will have a surprise in their mailbox within the week. I chose this prize a few weeks back at a local craft fair; it's delicate and there's a bird involved. I almost kept it for myself, except for that I destroy delicate things and you deserve it more.

I've missed you all the in the past few months. I'm excited to see what you've been getting into. 

The Party Line

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School let out last week. Since I will not be going back, I took an armful of my papers and used notebooks and dumped them into the recycle bin outside my house. "Looks like someone is all finished with exams," my neighbor called out warmly. She was standing in her yard with a trowel in her hand. "Now you can focus on wedding planning!"

I responded with something airy and positive, then I ducked back into my house.  The truth is that I'd rather be locked in a classroom with the morose professor berating us about our "remarkable, unprecedented incompetence" (his words) than thinking about a big party that I decided to throw in a remote corner of the country, two years after I moved away from Seattle and lost contact with nearly everyone I knew there. 

My friends like to remind me that regardless of what happens on the day itself, I'm still going to end up married to David. (David, who received their enthusiastic stamp of approval within five minutes of meeting, even from Colleen, who takes a perverse pleasure in disliking everyone; David, the most candid and kind and generally likable person I've ever met.)  

That's the party line. I've said it myself over the years, to half a dozen harried girlfriends grappling with guest lists, to my best friend Lisa as she cried for hours in my shitty apartment in Ballard for reasons that I simply couldn't fathom at the time. I was single, loaded with friends, acutely aware that none of my attempts at dating were panning out, completely jealous that she was so far ahead of me in this one aspect of life. "But you're going to be married to Colt, Lisa!" I said, dabbing at her eyes with a paper towel. "MARRIED! That's what it's all about!" 

And it's true. It's mostly true. But as it turns out, the wedding is also about publicly exposing, for the first time (I like to think) my most tender and top-secret insecurities, the ones that I've kept fastidiously tucked away since I was twelve. Those demons surface every year in March when I'm planning my birthday party (WHAT IF NOBODY COMES? THEN WHAT? YOU WILL BE SO SAD) but only within my own head. It's an imitate battle that nobody has to know about. Other then that, they remain very much in check. Of course, one reason for that is that I never plan anything, no type of social gathering, not even a casual backyard BBQ. (WHAT IF NOBODY COMES? THEN WHAT? YOU WIL BE SO SAD.)

And then comes the Wedding Season, and if I'm to believe the magazines, the blogs, the stories, the ubiquitous emails (how are these companies getting my address? Where did I go wrong?) tradition dictates that we are to have an engagement party, a wedding shower and the bachelor parties in addition to the actual thing. It's like asking people to show up to three birthday parties in the weeks before your big super-duper blow-out birthday party. That's four years worth of social anxiety rolled into one season. 

We're not doing any of that. Thank goodness. 

We are having a lovely wedding in Vermont. It's going to be beautiful. But at this moment, this temporary and evanescent moment, it does not feel lovely. It feels like a sweaty balancing act between my worst social fears and the overblown cultural expectations of this whole thing. ("Oh for crying out loud!" said Colleen, whose advice often makes you feel worse before you feel better, but to her credit it does eventually get you there. "You're having a wedding in Vermont and the tickets are expensive, don't take it so damn personally!") 

I know, I know. And if you had no idea that I was this insecure, well, it came as a surprise to me too, buddy. 

Somewhere inside the beige, stucco walls of the shitty apartment on 65th street, the Melina from two years ago is having a marvelous laugh.  

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bulletproof

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They say that sitting is the new smoking but sometimes you just have to sit. (Some may argue that sometimes you just have to smoke, I suppose.) You have to sit because you have no choice, you've played this school game out to the bitter end and now here you are, bitter indeed, ten pounds heavier than before the semester, (I call it my 'straight A body') swimming in lose papers, no longer your dog's best friend, drinking an outrageously expensive bottle of turmeric juice ("for your health") feeling both overworked and lazy, coaxing your brain into just a few more days of memorizing molecular structures and then you'll be free, free to start thinking about your wedding in 7 weeks, free to start worrying about the white satin dress hanging in your closet that you can barely squeeze into.   

It's the last two weeks of school here at AB Tech, "The Harvard on the Hill" as we like to call it, and I've fallen into a fog. A rut. But don't worry, I started putting butter in my coffee so I'll be out of it soon enough. The paleo fanatics on the internet assure me that in a week or so I'll wake up feeling "bulletproof" and it will last for the rest of my life. When that happens the world better watch out, that's for sure. 

Now, where did we leave off? 

David and I had just floated off to Orcas island. 

We stayed in a tiny little cabin at Doe Bay. I had to write in the mornings, not in a 'my soul felt free on the ocean and I had to give it wings' kind of way, but in a 'I'll be fired if I don't submit this by Thursday' kind of way. Actually, I've never experienced the first kind of writing, the flying soul. And I don't trust people who say they have.

David and I went kayaking across a quiet bay and out to Jones Island, a little teardrop of a state park that is only accessible by paddle boat. We were all alone. 

We live on a crowded planet. There is only so much time in your life that you will spend alone on your own island. The afternoon we spent lying on the moss on our little float of land almost made up for all the yarking I did during my welcome home dinner.

I said almost. 

The Northwest is wildly, absurdly photogenic and it's not fair for the rest of us. I was born and raised on the east coast, and the east coast is where I live today. It's an exceptionally beautiful place to call home but big fat Washington state with its jagged mountains and moody puget sound, it's Pacific ocean and rain forests, wheat fields and desserts and glacial lakes, it's just easier to photograph.  I've always thought so and we're all just going to have to live with that. 

We climbed to the top of Mount Constitution on a trail of pine needles that bounced under our feet. Along the way we met a very perplexing gentleman. "Is she allowed to do that? Is she trustworthy?" this stranger asked Dave as I walked to the edge of a cliff to pose for a picture. There was a long silence and then Dave responded, "....she can...well, she can do whatever she wants."

"Women," said the man, shaking his head as if the two of them were in on a big joke that had gone a little too far. "That's how they are these days, isn't it. HEY!" He cupped his hands and shouted to me. "IF YOU WERE MY DAUGHTER, I'D SHOOT YOU! JUST TO GET IT OVER WITH!" Then he chuckled, winked at Dave and headed back towards the trail. 

On the way back down, Dave and I were jogging on the road, hoping to get back to the car before dark. It was suddenly very cold and a few raindrops were hurtling down from the clouds. A few miles later, an SUV pulled up with the same man and his wife, who had obviously driven to the top to meet him. "You crazy kids need a ride?" he asked, leaning out of the passenger window. 

He was a creep, but if we had kept running we would have missed pizza night at Doe Bay. And if you've ever visited Orcas island in the off season, then you know that there is almost nowhere to eat. We couldn't risk missing pizza night. We took the ride. The pizzas were very small. I had to eat three.

