Notes from the Red Bird House

Me: For the zillionth year in a row, I work every other day the week of Christmas. Two days off together is apparently impossible. Friend: You are not old enough to have worked a zillion years. Me: Retail years are like dog years...only quadrupled.  ~~ I'm not a writer. Well, I write and if that was the minimum standard, I'd be a writer. To me, a writer is someone who gets paid to write. In my writing "career", I've been paid a sum total of $150. That's it. An entire decade and that's all I have to show. Thus far. I mean maybe one day I'll sell a book for more than I'll pay to produce it and actually - wait for it - make a profit. In the meantime, I work retail. I got the job in 2003 and intended to stay six months, maybe less. It was better than selling gym memberships on commission, but just barely. I took one promotion, then another. Before I could blink twice I was a manager. Then I dared to blink again and I wasn't a manager anym

 My very first first day of school, I went alone. No mom, no dad, just me. At the time, I guess, I didn’t think myself weird or even independent. It’s just what I wanted to do. And my mom let me. With a full forty-three years of perspective since that day, I realize that it couldn’t have been easy for her. I can’t recall if I took the bus or she dropped me off. For the record, I was the only lone wolf that day. Everyone else had a mom fawning over them (maybe a few dads were fawning but we are talking the early 70s so I’m skeptical) and drying tears. It wasn’t a seamless plan on my part. Teachers don’t pay attention to kids sans parents on the first day of kindergarten. Lost in the shuffle, I sat down on my lunch box (I think it was the Partridge Family – early 70s, remember?), elbow on knee, chin on fist, and waited. Before too long, someone noticed me. Mom probably got judged pretty harshly for placating such independence in a five year old, but, man, that day was seminal in m

I met my sister for the first time when I was somewhere north of forty and she was a couple days shy of fourteen years older. We knew each other as children - there are plenty of Easter pictures to prove it - but back then I was just a tyke hugging a pink bunny and she was an awkward teen in gratuitously colored plaid bell-bottoms. Those weekends had to be trying for her. Time with her dad and his new much younger family couldn't have been much fun. Add in the drive to LA from Vegas and I know I'd have pitched a fit at sixteen. Life went on. I grew up; my sister started a family and eventually got a PhD from UNLV. Our fourteen year age difference was a big deal through most of those years. After a Southwest road trip the Spring Break I turned eight, we saw each other just one time. I happened to be in Las Vegas for a tennis tournament my sophomore year of college and Pam, my then-brother-in-law, and toddler nephew (he recently turned thirty) came to watch. After that, nothing

In the past week, I've noticed something. Twice. Ok, it's not like it was some kind of revelation. No, on the contrary, I've seen it before, bemoaned it before. Maybe it's because the women in question are virtually my age. Maybe it's because I've found them both insanely attractive in the past. Maybe it's because I watched the movie and TV show they were featured in specifically because they were in the cast only to be disappointed. Not by anything even remotely related to their performances; they've always been good at what they do and still are. Sadly, I heard myself sigh as I shook my head ruefully. Man, that was totally unexpected. Though, in reality, that part is my fault. I probably should have seen it coming. What? Age? Come on, Stacee, you can't be that shallow. Hold on. I may be shallow but I'm not that shallow. There is nothing wrong with aging. Hell, I see it every time I look in the mirror. And, if I do say so myself, I'm bett

I thought of a zillion cool things to write about on my run this morning. Now, sitting here waiting for new brakes to be installed on my Ford Fiesta, I'm at a near loss. Near loss because words are actually getting written. Small victory. Bigger victory? That morning run. It's November in Austin, Texas. When I planned the run - my weekly long run - earlier in the week (It is half marathon season and long runs, at least for me, don't just happen .), the advanced forecast said it would be in the upper sixties around sunrise. I can deal with upper sixties. Sort of. Far from my favorite (Trivia - below 50F is my fave), but it wasn't a deal breaker. Mid eighties later in the day? Yeah, screw that. So, anywho, I scheduled the run (with myself) and went on with my week. I woke up early this morning, ate breakfast, watched last night's "Grey's Anatomy", and then checked my weather app. It was 74F with 92% humidity. Did I fail to mention my absolute abhorren

I wrote this a couple weeks back, on a Friday evening, as I prepared for the second of three legs on my journey to Stockholm, Sweden. I love to travel and I love going new places. Sort of. There is always a moment of uncertainty, just a moment, before I realize that it's going to be ok, That I'm going to be ok. What lies below IS that moment...in writing. ~ The chaos is coming. It always does. I’ll get used to it. Sort of. As best I can. I simultaneously like it and hate it. It unsettles me, makes my stomach churn, my head throb, my heart beat quicken. But it’s only a test. A test that I can pass. A test that inevitably brings out the best in me and makes me stronger. Perhaps one day it will make me more confident. Better able to deal, less likely to worry. I have to acknowledge it, though. Where I am with it. I can feel it creeping in. Houston is still the US, yet its newness to me is off-putting. I try to call it just another airport – I’ve been to quite a few over th

