job

If I could do anything, I'd hang out a shingle and use my master's degree. I'd open a writing space, with genuine quiet, not like the quiet you find in your own home, where dishes and dust bunnies whisper among themselves, where skeletons rattle and the unmade bed calls your name in a voice only you can hear. Deep quiet. Stolen quiet. The kind of quiet that you have to steal from yourself, that no one else can give you, that does not keep and will not wait. I'd charge by the hour. I'd host writing groups, poetry readings, spoken word fests, story hours. I'd encourage crappy writers and good ones alike, I'd edit the shit out of things. I'd tell the truth in the nicest way. I'd launch the next Hemingway. I'd give the next Bukowski-wannabe a sober place to collect his scraps. Anne Lamott would speak on Friday nights.

I'd call it "Write Here."

And the thing is, everybody has one -- a story to tell. I think madness is the pressure of untold stories, unspoken words, unexpressed life. You'd come, right? You'd pay, wouldn't you? Solitude for money. I think its an idea whose time has come. We buy water and light and dirt and sunburns. Quiet? Its the next bottled water. It wouldn't be a coffee shop or a library, but something in between. BYOC. (coffee) BYOF. (food) You could curl up on one of the many sofas, or cushy chairs, and bring your laptop or your legal pad and perfect pen, and write the story. Tell the tale that is your life.

Yup, that's what I'd do.

clamming 101

Once again, we headed for the coast, in search of the elusive Razor Clam. This time, armed with a new aluminum gun, our hopes were high. I got to use the new gun because it is lighter, and I have a recovering shoulder. And yes, I probably shouldn't be clamming, but shit. I am so bored. And it isn't like you have to wrestle the clams from their little hidey holes. Well, sort of.

There is so much to know about clamming. The big boys use a small slanted shovel with a long narrow blade. They say it is a challenge. But I don't want a challenge, I want clams with a minimum of effort. And without getting wet. That's the part I never really talk about. Clamming would be so much easier without all that water rushing in and out just when you have one in your sights. Freaking waves. And as we cursed the monotonous unpredictability of the sea, the damned spring sun bouncing off the glittering sand, rich with pyrite and bits of white shell, blinding us, we managed to get about 15 between us: me 5, him 10.

Clamming 101

What you need:

A shellfish tag.
A clam gun. Screw the old school guys. You can get them at Razorclams.com. (the guns, not the guys.) or GI Joe's.
Get a pair of waders, waist high, and rubber boots. And a coat and hat. Get the hat in Carson City and you too can look like "Heidi goes clamming." you can visit a. while there.
A shovel, or just take a long heavy stick with a rounded end. A shovel is best for the weight. This is for "tamping."
Get a stylish black fishnet clam bag, or strap a gallon jug to your belt, but its way cooler to have a net.
Ask around for a good place to clam. We go to Gearhardt Beach by Seaside.

This is all by way of preparation. Now, this is how it is done:

Check your newspaper for tide tables. Find the lowest possible tide, a minus tide is best.
Make sure the minus tide is on during the daylight hours. (People do actually clam at night, with lanterns. It's eerie. We've done it, but it was cold and scary and really flies in the face of that old time honored principle about never turning your back on the ocean.)
Start clamming about 2 hours before low tide.
Get as close to the water as you are comfortable and begin searching.
Walk slowly, tamping the sand with your stick (bouncing the bottom round end about every foot or so), carrying the gun in the other hand.
Look for little spouts of water -- really little -- and a dime sized hole that drops, like the sand is sinking suddenly in that one spot. This is called "showing."
Quickly, position your clam gun over the spot. Quickly. The 5 inch circle of the gun should be placed so that the "show hole" is at the point of the circle nearest you.
Slant the gun slightly toward the ocean. (you are trying to catch the clam. The clam seems to know this and begins always to run under the sand toward the ocean, so you want to position the gun to get him as he moves that direction.)
Shimmy the gun straight down (little slant) over what you hope is the clam, as quickly but carefully as you can. If you hear a crunch, it is the clam, back off and adjust. Go again.

The gun works by suction. Somewhere on the handle is a small air hole.


Once you have pushed the gun into the sand a foot or so, and you think you have the clam, put your finger over the air hole and pull the gun up and out of the sand, bringing the plug of sand, and hopefully the clam, with it.
Slowly, release the sand from the gun, holding your hand over it, ready to catch the clam as it comes out.
The clam will be anxious to get back into the sand, and will make a quick getaway if possible.
Rinse it off and stick in the net bag.

One down.

You can only get 15 clams each. That's the limit.
You have to keep any clam you get, so if you get a little one, you have to keep it anyway.
If you crunch one, you have to keep it.
Be honest.
There is like a 500 dollar fine to help you with the honesty part.

I'll post about cleaning them. This is nasty. It will take awhile after learning this to actually eat them.

brother marc

For those of you who missed it, the blog was black for a minute. I changed to this parchment-like template because everyone uses the black and I AM DIFFERENT. I do wish, however, that I could make the title "bluesky" blue.