That was about it. David sang take your mamma out all night, yeah, show her what it's all about on the piano at the open mic night, and none of the Pacific North Westerners knew how to deal with his southern charm, his friendliness, his ability to make small talk and eye contact and smile. It was lots of fun to observe.

Doe Bay is a beautiful place. We could have spent a lot more time there, soaking in the hot pools that look out over the resplendent bay, filling up on very small pizzas, drinking thick diner cups of coffee each morning, talking to nobody. My kind of place. It's too bad we only had one week. But that's how it goes. And we're all just going to have to live with that. 

Here are my two favorite articles from the last month:

The Movie Buff's Guide to Asheville's Outdoors  (How to explore the natural places where The Hunger Games, Dirty Dancing, Cold Mountain and The Last of the Mohicans were filmed. I had titled this "The cinephile's guide" but they changed it, claiming that nobody knew what a cinephile 

was.

Five Ways to Welcome Spring in Western North Carolina. Pretty straightforward. Written at Doe Bay. 

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the city of disgusting beauty

Happy Birthday Stephanie! I love you.

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I remember when my beloved and sardonic cousin Katherine, a Pittsburgh native, had just moved out to Seattle. I was in college. She sat on the grass at Carkeek park, surrounded by towering evergreens fecund with moss, watching ferry boats lit up like diamonds glide back and forth across the Puget Sound. A train rumbled by, the Starlight Express, its many glowing windows becoming one illuminated streak against the dark water. "Disgusting," she said again. "In Pittsburgh, a park is a square of grass." 

I know what she means. The Pacific Northwest is absurdly photogenic, and the only thing that could make it more so is traveling with someone whose flaming red hair creates the perfect jolt of contrast to the infamous Washington trichrome: dark blue, dark green, dark grey. Which is to say, poor David: I asked for ten thousand pictures. I must have driven him crazy.

Since the time we booked the flight (thanks to a happy little overbooking mishap that led to two free flights from Delta) I had been harboring this image of being on the airplane, looking down on the lights of Seattle for the first time in nearly two years, grasping David's hand and weeping quietly. The tears would run down my face and yet I'd say nothing, stoic and lost in memory, and David would find that he, too was overcome with emotion. "My fiance is such a beautiful mystery," he would think, awestruck. 

But that's not exactly how it happened. We learned upon arriving in Charlotte that morning that my reservations had been mysteriously cancelled, no explanation offered, and so we were rerouted on a convoluted pathway across the country, slowly working our way west. At each layover I consoled myself with a bloody mary, then a few more on the plane, and by the time we ducked beneath the thick cloud cover and the lights of downtown sparkled into view, David was asleep on his tray table and it was all I could do to keep from vomiting.  

I didn't, but that feeling clung to me for two days and then there was a chili cook off and then I did. 

Ammen and Steph had graciously offered to host us, and they threw a parade the day after we arrived. It had been Ella's idea, their three year old daughter, and the whole neighborhood got into it. Steph said we could dig through her costume box and dress up as Thing 1 and Thing 2 from a Dr. Seuss book. I've always wanted to wear a matching costume with David, but by the time we got home from our morning of hunting for sea glass at Golden Gardens, someone had taken one of the Things. David looked noticeably relieved and dressed up as a banana instead. 

When the parade was over and the grown-ups had taken off their costumes and were conversing over chili and beer, Dave remained in the suit. He said it was pretty comfortable in there. I loved watching him make small talk with all the neighbors, them in their puffy vests and scruffy beards, the Northwest get-up, him inside his giant banana. I don't think I could possibly feel more delighted by another person. But otherwise, I was fading. I felt terrible, achy and weepy like you do the day before you get the flu. I chalked it up to a stressful few months, work, jet lag. I swung in the hammock, screwed my eyes shut and tried to will myself to feel better. 

But the coffee tasted sour the next morning and I felt drained of all energy. I tried to soldier through and give David a hardy tour of the city, my favorite city, my home for over ten years. The gum wall, Pike Place, Discovery Park, the original Starbucks (to which he showed a sincere and inexplicable interest) the Ballard Farmers Market and the best Vietnamese food in the ID. Seattle classics and my old college haunts, the beach with the view of the olympics, Mt. Rainier posing as a cloud in the distance. And to my credit I took him to most of these places, dragging and pale, hanging on his shoulder and finally just lying down in the middle of a parking lot, and then I knew I was done for. 

Somehow I managed to drive 40 blocks through Seattle's infamous super grand-slam traffic, dashed down the spiral stair case and made it to the bathroom without a second to spare. I threw up, a lot, then curled up on the floor like a rodent and begged for death. 

I'm not exaggerating, that's really what I do when I have the stomach flu. You probably do too.

I'm not going to lie, getting sick put a giant smoking crater right in the middle of our trip. Amber threw a big welcome dinner for us that night, a taco bar, Megan brought ice cream sandwiches. I lay in the corner in a heap. I felt very, very sad about my tremendously bad luck, about my immune system that crumbles to dust under any amount of stress. I love my friends in Seattle and I miss them so much, but I was too sick even to talk to anyone. The very idea of a taco made me wither.

That night I cried in David's arms and fell into a heavy, delirious sleep. In the morning, feeling empty and wobbly and shy, I gave up on the city and the plans we'd made. Instead the two of us headed out to the San Juan islands. They're all water and fresh air and rain forests, the best place in the world if you need to feel better.

(That will be for next time. I fractured my right hand last week, the 5th metacarpal. So they tell me. But I don't think it's so bad. Either way I am typing this solely with my lazy, untrained left hand, and I think it's about had it for the day.)

But first, the winner of the salt water mystery prize! Thank you for letting us know how it's going, everybody. It's been so nice to catch up.

Melveys said...

Your blog makes me happy. There are about 15-20 blog I follow and yours always fills me with peace. They all serve a different purpose but your pictures and content...I just can't explain it.

I'm...I dunno actually. I'm looking forward to summer when I plan on getting each of my kids their first bike. Pretty sad that my 12,10,8 and 6 year olds don't have their own bikes but money has always been tight. This spring I am saving hard though and we are going to hit the trails all summer. I'm focusing hard on that since winter has been going on forever here in Eastern Canada. As I type, the snow is gently hitting the window. It's rather pretty but I feel like I'm at the starting line of Spring just waiting for the pistol to go off. Pull the trigger Mother Nature!

Congratulations! I hope that by now, two weeks later, spring has made it to the northeast, with summer right on its heels. I'm so happy that my blog brings you peace, and I'm so excited for you and your kids- my bike brings me a lot of happiness. Please email thewildercoast@gmail.com and I'll get you all sorted out.    

follow along on instagram @melinadream

photo book: washington state ferries

follow along on instagram @melinadream

I'm sorry I had to leave this space for a few weeks. When work piles up and you are pressed for time, the first thing to go is the thing you most want to write. 

I want to quietly return to mystery prize monday with my favorite prompt, the one I'll always choose when I haven't spoken with you for a little while: how are things going? It should be spring now- I know up North it's not really, but it should be. How is it going so far?  