I'm not your typical travel blogger. Travel bloggers, in my experience, fall into two distinct categories - Luxuristas and Hostel Surfers. Luxuristas seek out high-end places, eat extravagantly, order bottles of wine that exceed the cost of my car payment. Think Michelin Stars, Conde Nast Traveler, spa treatments and you've got 'em pegged. They take a lot of pictures of food and write about the difficulty of obtaining a good Prosecco in while sailing around Corsica. Hostel Surfers are young, wealthy enough to not need jobs to pay back student loans but not pretentious enough (yet) to be a Luxurista (yet). Imagine a Patagonia or North Face backpack, ripped jeans (or cargo shorts depending upon location and season), a scraggly beard (on the dudes), and braided hair (on the gals). Got the picture? They take selfies with locals and write about the social implications of discarded plastic water bottles in developing countries. I am (C) none of the above. I'm middle aged an

"Lagom är bäst." ~ "Just enough is best" or "Enough is as good as a feast" Lagom is a Swedish term that means "just enough" or "just the right amount". If you've been to IKEA, you might doubt lagom  exists in Sweden, but it's actually an important part of the country's socio-cultural philosophy. Lagom is about eschewing flashiness and extravagance in favor of moderation. It's about stopping short, maintaining harmony, and staying away from extremes. Let's be honest. We can't say that ALL Swedes practice lagom. That would be like saying ALL Americans are assholes. It's a cultural stereotype to some extent, but from my experience in Sweden there's a helluva lot of lagom going on. People are reserved, not keen on idle chit-chat, and drive the speed limit. Alcohol is only sold at government run liquor stores (Systembolaget) that are only open prescribed hours (The rum section at the Systembolaget is an

My girlfriend went to New Orleans for her birthday [It's probably best if you get over the fact that we travel separately and alone. I've said it many times before - It works for us. It doesn't have to work for you]. By all measures, she had a great time - did the aquarium, listened to music in Jackson Square, got a free drink or two on her birthday, watched NCIS New Orleans being filmed. She came home with an assortment of stories.  And a set of voodoo dolls for me. It wasn't a random gift. I'd hinted that it would be "cool" to have a voodoo doll, especially if it looked like my boss. Who I love. Seriously. My apologies to all the other bosses I've had over the years, but this one's the bomb. Then I added that maybe it would be "fun" to have a set of four - one for each of the big bosses at my big box retail employer. The bosses are all great. I truly enjoy working with them and for them. Still, I thought of voodoo dolls. I've li

Täcke: Duvet, quilt, or cover. A soft quilt filled with down, feathers, or a synthetic fiber, used instead of an uppersheet and blankets. I feel like I'll be fluent in Swedish long before I'm able to efficiently change a duvet cover. Why is that even an issue? Well, r ecent proposed changes to Swedish citizenship qualifications include things intended to ensure that newly minted citizens are fully integrated into Swedish society, like being able to speak Swedish fluently and more stringent residency requirements. Fine by me. I love Sweden and I'm all for integration. I've already started learning the language and, while I'd prefer to be a citizen sooner than later, I will definitely do what it takes. I think I'll be fine as long as eating fermented herring (surströmming) and efficiently changing duvet covers don't become qualifications. I might be able to hold my nose and swallow a bite of herring if my (Swedish) life depended on it, but duvet

My latest idea goes like this. Thirty running tours in thirty European cities in thirty days. It sounds like a blast to me. See Europe. Run Europe. Write Europe. For a month. A MONTH! Of course, the downside is that I'll have to run 8-10km a day for thirty days. On forty-nine year old legs. Pish-posh. Nothing easy is ever really worth trying. Besides if I fail, I'll have failed in Europe and, with the right spin, it'll still make for a good story. And ultimately, that's what matters. I've almost let the luke warm response I've gotten from people get me down. Invariably, heads sink into necks, eyes narrow to a quizzical near-scowl, and lips purse. No vocalized nay-saying is required. Facial expressions and body language are more than plenty. The "Huhs" and "Whhhyyyyys" come through loud and clear. So, why do I want to do run thirty running tours in thirty cities in thirty days (The 30-30-30)? Give me a few minutes of your time and I'l

So, I've been cutting carbs for a couple months. It's probably the last thing a former anorexic needs to do, what with food restriction being on the naughty list and all. Before everyone freaks out (mostly my mother who might be the only person left on my friends' list who remembers me as a full-blown anorexic), let me clarify exactly what I mean by "cutting carbs". What It's Not: Compare my cutting of carbs to that of a friend of mine. We were planning to meet for dinner. Here's a synopsis of our conversation: ME: Let's go someplace reasonably healthy. I'm trying to watch what I eat. FRIEND: Me, too. I'm cutting carbs and I've lost ten pounds just this week! ME: I'm cutting carbs, too! FRIEND: I'm down to 20 grams a day. ME [fuuuuuuck me]: Yeah, well, I'm not going crazy with it. We ate at Madgreens that night. Where she added extra bacon to her salad. Because bacon isn't a carb. Meanwhile, I got mixed greens, l