My fucking arm hurts fucking bad. I just got home from therapy. It is helping. My range of motion is much improved, but jeez.

Back to moving (see previous post.) My brother Marc always let me live with his family. He was big on the Waltons, and I think kind of viewed himself as the benevolent John Walton. My father died when I was eight, and Marc was pretty interested in replacing him -- or so it always seemed to me, the much younger sister. He was bossy, but mostly drunk, so it came off not all that seriously. It is nearly the third anniversary of his death, death by whiskey. He lived the last year and a half of his life whiskey-free, but it was too little, too late, and his liver finally gave up the long battle. I remember the last months of his life, taking him for long, methadone drives, listening to Southern Man, and Down By The River, and best of all, Wooden Ships. When I lived on his porch, or in his garage, or in the spare room, or on the couch, we'd sit all day long, playing acoustic guitars, watching the Gong Show and smoking weed. We did not have jobs, we had children and welfare and free cheese and canned pork and bulgar. If you don't know what bulgar is, you missed the commodity food era--standing in line with other people's children, coaching them to call you mommy to get more food, filling the van with lentils and pinto beans and real butter and powdered milk enough for a month. Pre-food stamps. We fed the spam-like canned meat to the dogs.

darkness darkness

Well, I have to admit, this is a little dark. How can I be my ebullient self when suffocating in this cave? Its like the proverbial dark night of the soul. I have enough trouble as it is. I'll try out a couple different themes, and y'all can let me know whatcha think. It'll be a contest. I will win.

My husband is cleaning out the refrigerator. I'm not sure why. These are things I only do when I move, and since I'm not moving, he may have a point. Cleaning the oven and the fridge. Not my gig. I've moved more times in my life than I can count. I tried once. I counted 48 moves from the time I left home at 17 through my 33rd birthday. Random, I know. But 48? That's alot for anybody. Some of them were porches, but they counted. Anytime I had to pack it up, I counted it.

daytime TV

Kenny Rogers had plastic surgery. No one says anything about it, but there he was, singing like Kenny Rogers, but looking kind of like Keanu Reeves with gray hair. Little beady eyes, taut skin. He didn't look anything like Kenny Rogers. Now, I never thought anything about him, never thought he was hot or all that great except when I was 13 and that first song, "I just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in" was launched, and I was just starting to take acid, and it was very deep. I've never been deeper than when I was a teenager. Everything was so important, and I'm sure it still is, and I'm glad there are still teenagers who think so, and adults who give a shit, but I don't. But then Kenny Rogers jumped the hip ship over to country music without missing a beat, and Ruby Don't Take Your Love to Town was the big hit of the Satin Slipper crowd -- or the Sit 'n Slapper, as we called it. So, now Kenny Rogers, prematurely gray, is postmaturely young. I'm not against plastic surgery, have had my share, it is just so wierd to look at a famous face, and go through the mental effort to make sense of it all when no one says anything. I have a great friend who had a face lift and she was so out front about it. I mean, why wouldn't you be? Its your face for crying out loud. Why act like nothing happened? Like, "No, I've always looked like this. What's your problem?"

And, as always, who cares what Kenny Rogers looks like? Not me. Maybe it wasn't Kenny Rogers at all. Hey, maybe it WAS Keanu Reeves. Shit!

I love daytime TV. I love not working. I almost got hired yesterday. Whew. It was close. I sat there in the interview doing what I do, impressing the hell out of them, and when it looked like I had the job in the palm of my hand, I said "No, thanks. But if you have something that is, like, no work for a lot of money, where I can come in at, say, 10ish, and leave whenever I feel like it, I'm your gal." No, seriously, I'd come in at 8. ish.

The View is on right now. I don't like it. The Young and the Restless (which Dave Quick used to call, "The Hung and the Rest of Us,") will be on at 11. I have therapy at 12:30 so will have to record "As the World Turns," and "Guiding Light." I don't watch Dr. Phil much, and only catch the dancing monologue of Ellen , but that's it. Seriously, it can suck the life from your whole day. I lay on the floor, do my exercises, my personal shoulder torture routine, and listen to tips on how to organize your garage, how to color easter eggs, and how to braize beef. Martha Stewart has a great attitude if you ask me. She looks like she's having much more fun now that she's done a little stretch in the joint. She is very organized, as we all know, and was talking about the importance of making a monthly calendar. As we, the TV audience, watched, she showed her own personal calendar for last month, the dinner party on the 12th, the sailing date with Mick Jagger and his family on the 15th. Cognitive Dissonance. "They are SUCH a nice fam-i-ly," she says in passing, her prissy little face speaking the grossly improbable with New England precision as she moves on to the next date on her calendar with plans to wash all of the wicker baskets in her house and reupholster the garden furniture in awning stripe. oh. a day in the life. Nothing unusual. And like looking at Kenny/Keanu Rogers/Reeves, I simply suspend disbelief and move on.