In honor of my recent trip to the Pacific Northwest I've chosen a salt water inspired prize for you this week. It's not taffy or chocolate. 

Of course, I have plenty of photos to share from the trip. We were treated to classic Seattle weather, heavy and overcast, and I could not get over how David's red hair smoldered against the gray pearl sky. We hunted for handfuls of sea glass at Golden Gardens, woke up to the little stomping steps of Audrey, Steph and Ammen's one year old daughter, and the shrieks of Ella, who is nearly four. 

There was a parade and David dressed up like a banana and spent hours in the hammock tossing Ella up into the air. 

We were able to disappear out to Doe Bay on Orcas Island, where I sank into the waters of their luminous soaking tubs and didn't emerge for three days. We went sea kayaking and clamored around our own island for an afternoon, and on the way home a furious squall nearly blew the boats off of our makeshift racks and onto the Tulip Fields as we crawled past at 35 miles an hour. 

David didn't get the gum wall downtown, neither did I. But I made him pose for a photo in front of it nevertheless, something I never did when I lived there. He's looking back at the camera with a big, open mouthed smile, his eyebrows knit in confusion, long strings of gum melting in the background.  

Today I wanted to share just a few of my photos from the Washington State Ferries that took us out to the islands. They were my favorite part of the trip because when I stand at the rail and look down at the water, when the conditions are just right and the boat is rocking back and forth- and it takes a gail to really rock a ferry boat- I feel like my body evaporates and all I can sense is cold wind, salt spray and speed. Something is always hurting in my body, usually my eyes or my stomach or my head, so it's nice to go without a body for a few minutes.  

So to answer my own prompt, here's how I am doing: dazzled a little bit to be back, relieved that another plane ride has come and gone without incident, slightly concerned about a chemistry test coming up involving the hydrolysis of Esters, and wondering if I should be giving my wedding a little more attention. Also, drinking a glass of water and looking over photos, thinking to myself what a city! So many blues and evergreens. What a splendid city. 

Here are the photos from the ferries. I used to belong inside this landscape but I erased myself from it two years ago. It's always feels a little funny to be back.

I miss you! Tell me how you are and I will randomly choose a winner  from the comments. Check back for more posts and photos from our trip back home. See you again very soon!

The Sheep

follow along on instagram @melinadream

It's been beautiful these last days of winter, sunny and expansive. Daffodils, little yawning purple crocuses, trees filled with chattering birds. At the grocery store as I stand in line with two grapefruits and a bag of coffee- Mountain Air Roaster's Daymaker Blend- I exchange those spring-time pleasantries with strangers- looks like it's here to stay, sure hope so. On my daily commute to school I ride with the windows open, warm air roaring in. It's a nice time, filled with biking and science classes and writing assignments, long hours alone to get my work done and the occasional flurry of wedding planning.

But there's this little problem of not having enough long hours, of being a chronically slow writer with an enormous fear of failure and confidence that drains instead of grows with each article, and it's making me throw up. It's not that I have more to do or less time than anyone else, far from it, it's just that I have a severe and very physical case of anxiety that arrives glittering at the doorstep just as life starts to get really interesting.

I have perhaps gotten myself a bit overexcited in the last few weeks. School is time consuming and sometimes feels poignantly pointless since I've decided not to pursuit nursing for now. Work is getting suddenly and awesomely demanding, just like I wanted it to be.  Then I had a birthday party and my friend Nell brought over an enormous coconut cake that she had baked. It looked just like a sheep, and when I saw it I felt so happy I nearly passed out. I really got wound up over that cake.

Well it wasn't the cake (yes it was it was four layers and filled with pastry cream so it was, it was the cake) so much as having friends like Nell who are willing to bake you a sheep and then balance it in their lap as they drive it across town to your house. If you take into account how busy we all are, all the deadlines and demands and how intentional we must be with our spare time, things like that just seem extraordinarily and almost confoundingly nice.

For the party, Nell also made five pizzas and her husband Josh brought over their entire fancy bar, complete with liquor and bitters and silver tools and a table to set it out on. He stationed himself on the screened-in porch and fixed cocktails all night, shaken and violet-hued and served over cracked ice.

And Kelli did it again, came over and whipped up a party at my house after 3 straight nights working on the pulmonary floor. She brought ice cream and cheesecake, we made lasagna and started talking a mile a minute and drinking New Belgium Fat Tires that go down awfully easy, it turns out.

That's when things started to speed up a bit on my birthday, a big rush of spring air flooding through the door, Pauline and Lee arriving with a baby dressed in a tiny tuxedo, carrying strawberry pie and something called a chocolate infinity pie, and all of a sudden there were just pies everywhere and also flowers- people kept bringing flowers through the front doors and Dave would take them and stick them in mason jars until we ran out and had to double them up.

Then my cousin came with a bottle of white champagne and my future in-laws with red wine and French chocolate, and then I was in my bedroom wearing my wedding dress as some of my girlfriends and my friend Daniel, who I'd inexplicably dragged into the room with them, were telling me how beautiful it was and wasn't that sash the perfect shade of blue and shouldn't I set that purple drink down?

That was the night I stopped sleeping. And I'm telling you all about my friends who show up with food and cake and wonderful things and all the lovely exuberance of my life lately not to brag, not to seem over the top, but because my delicate little constitution cannot decipher between good stress and terrible stress. So I lay awake that night, the first night of my third decade, with a gnawing stomach ache, and finally drifted into a restless sleep around 3am. "I'm like a little kid who gets too excited about their birthday party and goes nuts," I whispered to David the next morning.

Obviously, it's not just having a birthday and a lot of nice friends. My job offered me 15 extra articles for this month at the last possible moment. They are all destination articles about Boone, the little Appalachian mountain town nearly two hours away, so I have to skip some classes and drive up there for a few days. I'm so grateful to get new assignments and so scared of falling behind in school. I stayed behind in my microbiology lab last week to work on a gram stain, so simple but I'm useless with my hands, and the morose professor exclaimed, "How is it possible that you can't do this yet?" Kind of a jackass move but the thing is, I agree with him.

Some writers stay up all night, scribbling away like madmen- lamplight, pots of coffee, sheets of paper piling up like snow around them. It's all very romantic sounding and I think it's a big lie. At least, it's not the way I work. Coffee after 1pm makes my stomach pull terrible tricks on me. Around 10pm my brain shuts down its capacity to do anything productive and dives right on into panic mode. So I put on my pajamas and try to mollify it by swallowing a powerful and prescribed hypnotic. This will knock me out until 2am or so, at which point my eyes spring open and I'm wide awake, my stomach a hard knot.

I've learned that the best thing to do at this point is to crawl out of bed into the living room and try to read a book on the couch. Other times I watch old episodes of Friends. I've come to associate Jennifer Anniston with a dark, quiet house and mild nausea. Some nights I'm able to will myself back to sleep and other nights I can't.