Ashley Judd had a lesbian sex dream. [There's a freaking brilliant opening line. My writing professors (and every writing how-to book I've ever read) say the first line is absolutely key. As a non-reader, I know this to be true. Start boring and there's no way I'm sticking around for even one whole paragraph] But I digress... Before her  people call my people (i.e me, given I am my only people), let me make one thing absolutely clear - To my knowledge , Ashley Judd didn't really have a lesbian sex dream. I am not spreading gossip about her sex dream preference nor am I saying she has sex dreams period. Admittedly, Ashley is a highly politicized feminist and the old school variety were often accused of being lesbians, so she could be but I have absolutely no evidence in that regard (Feel better, Ashley's People?). Moreover, in the nearly two decades she held the top spot on my Exceptions List, she never once set off my gay-dar.  Not. Once. Ever. I had a

I'm on the Express Train to fifty. For awhile I thought I was on a nice slow commuter. You know, the ones that stop every so often so people can get on and off? I dozed off and when I woke up, the scenery going by was a blur. It may be more than a year and a half away, but fifty is going to be here long before I'm truly ready for it and decisively ok with it. I've been faking that one, too. I keep telling myself and others that I'm almost fifty. It's not exactly a lie, but it's not entirely the truth either. I figure if I start believing that little-not-quite-a-white-lie now, it'll make actually being 50 more palatable. Or so I like to think. On March 26, 2019, I might curl up into the fetal position in a blanket fort and never emerge. Or I might run a half marathon. There's no way of knowing. I've been pretty can-do about aging thus far (if you can call the thirties and forties aging ) so safe money probably says I'll be sailing around the wo

I am desperately in need of a new normal. Well, any normal really. With the flux and the change that has taken over my life in the last month, the old normal no longer applies. New is going to be mandatory whether I like it or not. We're all facing it down - me, my sister, my step-mother, my dad - so it's not like I'm alone.  I feel like a whiner, though, as I write this. If I am brutally honest with myself (and all of you by extension), my life is the least impacted. I can cry all I want, but in a few hours I'll be back in Austin where much of my life will remain the same as it's been - work, tennis, dogs, etc. Only my insides will have changed. I've seen my dad at his oldest and most helpless. I've witnessed his hallucinations and I've heard him implore 'them' go. I can't un-remember that.  We can argue that the kind of change I'm going through is difficult, but by comparison? I don't think so. My family will struggle harde

So, today I wrote in my journal for the first time in 5-ish days. When I'm home and in my routine, I write every day. I hadn't had a journal in at least a decade until my girlfriend gave me one for Christmas. I'd been needing a reason/way to write every day and I got one. Miraculously, I quickly became pretty religious with it. Then this week happened. I'm in San Diego trying to get things with my dad situated (think eighty-nine, spicy red walker, and assisted living and you've got enough of the gist). Not so shockingly, writing hasn't exactly been a priority. Until today (I know - obviously, right?) This afternoon I sat at a small table in a courtyard at Balboa Park and while sipping on an iced latte, I pulled out my journal. I intended to explain why I hadn't been writing and capture some of the emotion of the past week. Then, after a couple pages, I somehow segued and ended up talking about my latest burst of intuition. Which has absolutely nothing to d

When I was at my dad's house a month or so ago, I had a dream about Alicia Vikander. Let's get a couple important details out of the way. (1) It wasn't that kind of dream (Bummer, I know) and (2) The dream wasn't exactly about her; she was, however, the only key player I remember. With all that out of the way, I think it's safe to admit something I've denied since I posted about my dreamy good fortune on social media - I don't think the dream was entirely random. This is going to sound weird, especially for me, but I think it's the bedroom. Seriously. One of the last times I slept in that same blue guest bedroom a dozen-plus years ago, I dreamed about Jodie Foster. I promise you, it's way too random to actually be random. I'm certain that little blue room is some kind of astral migration, dreamscape portal. How can I be so sure? (A) The people in my dreams are 99.9% face-less. I know it's probably something I should discuss with a shr

A Short Story by Stacee Ann Harris             We all looked alike. Each and every one of us. Even the women, the few that there were, looked like feminized versions of the men. Suits were either dark gray or lighter dark gray, occasionally a pinstripe but only on a new guy who didn't know any better yet. Ties provided a small splash of color, though only maroon, blue, or gold, never purple or red, and were held in place by a small gold cross-shaped tie tack. Hair was coiffed short (though it was recommended that the women keep theirs long) and faces were cleanly shaven, no goatees, soul-patches, or a day's worth of stubble. In the gray-scale world of Hearn Upson, personality was to be left at home or locked in the trunk of one's late model Made in the USA vehicle.             On this particular day, though in reality it was no different than most other days except for one small exception, we gathered in the large conference room. Partners at the oblong, heavy da