Marriage is like building with Legos. But don't follow the instructions on the box. Build something new.

When I met my husband, I felt like a misfit Lego piece that had finally clicked into place. Instead of twisting myself into shapes imagined by others, I found someone I could build something new with.

That was cool.

And while that first connection is crucial, how you build with your bricks afterward is even more important.
It’s best if you stay on equal footing, not one of you a brick and the other a big square of grass: then all of you is attached to them, but only a small part of their piece is attached to you, leaving plenty of grass for other bricks to click onto.
Just be careful of becoming too alike and attached. You don't want your borders to dissolve so much that you forget how to separate, never enjoying your own hobbies and friends. 
“I like doing things apart,” says my aunt of her 25-year-marriage. “When you’re together all the time, you have nothing to tell each other. All your stories are the same.”
Just don't spend so much energy on other interests that you can't reconnect: time apart should strengthen your bond, not weaken it.
But the most important thing to remember is that what you build with your bricks doesn't have to look like what anyone else created. In fact, it really shouldn't. Because it's your own.

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I found an antidote to fear: a permanent reminder to make the most of my time

Turning 41 was a big deal for me, since it was the age my mother was when she was killed in a car accident.
I thought for a long time about how I wanted to mark that milestone, and eventually decided to get a tattoo.
It's on my forearm, in a spot that's both easily hidden and easily seen every time I need a reminder. 
A reminder that every year, every day, I have now is one that my mother never had. And that I should make the most of every one I get from now on.
And this week when I wanted to celebrate my mother's birthday by exploring a new trail, that tattoo made sure I went. 
Because her accident also gave me a fear of driving, and that fear was trying to tell me not to go, that unnecessary drives are unnecessary risks.
But I looked at that tattoo and it told me to go. So the dog and I, we got in the car and drove to that new trail.

That was cool.

Even cooler? I know my mother would have been proud.



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When exploring a new city, always detour for "fresh, hot donuts."

While wandering around Philadelphia, I saw some signs promising "fresh, hot doughnuts." 

I'm sad now I only tried the doughnuts, actually.

Of course I followed them, and they led me to a cheerful young woman cooking up those promised doughnuts and many other treats in her historic home.

That was cool. 

I bought a doughnut and sat down to chat with the baker, who told me her plan. She was selling cookies, brownies and other desserts out of her cozy home in Elfreth's Alley (described as the "oldest continually inhabited street in the United States" by my handy guidebook, Frommer's Philadelphia: Day by Day) with the intent of raising enough money to lease a storefront. When we spoke, she was excited to report that a spot in a building she thought was perfect was opening up soon.

I wished her luck in landing that spot and thanked her, only half-jokingly, for not being a witch leading me to a trap like poor Hansel and Gretel. More than one person had poked their head in her home while we chatted to see what this place promising "fresh, hot doughnuts" looked like, but none of them stepped inside to try them.

I could not have been happier that I did, though, as that detour is one of my favorite memories of Philadelphia. It had nearly all the joys of travel in one bite: meeting new people, wandering down charming little streets, and eating food made right in front of you by a local.

I only hesitated for a second before following this sign.

 

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When his fire-ravaged constituents lost power, local senator becomes rare source of information

McGuire, left, and Allman in Ukiah last October. (Chris Pugh)

California State Sen. Mike McGuire is not a spokesman for Pacific Gas and Electric. But late Saturday night when much of Mendocino and Lake counties lost their electricity after watching two fires rage out of control near them in triple-digit heat, McGuire was immediately trying to figure out what had happened so he could let his worried constituents know.

That was cool.

As a state senator, it is not McGuire's job to be giving reporters and residents updates on fires and power outages at any time, let alone near midnight on a weekend. But he knew much of his district had spent the day under huge plumes of smoke filling the skies as if two nuclear bombs had been dropped on the mountains east of Ukiah.
And perhaps the only thing scarier than seeing that is not being able to see anything at all  because your power went out, stranding you in the heat and darkness with no information. One resident said her family was just outside the mandatory evacuation zones and without electricity they "were blind" and helpless, with no water to keep their property safe and no way to know if the fire was getting closer.
After I lost power at 10:30 p.m. July 28 and realized how widespread the outage was, I started contacting anyone already saved in my phone who might have information, including Mendocino County Sheriff Tom Allman. At first Allman didn't have anything to tell me, but soon he did because McGuire called him after learning from PG&E that smoke from the fires was affecting their transmission lines. 
Then McGuire posted what he found out on social media sites such as Twitter, letting me and the rest of his followers know that the problem had been identified and was being resolved as quickly as possible.
Few other people were sharing official information about the outage around 11:30 p.m. on a Saturday night. So why was McGuire?
I think Allman had the answer: "He's a good dude." Tweet

Who is the best first boss a teenager could have? Someone who loves their job

Chris Pugh - Ukiah Daily Journal

I met the manager of the Ukiah Costco recently as his employees were running around getting the store ready for its grand opening. When one of those employees stopped briefly to tell me this was her first job, the manager thrust out his hand to give her a high-five.
"Costco was my first job, too!" 

That was cool.

I can't think of a better first boss for a teenager than someone who loves their job and is proud of the work they do.
First and foremost, the teen learns that a job is something to be respected and done to the best of your abilities.

Second, they learn that taking pride in your work makes any job more pleasant and productive for those around you. Even if you don't enjoy what you do, a co-worker who does their best with every task can inspire you to do the same. 
But perhaps the most important lesson a boss who loves their job can teach teenagers is that such a feeling is even possible. And hopefully they will be inspired to find one they can love, yet while still appreciating every job they get during their search.
Because acting like a entry-level position is beneath you does not convince employers you are destined for bigger and better things. Quite the opposite.  
Performing well at the job you have doesn't mean you've resigned yourself to it forever. But it does mean you are far more likely to land the job you really want.