One day this past week, David came home from work and suggested we go down to the Ledges on the French Broad to do a paddling workout. I had that stupid stomach ache, the one that does not go away, but I figured some exercise and time on the river would be good for me. And it was, paddling with just a PFD and no dry top, skin to wind, sun beating down. But then after two attainments a wave of clenching pain hit with such force that I had to run into the woods and throw up as a group of kayakers enjoyed a BBQ picnic to my left.

I'm such a treat these days.

It will subside though, it will get better soon. The insomnia eventually breaks like a fever and the stomach ache retreats. After thirty lucky, light-shattering and anxiety-riddled spins around the sun I've come to learn the patterns. I hope it will get better before we go to Seattle in a week but I'm not counting on it. Although that's not the worst thing. If I showed up back in that city without a touch of neurosis, without talking too much and too fast and losing my keys and curling up on friends couches with a headache, I don't think anyone would recognize me.

photo book: Dupont

follow the wilder coast on instagram: @melinadream

I began the last week of my 20's with a puncture wound- a dog bite to the middle finger of my right hand. It was not the dog's fault. I was being absentminded and I put my hand in its mouth as it was chewing on a stick. I was absorbed in editing fake sunlight into a picture I'd just taken of myself and I wasn't looking. So there you go. I'm not proud.

The next day I sprained my left wrist in a mountain biking accident. Now I walk around with both hands bandaged and hovering in space ahead of me so I don't knock them against anything. I like to think I look as pathetically endearing as those koala bears with the burned paws, the ones that the people of Australia knit mittens for. I'm typing with my nose.

I'm supposed to spend this week reflecting on the last ten years of my life- my youth, my young adulthood. I know it's a been a big decade for me and for the whole world, but for some reason the only things that come to mind is this: Lance Armstrong was lying- lying!- and Kentucky Fried Chicken made that sandwich with fried chicken breasts in place of bread.

What a world.

But anyway.

It's raining now, and the air has that soft, buoyant quality of spring. The dog is on the back porch getting the whole neighborhood riled up. There's a yapper in the yard of every house on this dead end street, sulking behind chicken wire fences, lolling in the dead, straw-colored grass. When one gets going they all start going.

It may be safe to say that winter has drained away from here. We're spending more and more time outside in the sunlight- the real sunlight, not the fake kind that leads to dog bites. There has been a lot of the everyday type of things, dishes and chiral carbons, turbo tax and struggling to get to sleep, virulence factors and lectures and laundry, and all the while the days are get warmer and lighter and longer. 

We spent the weekend biking out at Dupont, exploring waterfalls and finding the most enormous brewery on the planet. We spent the weekend the way I spent the last ten years: outside and energetic, falling down hard on rock, walking the steep sections, crossing cold rivers, getting worn out on the climbs, falling asleep in the car on the way home. Just me and the person I spent ten years looking for.

Forgive me for being so sentimental, but it's the truth. Cut me some slack, I'm turning thirty. And I'm wounded. Dog bite. Wrist. 

***

This week, I wrote my favorite article yet- What Your Post Adventure Beer Says About You. For the record, I'm a Twin Leaf Juicy Fruit with a penchant for following Wicked Weed Oblivion Sour Reds into terribly dangerous situations, and I've frequently and against my better judgement fallen in love with PBRs.

Speaking of PBRs, I also wrote this Quick and Dirty Guide to Whitewater Paddling in Asheville.

Also, a little number on How to Spend a Snow Day in Asheville, which was poorly timed, since we're not going to have one of those for another year.

By the way- if you read everything I've ever written on the internet, you win your own jet.

****

And now for the winner of last week's mystery prize. Thank you for sharing your beautiful things. Those comments read like a big bright bouquet in the center of the kitchen table. 

 Stephanie Abdon said...

I celebrated a special occasion with someone I love dearly who loves me back. It's not a romance...but a very nice relationship that sustains me and brings me joy. And I am absolutely amazed and happy to have it (and him) in my life.

Congratulations Stephanie! I have a friend like that. I had to leave him in Seattle and it breaks my heart. I'm so glad you got to celebrate with yours. A donation will be made in your name to help Maggie over at The Rural Roost get one step closer to bringing home a diabetes alert dog for her little boy. Also, something sweet will be dropped in the mail for you as well. Email thewildercoast@gmail.com and we'll get you all sorted. 

I'll see you back here soon, everyone. I hope you have a wonderful week. I hope your snow melts.

Cake and Sledding at David's!

My fiance, David, is impossible to buy for. His favorite things in the world are unusual and indefinable items of clothing that his best friend, Charles, buys for him in India. So for his 29th birthday, which was last Wednesday, I bought him an experience: a sixty minute soak in a Sensory Deprivation Tank. He also got a big snowstorm. I'd call the whole evening a win, although it almost wasn't.

The previous day, I'd battered away at the keyboard and got all three of my articles finished so that I could spend Dave's birthday reading a chapter of chemistry and making a big pot of chili. I'd invited a few friends to come over around seven and bought one sheet of wrapping paper with cars on it to wrap a book his brother had sent. When it comes to cooking and cleaning and decorating I'm useless, hopeless, just horribly untalented, and David knows that and loves me anyway, although he did gingerly suggest that we all go out to a restaurant. But we have a House now and I'm going to be a Wife so I insisted on hosting. I was going to make cornbread. To go with the chili. And assemble a makeshift chip n' dip with a collection of small bowls and a cutting board.

I went to the grocery store first, which was a mad house because a snowstorm was coming and people were wrenching bread out of each other's hands and clambering down the dairy aisle balancing milk on their heads because their hands were full of other milk. After that I went to the dollar store to buy one of those foil Happy Birthday banners, and yes I know David is not seven, but it still felt necessary. I ran a few more errands and bought daisies and inched through the West Asheville traffic which, before a 'snow event', can rival Seattle's.

When I got home, I spread everything out on the kitchen table, checked the clock, and congratulated myself for timing everything so perfectly. Then my editor called and asked where the rest of the twelve articles were that I'd promised to write. Suddenly my blood went cold and my face got hot and I realized I'd confused two different assignments and was about 12,000 words short of finishing my work that had been due six hours ago.

When it comes to estimating the amount of things that one can accomplish in a given amount of time, I can be straight up delusional. But even I understood that I wasn't going to write my articles and make dinner happen and straighten up the house and hang the little banner I'd bought in four hours.

Now, I don't think I would get fired if I didn't do the work but I also wouldn't get paid, and that would present its own set of problems.

So I pushed aside the daisies and the little cans of poblano peppers, opened up the computer and started typing. A little stream of tears splashed down onto the keyboard as I imagined our guests arriving and finding me melted into a pool of incompetence on the floor surrounded by onions.

