My Annual Performance Review (by me)

One year later, how am I doing?

Portrait of an Anti-Housewife

I know I’m not the only one who gets sucked into Facebook memories; it’s sort of the low-hanging fruit of the past-self voyeurism world known as nostalgia. When I saw last year’s Substack post come up as a memory, along with a reminder that my very first open mic was a year ago, I felt compelled to dive down the rabbit hole of my one-year-ago self.

My kids have a habit of wryly remarking when a FB memory or photo “didn’t age well,” generally referring to the divorce or the pandemic or house flood or some other dark humor topic. So when I read the first few lines of my post from last November—referencing my now deceased dog who wreaked havoc on our home—I cringed and thought, “Well, that didn’t age well.”

All this from a woman who, nearly one year to the date after her first open mic, just returned from another mic where two things happened: 1) I tested new material that was all essentially about my dead dog eating my underwear (yikes! too soon?), and 2) I sobbed uncontrollably just minutes before my set for reasons I haven’t decided quite yet whether I’d like to share.

Aww, that was back when I refused to touch the mic.

Sincere apologies for that awful “Vague-stacking.” Full disclosure, I considered scrapping this nearly-ready-to-go retrospective post in lieu of burning some shit to the ground, but I made a compromise with myself: If I still feel like writing about that in a few days, I’ll write it as a “paid subscriber only” post to satisfy my need to purge. Hint, hint. 😉

So here is my post from one year ago, which I am side-by-siding with my current life in an effort to give myself a “performance review” as to how I’m doing nearly a year later with this whole “cultivate peace and joy” business. Aside from weeping publicly before delivering tasteless jokes about my deceased beloved family pet, I think I’m doing all right. How about I leave you moderately irritating addendums in shouty caps. Here’s a glimpse at November 2023 Stephanie:

Second Degree Fun: A Retrospective

A few days ago, I made a split-second decision to stop being annoyed by my dog. No, not the giant one who crashes into my legs every time I walk into a different room, learned how to open the pantry and Costco snack drawers last week, consumed an indeterminate amount of dog-unsafe ingredients, and ripped a glittery green wing off one of my beloved birds. That one deserves all my annoyance, and then some.

No, this time it was Winnie on the receiving end of my exasperation. Every single morning when I attempt to slide her harness over her head for a walk, she slinks away from me and rushes back, over and over, submissively grinning wildly and sneezing. Sure, it’s cute, but oh my god, we do this every day! I’m not going to hurt you! I just need to slide your damn harness on because your leash etiquette is so abysmal a harness is required to prevent you from choking yourself as you scramble down the street, writhing like a reptilian escapee from the fires of hell.

Friday morning I was wiped out. I had endured a colonoscopy on Thursday (are you 45? Get your ass scheduled. Pun intended.), and the procedure plus corresponding prep left me, well, drained. I stood at the foot of the stairs trying to coax Winnie to acquiesce and slide cooperatively into her harness for once in her life. All of a sudden, my irritation melted away. I heard a (neither psychotic nor religious) voice inside whisper: “You know, you could choose not to be annoyed by this daily dance, as it’s clearly not going to change.”

I instead accepted that, every day, Winnie is going to be noncompliant with her harness. And also, probably, Tigger is going to destroy a pair of my beloved high-waisted and moderately sexy—by my own account—underwear that I order from fucking London, and also probably, my youngest child is going to leave food trash in multiple rooms of my house. That one I am actively working on—sometimes acceptance is not the right move. Gotta reference The Serenity Prayer, ya know? (FLASH FORWARD UPDATE: WE HAVE MADE EXACTLY ZERO PROGRESS WITH THE GODDAMN FOOD TRASH.)

All work and no play; who gives a shit about Jack, anyway? Jill, how are you doing, girl?

The dogs and I walked my daughter to school. When we came home, I knew I had a giant to-do list to tackle after my recuperative post-anesthesia day. But I let myself sit in my favorite place—the backyard hammock swing in the morning sunshine—drink my coffee, listen to my favorite playlist, and just BE. Then, in a seemingly useless decision in terms of productivity, I played with my dogs. I threw toys across the stuffie-carcass laden graveyard of my backyard while they galloped merrily after them. “Why don’t I do this more often?” I asked myself, knowing the answer all too damn well:

Because I am trying to keep the house in order, run the errands, drive the kids to appointments, write a book, occasionally have fun, and make meals, all the while scrambling to do too many jobs in an effort to weigh which ones will be the most lucrative, and thus establish themselves as the most appropriate use of my time in order to support my children as a newly single mom (ANOTHER UNFORTUNATE UPDATE FROM FUTURE STEPH: THE SCRAMBLING AND STRUGGLING HAS ALSO IMPROVED BY NEARLY ZERO PERCENT).

But sometimes we need to hit the Zack Morris pause button. Stop the inner chit-chat; question why we continue to be annoyed or surprised or outraged about the aspects of our lives that are inevitable; take a deep breath; play with the goddamn dogs.