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In a new city and need a place to eat? Skip Yelp and ask a local where to go

While visiting Philadelphia for the first time recently I found myself hungry with no idea where to eat lunch. Luckily, I had wandered into an art gallery to check out some cool drawings and the woman working there I was chatting with about the heat wave I hadn't packed for recommended a cafe nearby that ended up being the perfect spot.

That was cool.

All I told the woman was that I wasn't interested in eating a Philly cheesesteak just then, so she suggested I go to Day By Day around the corner. There I found exactly what I wanted: a salad full of fresh greens topped with quinoa and chicken, served in cafe full of windows with many locals sitting alone that were very friendly with both each other and the staff, creating a soothing atmosphere for a woman traveling alone.

The $1 grab bag of desserts.

Even cooler was what I found on my way out: Next to the cash register were $1 bags of broken cookie, brownie and tart bits, what I think is the perfect way for businesses to avoid waste by offering folks like me a little taste of every dessert instead of having to choose just one. 

What was not cool, however, was the cafe I chose through Yelp alone.
I judge breakfast places on just a few basic items because that is all I order: coffee, eggs, potatoes, toast and bacon. I don't care what your scone or scramble of the day is, I want a reasonably-strong cup of coffee, eggs cooked as over-medium as possible and served with decent sourdough toast, big pieces of smokey bacon that ain't limp and greasy and some nicely seasoned and properly cooked potatoes that are preferably hash browns.

I picked a place in the Philly neighborhood I would be walking through that had great Yelp reviews,  but it failed to deliver on nearly every part of the basic breakfast. The eggs were cooked well, but the potatoes were underdone and poorly-seasoned (the type of homefries that seem to be seasoned solely with big chunks of onion) and the bacon slices were not only limp and greasy but also small. Saddest of all, the sourdough toast looked beautiful but had the taste and texture of Kleenex. Oh, and the coffee was mediocre at best. (And yes, I did fill out a Yelp review letting people know that, in my opinion, this was not the place to find good basics.)

So, technology like Yelp is great for some things, but when it comes to food, I vow to seek recommendations from live people whenever possible. And if not, I'll stick to the recommendations in my guidebook, which I should not have strayed from. (Lately whenever I choose a new city to visit, the first thing I buy is the Frommer's Day by Day guide for that city, which so far were great for both Boston and Philadelphia.)

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When I couldn't get pregnant we adopted: A dog

Card from the dog. Or so my husband says.

One day on a hike I met a woman with a baby strapped to her chest. “Is your dog friendly?” she asked. “My daughter’s really into dogs right now.”
I said my dog was very friendly, but was still amazed when the woman leaned her baby’s head toward the dog, who eagerly reached up and licked the pink mound offered to her like an ice cream cone.

That was cool.

The woman and I both laughed as she lifted her child back up, but soon I felt a strong wave of sadness watching this happy young woman carrying what would soon become a happy little girl with her mother’s red hair.  

I felt sad because while I had been that little girl, I would never be that woman.

Any chance of me becoming a mother likely died with my mother. Since at 15 I was forced to mother myself, any desire to mother anyone else evaporated. For decades whenever I saw women carrying babies, I never ached to be the mother, I ached to be the baby.

So when I finally decided I might want to be the mother, the desire likely came too late, because a baby never did. But when I finally put away the ovulation charts at 42, a few months later that dog decided I would mother her instead.

And she really needed mothering, because she was a 13-month-old dog who had never been taken for a walk or taught any manners. I know that because I watched her all those months in my neighbor’s yard, where most days she had nothing to do but watch me garden.

So she dug a hole under the fence to stick her head through and see me better. Soon I was talking to her all the time, greeting her by sticking my hand through another hole in the fence so she could lick it, and playing chase with her by running from one end of the fence to the other.

At night I’d sit at the fence and call to her. She would come and lie on her side, stick her leg through the hole and I’d hold her paw, telling her some day I’d take her for a walk.

But the week my husband came home with a leash we noticed she was no longer in the yard. I looked for her in the animal shelter and there she was, in the very last cage, after being found wandering in the hills several miles away. I wasn’t sure it was her at first because I had never seen her ears or even her whole head before. But she knew it was me immediately, jumping up and pawing through her cage to reach me.

When her owners didn't claim her, we adopted her and on Halloween night we could take her home. The next day I borrowed a crate so she could sleep in the house with the cats, and after seeking help from a dog trainer I quickly got her to stop jumping on me.

It took much longer, however, before the dog and the cats could be left alone together, even longer before I could walk her without her pulling on the leash, and even longer before anything left in the back yard would not be chewed to bits.

I don’t think she will ever learn to avoid skunks or to not run up to new dogs, despite one taking a chunk out of her side for being rude, but she knows the driving routes to and from our favorite parks so well that she will tap my shoulder with her nose if I make what she decides is a wrong turn. I spent more than 40 years being a devoted cat person, but few things now give me more joy than watching my dog running free, then sprinting back to me, her tongue flapping.

 

It's been nearly nine years since we brought home the dog, and sometimes I wonder if I should have adopted a human, too. But then I remember what my mother’s friend, who raised both human and four-legged daughters, told me: "Stick with the dog. She'll be more grateful."

And so I stick with my dog daughter, and sometimes when I hold her paw, I'm still grateful that it's no longer through a fence. And know she's grateful for that, too.