A few minutes of this nonsense went by and there was a knock and the dog bolted from her bed and went careening toward the door. There stood my friend Kelli, holding a sled that she had borrowed and was there to return. She took a look at me all slouched and pathetic, then looked passed me at the house torn apart and the table cluttered with a deconstructed birthday meal still in a cans and boxes, and she said, "I'll do it."

I didn't even ask.

And she did everything, she cooked the double recipe of chili and made two batches of cornbread, she set out the cakes and put the daisies into a jar and cleaned the kitchen. Then she left. She had plans to see a movie. She didn't even eat anything, just said, "Oh, it's no problem," and breezed out the door as I stood there with my jaw hanging open like an idiot.

I finished the writing, and by the time Dave's friends arrived at seven everything looked all polished and effortless. Charles came down all the way from Boone to surprise him, even though he was sick and feverish and sat on the couch with glassy eyes not saying a word. His girlfriend Sarah and their little girl Charli dragged me to the bathroom and made me put on my wedding dress and they fawned over me and Sarah cried and Charli begged me to let her braid my hair all evening long.

Meanwhile, everybody was eating the chili and telling me how delicious it was, and what was the secret ingredient? Poblano Peppers, I lied. Outside the snow was falling thick and heavy, and we bundled up and went sledding with the neighbors on our steep, curving dead end road. By then I was happy I'd hung up that little-kid birthday banner because the whole night started to feel like those fabulous little kid birthday parties, you know, "Cake and Sledding at David's!" or whatever, except that when we found out that school had been cancelled for the next day we all took a shot of Vermont gin.

The snow fell all night long, and when we woke up the next morning, the town was muffled and empty and soft. Everybody scrambled to go skiing except me, because I needed to crack open the chemistry text book which I had yet to do this semester, and I still haven't, because I spent the day just walking around the streets looking at the snow and thinking about all the the nice things that have been happening lately. Then I got the flu.

And here is where we transition into Mystery Prize Monday! This week, tell me (tell all of us) something beautiful that has happened to you lately. You may interpret beautiful in any way you'd like. Please, remember my flu status, propped up in bed with a headache, watching the sunlight creep across the wall during the infinitely long and aching day. Tell me something really lovely, so I can pretend for a moment that your life is my life.

This is a very important Mystery Prize. My friend Maggie from Washington state is raising money to buy her little boy a diabetes alert dog. The fact that a dog can be smart enough to detect fluctuating blood sugar levels is astounding. You can find out more about Maggie, Angus and their efforts to bring home Bruce here.

This week, the winner of the mystery prize, chosen randomly from amongst the comments, will receive a letter, a little something sweet in the mail, and a donation in their name to Angus and Bruce. As always, thank you for reading, thank you for commenting, thank you for everything.

Helium

Thanks this week to Margo!!

And as for me.

This morning we woke to a few inches of snow that fell stealth and silent in the middle of the night. School was cancelled again but the bakery was open, so we took the dog into town to get a cup of coffee. She loves running circles through the snow and collecting a little beard of it under her chin.

Up the road we passed three girls in their early twenties building a snowman on the front lawn of a little rundown house. They had dressed him in denim and eye glasses and were currently engaged in a debate over what medium to use for his facial hair. They'd been at it for a while and seemed to be having such a good time.

The four of them, the three girls and their snow friend, they reminded me of something. That sweet time after college, before you've been peeled off and sealed in with your partner and your family. That time in life where your friends are your family. You brighten up your shabby house with collages and flower pots and hanging sarongs, work in bookstores and coffee houses and take care of rich people's children, you complain and commiserate, your hangovers aren't so entirely ferocious, and you can do things that seem unfathomable now, like sit with your friend while she's getting her hair cut and flip through a magazine, totally unconcerned about all the other things you should be doing.

Lately, even when I'm working hard at one thing, all the other things I have to do hang over my head like a cartoon storm cloud. It's a terrible trick of the imagination to be haunted by this cloud, to feel lazy even when you're working all the time.

follow along on Instagram: @melinadream

School is feeling a bit fractured from all the ice and cancellations, but as far as I can tell I'm doing just fine. Good enough, anyways. I'd say a little bit of my motivation dissolved on the day the nursing school application was due and I didn't apply. My mom tells me that's okay, because I was becoming obsessive over test scores and that's not the best side of me.

The morose professor continues to show up twice a week in a complete whirlwind, throwing his head on his desk and muttering, "Victim of circumstance! Victim of circumstance!" He said that the first day that he was late, when his dog got loose and had to be chased down, and apparently he liked the sound of it because now he says it all the time.

My organic chemistry professor is the sweetest woman I've ever met. She looks like she just stepped off the front of a box of pancake mix. She's always calling our class "a group of lovely, beautiful people," and she goes on sublime tangents to help us remember our functional groups. "COOH means carboxylic acid," she'll say in a deep Mississippi drawl. "I can just picture that rascal cat Sylvester dippin little Tweety Bird's feet into a bucket of acid and what does that little bird say? COOH!" And she'll pause, her eyes moist, and say, "I just love Looney Tunes."

My wedding dress arrived at the shop and I got to try it on, which was exciting. Except It didn't fit anything like the original one did. I had to hold it up, gathering big handfuls of satin as I looked at myself in the mirror, confused. "Oh honey, it's just cause you're so tiny!" Squealed the seamstress. She yanked back a few inches from waistline. "We'll just pin it here and here. And honey? Have you given a thought to some extra hi-yah in the bosom? A little push-up?"

To be honest, not since I was fourteen have I been worried about needing an extra hi-yah in the bosom. But I spun around and sang out, "I'll take it!" without a second's hesitation. After all, everyone keeps telling me it's My Big Day.

So things are going well. I bought a pink Calla Lilly and it lives on the kitchen table, growing a withering brown around the leaves. Dave acquired a mountain bike and on the random warm days that stitch together this frenetic Southern winter, we'll go out riding. "You go faster than I thought!" He said once as we caught our breath the end of a winding downhill at Bent Creek. I glowed for the rest of the week.

I came home late the other night, and David was lying on the couch, watching animals on TV and holding the sleeping dog on one arm. "What are you watching?" I asked.

"Otters," he said, and I felt something like a tidal wave of affection hit me. For him, for the napping dog. For our little house with the blue and gray kitchen that looks like an Airstream trailer and the banner of cards and letters that we use as decoration. For the dying pink Lilly and the foil corpse of the the Valentines Day Balloon he bought me, now hovering over the living room floor with its last gasp of helium.

So as for me, it's a nice time. There's plenty of anxiety; I worry about the writing fizzling out, about my shoulders not being sculpted by my wedding day. I worry about my children, who are not here yet, but who are already starving because their mom didn't go to nursing school like she should have.

All of that is to be expected.  When it comes down to the day by day, minute by minute side of life, this is a nice time. This is a good winter.