(HOW HAVE I PROGRESSED IN TERMS OF ACCEPTING THINGS I CANNOT CONTROL? YOU KNOW THE ANSWER, DON’T YOU. I’M WORKING ON IT. SOMETIMES HOPE AND RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION ARE THE CO-ASSASSINS OF ACCEPTANCE.)

***

Last week, I had the experience of being both a giver and receiver of the post-procedure anesthesia driver thing. On Monday, I drove a beloved friend to and from her appointment; I got to hold her hand when she woke up, giggle over the recovery room stream of medicated consciousness, tenderly situate her in the car, drive her to my home, make her soup, and give her blankets and love. Thursday, I was in the more vulnerable position of being driven, of waking up in recovery, of weeping over the unknowns I was facing, for the first time, more or less on my own.

Both were profoundly tender snapshots in my life, bringing into sharp focus the privilege of being in the moment with people you care for, people who care for you. What an honor it is, to love and be loved.

***

In my writing group, we were talking about how easy it is to sleepwalk through the little moments of our lives, the goddamn mantra of “stay present” like an albatross around our necks. We know, we know, be mindful! Stay in the moment! But god, we are so busy, we have so much to do, which way should we look? (I AM SENSING A TREND HERE. I CONTINUE TO HAVE NEARLY THE EXACT SAME CONVERSATIONS ABOUT BEING PRESENT IN MY WRITING GROUPS.)

The groceries need to be bought, the dinner needs to be cooked, the spreadsheet needs to be updated, everybody needs their flu shots (OH FUCK, THE FLU SHOTS. *SIGHS DEEPLY, REACHES FOR TO-DO LIST*) . . who has time to throw a decapitated stuffed fox for an irritating dog or sit down and enjoy the sun on their face, watch a TV show on Netflix for the first time in months, or write in their journal just for the sake of writing?

We talked about how easy it is to bypass the joy of writing in service to the more appropriate satisfaction of “I have finished this piece, submitted it, published it, and most importantly, received financial compensation for it.”

My friend calls this “second degree fun.” As in, you don’t want to DO the thing, you want to HAVE DONE it. I cringed upon first hearing this, drawing to mind my tendency to add already completed items to my to-do list simply to cross them off. I LOVE having done things.

It reminded me of being on stage last week for Listen To Your Mother Denver. Rather than rejoice later that I “had been” on stage, this time, I allowed myself to sink right into that moment, the lights on my face, the bright eyes of my daughters in the front row, the laughter of my brother in the audience, my feet on the stage. I loved being on stage. Reading. Not having read my story. Not having pulled off a show. (THIS, TOO, REMAINS UNCHANGED—AND FOR THAT, I AM GRATEFUL. ALSO, PS, WE ARE DOWN TO OUR LAST HANDFUL OF TICKETS FOR LTYM BOULDER ON WEDNESDAY, SO GRAB YOURS NOW.)

It’s so easy to get focused on the end result; of course it is. We can’t always stay present—it’s impossible and impractical and not appropriate. But goddamn, sometimes we need to throw the ball and sit in the sun and hold the hand and drink in the moment. Because life, as we all know, is so very fucking short.

XOXO,
Steph

P.S. Well, that was fun. I feel part sheepish/part exhausted/part full of rage that many of my struggles are still the same, one year later. Perhaps we’ll dissect that in a few days. But on a similar note. . .

Fempire: Assemble

Speaking of things women are not supposed to talk about, I want to talk to you about Reclamation: The Fempire Strikes Back, at The Muse in Lafayette on 12/5.

This is a storytelling + stand-up comedy show featuring all women, but we aren’t just here to perform. We are starting conversations about topics women don’t generally share. Misogyny and violence against women. Our crippling need to apologize and ask permission. The way we feel about our bodies. The complexity of motherhood. We want Reclamation to be more than a performance—we want it to be a movement.

What can you do? I’m so glad you asked.

1. If you are local, come see the show on Thursday, December 5th to support women in the arts.

2. If you are part of, or know of, an organization that benefits women, single mothers, or the BIPOC and LGBTQ populations, reach out at wordtoyourmotherarts@gmail.com. We are looking for partners to help our community get involved on a local level—when macro change feels hopeless, micro change is the way to go.

3. Do you have a local, women-owned business and want to sponsor Reclamation? We are working with local women whose services and products meet the needs of CO women.

4. We want to make this a bi-monthly event where women get to speak their truths—boldy and unapologetically—on stage in a safe space, witnessed by women who also deserve to have their stories and experiences honored. Our goal is to amplify women’s voices, and we want you to be part of it. If you are a CO writer or comic, stay tuned for opportunities to add your voice to Reclamation for our 2025 shows. And in the meantime, buy tickets here and get on our mailing list here.

5. Interested in joining a small, local women’s writing circle? Get on the interest list for Writing Womanhood, a weekly 90-minute writing group with writing prompts, feedback, meditations, and connection. 5-week sessions begin in January. Sign up (no commitment) to be the first to get updates here.