If you're local, or have lots of time on your hands, check out my recent article on Rootsrated:

Race to the Taps in Asheville
Active Valentines Activities
An interview with the man who wrote the book on Hickory Nut Gorge State Park
Six reasons to attend Bike Love
How real is reality TV? An interview with Scott McCleskey from Ultimate Survival Alaska

Your childhood fantasy, out of control (Response Letter 2)

When I asked you how you were doing, you really told me. And I had to respond. 

Dear us,

So you lost $450 in the parking lot the other day. The same $450 dollars that you'd dutifully tried to deposit, but the bank teller informed you that they don't take cash. (We all wonder which bank you go to, and why, and what?) That surely is a misfortune but here's what I'm thinking: maybe the person who found your money, who tripped over the envelope on the blacktop as she ran back into work, was the woman from the bridal shop. The woman who sprinted after me with the paper heart in her hand. And I don't know what her story is, but it's possible that she really needed that money, I mean really needed it. More than any of us, which is certainly hard to fathom.

That wasn't supposed to make you feel better- that's a whole lot of money to lose- but I'm just thinking that's probably what happened.

But anyway, a lot of us are feeling it lately. The snow is piling up over the doorway, not the doorstep the doorway, and we're stuck in the house with the kids and the legos, and the boss is either disorganized as hell or a sociopath, we're not sure which, but it's starting to get to us. And the other night at work everybody tried to die all at once. And if they weren't dying they were escaping from their beds and you had to either pull them back or push them down, depending.

Now, for you who recently moved into a tiny village in the interior of Alaska, let me tell you something. When my family moved up to North Pomfret Vermont, a place that won't consider you a local unless six generations of family preceded you, everybody was so mean to my mother. My kind, sweet, funny mom- they never did warm up. I can't explain it and just thinking about it makes me want to kick. Tiny villages are not always friendly, so try not to take it personally. Although I did.

But of all that, the daily suffers, just remember this: Plot Twist! The greatest advice that one of us came up with, and it wasn't me. You're not stuck, you're not disappointed, you didn't fail- there's just been a change of action that nobody quite saw coming. A real cliffhanger, and if only we were still kids reading under the quilt with a flashlight, because back then we loved a good plot twist, savored it in fact. It kept us up all night, but not in the way that it does now.

Of course, there are those things of a considerably greater magnitude. You don't always like your husband. You're contemplating divorce. The cancer has returned. Run of the mill gates of hell kind of stuff. How was it that you described how you're feeling? Frighten and frozen. An alliteration. Maybe standing in the shower screaming plot twist into a bar of soap isn't something you can really see yourself doing right now. We'll whisper it for you instead. Fix yourself a martini and we will too.

But it's not all ice and steel. Somewhere in coastal Carolina, a daughter is leaning her head on your shoulder. It doesn't matter if she's not your daughter; she's somebody's daughter and for this moment you are the haven she has chosen. You got engaged. You booked your trip to the Arctic circle to see the Northern lights. And up in Alaska, insulated under one reasonable foot of fluffy snow, you're in your new house with a baby's foot lodged in between your ribs from the inside and you've never been happier.

And speaking of- you with your second child on the way? You're going to have a lovely new baby soon, even if for now it feels like a strictly head in the toilet sort of affair. Hyperemesis gravidarum, a mouthful, but look at it this way: you'll have something to discuss with the Princess of England, should you one day run into her over a plate of cold cuts and small sandwiches.

Finally, for the people of Boston, Massachusetts, my home town. You've been hurled into some futuristic snowscape, something that feels like your greatest childhood fantasy overblown and out of control. Something Russian. Just remember, you won't always be a mouse tunneling through the streets. I know it feels impossible, but in a few short months that whole place will explode into nice green grass. Until then, maybe a book and a bath.

Love,
Melina, and everybody else

PS. I'm sorry your plane didn't take off and you couldn't go back home. They told you the plane had 'weight and balance issues'?

Don't we all?

join us on Instagram @melinadream

Give it a Rest, D'angelo (Response Letter 1)

Check out my article on three active outdoors valentines dates (and one anti-valentines excursion for the bitter, the heartbroken, or the just not feeling it.)

I can't write much of anything until I respond to you, because when I asked 'how are you doing' you really told me.

Here is the first letter to all of us. Not the last as I have more ground to cover.

Dear us,

I'm sorry they stole your wallet and used it to buy shower gel, but in a way it's hilarious, something you'll talk about at dinner parties. 'What sort of people shop at Bath and Body Works?' you'll ask, and after a moment's silence you'll stand up and shout- Criminals! Criminals, that's who!

With regards to your glorious moments, it does not concern me that they are tiny, most glory comes  small like that. I wish there was a special bank where you could put the glory specks and wait for them to accumulate into something really sparkling. Something that burns the barn down. But there's not so just try to enjoy them.

And that situation, with the fired locomotive, that sounds difficult. But the union will give em' hell, that's what they always do in the movies, and if you want to stay in the mountains then just stay, you'll figure it out. You'll build a little castle out of cardboard and boil shoes for dinner, if it comes to that, and it won't come to that, although I am speaking as someone who once gnawed on a belt to test for flavor. Cause it almost did come to that.

And then it didn't.

You with three kids at home and that empty feeling growing inside, you know my own mother had that and she was at work half her life, so maybe it's just something that's in all of us. Maybe give it a name? I named my empty place D'angelo, and when it whines and wants more I say, "Give it a rest, D'angelo, I'm doing my best." Aches and emptiness do not like to be named because that makes them finite, which they are, but they'd rather have you thinking they are something else. So, that's my advice for you.

Your optimism does not make us sick, we rather like to see that spunk in you since you've been down for so long. But I can't believe you're at a spin class at 5:30 am, see- that does make me sick. But I'm happy for you anyway, I'm just jealous.

You with the perma-grin, the pockets of stress, the whirlwind: we love you because you make it all sound like beat poetry. When my bad week becomes an actual whirlwind and not just a series of days slapping together, it makes me feel like a force. Like something out of a batman picture.

What really gets to me though is what you've told us about your dog. This idea of her snout on your palm, your whispering, how she can smell you but nothing else. When you go to walk her and there isn't anyone there to walk anymore, that hurts worse than stepping on a lego, doesn't it? If I haven't been there yet, just give me some time, because that's the horrible promise you bring home with a dog.

And yes, most of us are ready for spring. Have a drink of water while you wait and you won't be so thirsty but I hear you, it's agitating, waiting for dead things to resurrect. Less so if you're living in the Southwest under the blue skies with your heart balloon lifting, more so if your head is drooped over a desk littered with the IUPAC nomenclature systems.

So the novel has been keeping you up again? That sounds romantic but I know it's not, it doesn't matter the source, insomnia is insomnia, fidgety and unfair. You're leaving the job and moving, along with the kids and dogs, of course you're scared shitless. Now that should keep you up at night. But try and hold onto that fear a little, because everything will be fine, the fear will go away, and so often it's replaced by...how did you describe it? "Meh." Maybe it's a February feeling. Meh.

Of course if you just moved to Maine you're not Meh, you're snowed in and happy. Maine is where we all could live if we could, so do us a favor and enjoy it. And if you're truly unhappy with Moses Lake, Washington, well- maybe you could try Maine.

Some of us are so happy and you can tell just by the punctuation, like we're celebrating our ten year anniversary of the day we met and in six weeks we'll celebrate our five year anniversary of marriage and until then it's all pizza and champagne! Some of us are comfortable and predictable and running our tongues over new metal in the mouth. You'll get used to it. We all did.

But many of us are bruised (we fell off the treadmill) and we are mushrooms, but hopeful mushrooms, because after we get the apartment with the bigger windows who knows, maybe we'll grow into something kinda lovely, like moss. Something way better then mushrooms, anyway.

Much love,

Melina, and everybody else.

****

But who won the mystery prize? Well now I can tell you.

The winner is....

 b said...

Things are not going the best. There have been some shake ups at work, and I'm feeling unsettled about it. It's February and our yard is covered with ice and snow. I'm ready for spring and sunshine.

February 10, 2015 at 8:51 AM

 

B, I'm sorry you're feeling unsettled, maybe I can help. Email thewildercoast@gmail.com and we'll get you sorted, and congratulations! You're a winner!

so winded, so sincere

Thank you this week to Sarah, for keeping me warm.

I bought my wedding dress last week. It took 45 minutes. I should have gone with my best friend, Lisa, but she just left for Vanuatu for two years with the Peace Corps so I went by myself. When I found my dress, simple and satin and on the clearance rack for $299, the girls at the shop made me ring a bell. I was supposed to make a wish on my dress so I did. Then, as I was walking through the parking lot back to my car, one of them came sprinting after me. "WAIT! You forgot this!" Breathlessly, she thrust a paper heart at me, the same one that had been hanging on the door of my changing room. It had my name written on it in sharpie. "You'll want this for your memory book!"

The girl was so winded and so sincere that I took the heart, pressed it carefully into the pages of my complimentary Bridal Party Look Book, and hugged her. There's just something about the women who work in those dress shops. They seem to care about you, not only about finding your dress but about you, and I don't care that they're paid to do it, I love them for it.

of course this is not my dress!

When I got home, I skimmed through the complimentary Bridal Party Look Book. Here's a tip, I read. Ask your bridesmaids to show up on The Big Day with dewey skin and a pastel eye.

I wondered what would happen if I told my sister she needed a pastel eye. The world would tremble, certainly. When I called her to announce my engagement, it was my brother in law, Brooks, who answered the phone. He loves David, especially loves having him around during the holidays, so he was thrilled and said so, while from the background I heard Anna shout, "I'M NOT WEARING ANY BULLSHIT DRESS!"

Anna is my maid of honor and my cousin is my bridesmaid. Lisa should be in my bridal party but, as I made mention, she is long gone, living in a string of islands whose only claim to fame, as far as I can tell, is having the world's only underwater post office. Before she left she begged me to delay my wedding until February of 2017. When I declined, she sent me some leaflets on Vanuatu destination weddings. I reminded her that father Coogan doesn't like water. And then she left.

I hadn't really noticed that she was gone, she lives 3,000 miles away in Seattle anyway, until last Friday in biology lab. The one that begins at 8:00 in the morning, and I can't think of anything more cruel. On this particular lab, the morose professor was standing in front of the class making an analogy about legos and organic molecules when he paused, held up a hand, and said, "Wait a second now- I just want to make sure that all the ladies in the class know what a Lego is."

Let me make something clear- I love it when he does this, when he hands me a pearl like this one and I can run home and tell Dave about it over dinner, then call up Lisa as I'm walking the dog and we can laugh and she'll say, "Oh Lina, I still don't understand why you moved."

Follow along on Instagram @melinadream

But when I called her the phone number didn't work any more. So I just walked up the street with the dog in silence, thinking about one particular time we had together. We played on the same ultimate team for years and years in college. We were both captains. The practices were always late at night, because that was the only time we could rent the fields, and afterwards we'd be soaked to the bone and freezing cold. It really does rain a lot in Seattle.

Sometimes, to warm up afterwards, we'd run a hot bath and put on our bikinis and soak together. We did this a lot after I moved into a house that had one of those extra large tubs with jets. One time, we decided to put bubble bath in the tub and then turn the jets on, just to see what would happen.

Well, here's what happened. The jets puffed up the bubbles into foam: thick, heavy, luscious foam like the kind from Harry Potter when he takes that incredible bath. It was awesome. But then, after we had drained the tub of water, the foam remained, a foot deep. We tried adding water, but that only made more foam. It was obvious that the foam was not going anywhere and we were in a lot of trouble.

We thought for a while about what to do. We were both scared of my roommates at the time, not that they weren't lovely people, but they were the type to know better than to air-jet a bubble bath. I suggested getting a pail or a pot and scooping the foam out of the tub and emptying it into the yard, but we did not want to go into the kitchen and arouse suspicion. Besides, it would have taken so many trips!

In the end, we were able to get rid of the bubbles by flushing them down the toilet and hammering the rest with a direct shower stream. It took so many flushes, in fact that may be why Lisa ended up joining the Peace Corps, to assuage her guilt of so much water wasted. Me, I'm still living with mine.

It's been a few weeks since the last Mystery Prize Monday. If you have forgotten, I give you a prompt and you leave a comment. I read and enjoy every comment, but I must randomly choose just one to win the Mystery Prize, which I will then send to your doorstep.

This prompt is very simple but also very sincere. (Picture me, running after you in a parking lot, a scrap of paper in my hand for your Memory Book.) Just tell me how things are going. Today. Or lately. It's been a little while and I really want to know. Tell me how you're doing. And also, if someone, anyone, could please tell me what a Lego is.

the dusting

Thanks this week to Sarah, for chocolate.

It snowed here. Just the tiniest bit. I'm jealous of my mother up in Boston because I love snow storms, the big ones, they turn regular cities full of regular people into cities filled with hyper children. I think about dad in the drafty house in Vermont, alone during the week when my mother's at work. I picture him down in the kitchen, making his tea and squinting out the window as fat white flakes swallow the road. He might consider the view for a few moments, VPR classical on the radio, before slumping back up the stairs to his office, hoisting up his pants with one hand so he doesn't step on the cuffs, the tea cup rattling in the saucer. He'll be stuck for a few days.

Here in Asheville we only got a little, a dusting we'd call it back home, but down south it was enough to let the kids out of school early, enough to make the bread vanish off of the shelves.

My photographer friend wanted to shoot bikes in the snow, and the great jaws of Asheville-Buncombe Technical Community College Chem 132 Organic and Biochemistry Laboratory had just released me with a few hours to spare. We went over to Richmond Hill and rode through a forest that looked just like a backdrop for the Royal Ballet.

Derek DiLuzio Photography

That was a cold and slippery and magnificent break from the routine.

The routine that is school (still), me and grinning Billy and the rest of the class memorizing tables of hydronium ion concentrations and streaking E.coli across petri dishes. I have a morose and chaotically unorganized professor, one who likes to talk about famous molecular biologists in history having sex with each other. "Doing it," he calls it. He'll pull up an illustration of a cloaked man peering into a microscope and say, "Look at that guy. He just can't wait to get to a dinner party with some other scientists and then they're all going to do it." Then he'll pause for a moment, finding enormous enjoyment in the idea, if enjoyment is really the right word, while the whole class sits in silence and looks at him, expectantly.

That professor has been late to every class except one, when he didn't show up at all. A terrible car accident on I-26 caused a horrific back up that he was stuck in it, him and the rest of the school. Almost nobody made it to class that day, including me, although I had a different reason. I was shuttling around my uncle who lives in Caracas and plays Oboe in the Venezuelan National Orchestra. My uncle was in town because he's on a US tour with the Mexican National Orchestra (he's moonlighting) and one day after a particularly frustrating performance, he pulled off his bow tie with such force that it ripped in half, so I had to take him to buy another. A white bow tie.

I wasn't caught in the traffic jam but I did see it from an overpass; a long snake of cars, unmoving, and a little squad of policemen zipping around shaking flags at them, even though they had no where to go. A friend of mine said he witnessed the accident. He said a flatbed truck did a couple of flips and then the driver flew out of the window and his guts 'sort of flopped out' onto the road.

That's the thing, that shit can happen. And we just plod along as if it can't. But if I think about that too much then I'll be up all night with my stomach clenched in on itself like a prune. That actually happened to me the other night. I kept watching those little ASMR videos of a girl melting soap and sorting legos, but they didn't do the trick. I couldn't fall asleep, nor could I get my stomach to release, so when morning finally came I just sat up, the way vampires sit straight up in their coffins. Time to start another day even though I never ended the last one.

I decided not to apply to nursing school this year, even though I'm finally wrapping up the prerequisites. Roots has offered me a few more assignments and I'm going to try and write full time. I will apply to the program in a few years, but David assured me that for now, we will have enough money to keep food on the table and a house to put the table in. It still feels like a risk. "I'm rolling the dice!" I crooned, on the day the application was due and I had not done it. He responded, "You're not really rolling anything."

Which leads me to our next decision, an obvious one, to get married this summer and not the next. Two weeks ago David and I sat on the porch, I made mimosas, and we had this long and very adult conversation about not rushing things, and using the next year and half to Celebrate and Self Reflect, and we felt very smug and satisfied with how mature we were. Until the next day when we both realized we wanted to get married and we wanted to have a party as soon as possible and to hell with the rest.

There was an opening for one weekend at a little Vermont inn and we snatched it up. So now while grinning Billy is dutifully jotting down the Seven Strong Acids and flashing me his brilliant metal smile every few minutes, I'm scribbling little notes like Steak or Chicken? and striking up deals with God in my head, you know the type, Hey, if you can just keep everyone alive and safe, forever, but especially until after my wedding, I promise I'll turn into that type of person who traps spiders in cups and brings them outside. I feel like it should mean more from me, being an atheist. I don't pray often, mostly airplanes and family events, so when I do it should count.

Flowers- Colleen? I write in the margin of my notebook. Cake- no matter. Boxed? And then I pause, and scribble down: Call mom. Remind her to wear seatbelt. At least, when a city is buried in snow, nobody is on the roads. Still- and I'm thinking about the eviscerated man and how he backed up traffic for miles- still, it's worth a call.

Come along. Follow us on Instagram @melinadream

sapphire

One winter morning a few years back, I was walking with the dog on the foggy shores of the Puget Sound. We were alone and I was wearing a teal raincoat and drinking Cafe Fiore espresso. The dog was running like mad on the empty beach, barreling towards the sea gulls and crows perched on driftwood, sending them into the air in a burst of wings and noise.

I stopped when I found a piece of blue sea glass lying on the cold sand, just beyond the waves' reach. I stooped to pick it up and then studied it, rubbing it between my thumb and forefinger like a worry stone. It occurred to me, for some reason, that blue glass could make one lucky in love. The idea just landed in my head like a bird.

If blue glass brings good luck in love, what then will a blue gemstone bring? 

You can't know exactly until you're in it. So when I saw the dog bounding towards me on a bright, cobalt day in the Blue Ridge Mountains with a sapphire ring tied to her collar, I studied it the way I did the sea glass that morning on the beach. I held it up against the sun.  

 And then I said Yes. Yes, let's find out. 

blue fog

taking your cheerful suggestions: instagram @melinadream

You all were enormously helpful this past week with your suggestions on how to cheer up the dismal winter days. I know that some of you live up North or up high and you're treated to powder snow and boiled blue skies- not so much here. In the Blue Ridge, we've been immersed in fog and rain for five days straight; I swear I was almost hit by a runaway train. 

I wrote this article about where to go to keep your spirits up in Asheville. 

I've said this before, but after a decade in Seattle, I'm conditioned to think that the rain will be with us, stubborn at the doorstep, until late spring. But it doesn't work like that here: today the sun appeared, it was a bright, crisp 30 degrees, and I stood outside between biology lab and chemistry and I blinked. After school was out for the day, I put on my running shoes and did a loping, have hearted trot up to town, then treated my bewildered muscles to a hot bath, dark beer and a book. (Thank you Alice, perfect medicine.)

Lori, I found myself a vial of liquid Vitamin D, Mariel and Carolyn I keep my copy of Yes Please! next to my bed, stacked on top of Bossy Pants and Mindy Kaling's book.  Marie and Carolina I took your advice and started planning my March trip to Seattle, when the cherry blossoms will be in bloom and I can visit the islands and eat pho on Ballard Ave. 

Also, and you're going to want to pay attention to this, David and I came up with an invention. It's called Bed Cape. It's a big cape, multilayered, made of fleecy blankets that you wear around the house. When you want to nap, simply flop over- you're in bed! Dave added an attachable pillow like they have on life preservers to keep your head floating. He calls it the Patented Pillow Flop technology.

Brilliant. 

And now, the winner of this week's sunshine Mystery Prize!

 Erin Macauley said...

Reading these comments! No joke...we readers are some sunshine folks. I love it.
This year it's taking my boyfriend's ole lady beagle (14 this month) for a walk every day at lunch. LORD was it a nasty day today...but I found a break in the rain to run home and walk her the quarter mile? Half mile? that her hips will let her, and the grin on her face became my own.

January 12, 2015 at 5:46 PM

 

Congrats Erin! Hometeam demands that I walk her nightly - the nerve - but thank goodness, otherwise my evenings might be crushed under the meaninglessness of my favorite activity: picking up the house while The Office plays in the background, and I wish I were kidding. Erin, email thewildercoast@gmail.com and we'll get you all set up.

Thanks for the hints everyone, I'll see you soon. I've got some partnerships in the works, very excited for what's to come.