KR/KR?? Do you think they might be the same person?

maiden voyage, NDE

First of all, let me remind you that I exaggerate. NDE stands for Near Death Experience.

That being said, we did find and purchase a new boat (pictures as soon as I learn to use the camera). A 14-foot Hewes Craft, a plain ol' aluminum fishing boat. Open top with a good trailer, easy in and easy out of the water. An old man owned it, an old man who is midway into Alzheimer's. He did some built-ins along the side, little wooden compartments to stash stuff and holes for an improbable umbrella stand. I'm sure it will work fine, but I want a Bimini top for shade. Its the sun that kills me. It has three bench seats and a couple of cushy folding chairs mounted to the front and rear (fore and aft) port and stern, ahoy matey, damn the torpedos, and that is sort of what I was doing when I nearly killed the boat and drowned us both. I was damned-the-torpedos-full-speed-ahead and I know I shouldn't have been driving with my left arm not three weeks out of surgery. I know this. It makes no sense to me in retrospect, but when my honey said, "Wanna give it a try?" I wanted. Now here's the thing: Unlike the Wacanda, this boat doesn't have a steering wheel. It has a stick on the motor with a handlegrip gas pedal. If you push the stick left, the boat goes right. If you push the stick left while cranking on the gas, the boat goes right really fast and there's the bank oh, shit and it seems okay to use my arm muscles to crank the gas ON and push the stick, but when I tried to pull the stick back the other direction, which is to engage my shoulder in a way it is not yet willing to consider, well, it wouldn't. It just wouldn't. And nanoseconds are passing, and we are going in sort of a circle, but not really, and the bank is looking rocky, and looming ever closer, and I am going to crash our new boat. Then I think, "Slow the boat down." Now, it may have been my husband screaming. I'm not sure. I shouldn't take credit for thinking, because I wasn't. I was acting. So I released my deathgrip on the throttle to allow it to slow down and the boat stopped just short of the bank. Just. K was really pleasant during the whole thing, but I don't think I get to drive until I'm all better. Shit. But I'm glad it has the stick to drive with, because that means I get to sit in front and fish.

It was the maiden voyage of the unnamed boat. We didn't fish, but we did cruise around Ross Island and under the bridges downtown, which is kind of Venice on an urban-industrial scale. It is absolutely one of my favorite things, the people on the esplanade looking over the railing, waving as we pass. We are boaters. We are the leisure class, or at least we float along in the wake of the leisure class. There are some big damn boats out there.

I went to a job interview this afternoon. It sounded like a great job, but they wanted me to work some weekends and evenings, and I just don't want to do that anymore. I don't. So I was happy to decline, and they were unhappy and want to find something for me to do, and I guess I hope they can. I must work eventually. Eventually. I was scared to death they'd hire me, so I got the important stuff out of the way after making a fabulous first impression: how much money? (not enough) what schedule? (no go.) So there you have it. I may eat my words.

another week nearly gone

I think it is March 16th. The way I know this is the green activity on television. The morning show guy had green hair already and the 17th isn't until tomorrow. My mother and father had their first date on St. Patrick's day. We're Irish and Scot. It has never been a big deal for me, though I do love Celtic music. It gets me in my bones. Green beer always reminded me of Mickey Big Mouth, which I got sick on as a kid, so never a big appeal. None of the major drinking days --New Year's, etc.-- held any great power. Every day was a major drinking day in my world. Tuesday for instance. Tuesday was good.

Anyway, the point is not so much the drinking or the Irish, but the fact that I have finally lost track of time. I have been off work one month today. Hooray for time off. I would rather have had a pain free vacation, but whatever. I love having a job, and seem to need the identity that comes along with it, but I hate working. I hate anything that impinges on my day to day life.

AARRGGHH! My soaps have been cancelled in favor of college basketball!! This is a tragedy!! Dammit. Who gives a shit about college sports? Not me.

So, I'm thinking about writing. I'm writing, also, but thinking about writing on paper again. Back to the Lead Pencil Society. Blogging seems inauthentic sometimes, just the lack of editing alone would make my professors turn in their -- their... .whatevers. I pound on the keys and press "publish." And I am. Published. If I don't actually write something, I may not get published again anywhere but here. And no offense, but this is not my best stuff. I got way more.

So, I'll see if my fingers can still hold a manual instrument. My poor old fingers who never thougt they'd release the pen for the keyboard. It was a brief if emotional battle, easily won, but I always wonder, what if Blogger dies? What happens to all this shit?

I know I'm saying shit alot. That indicates the need for a job, for socialization among the improved. I revert so easily. I am so susceptible.

therapist

Did you ever notice that "therapist" is spelled, "the rapist?" I was just wondering.

My physical therapy started yesterday. My therapist is a 12 year-old girl named Anna. Anna the Barbarian. I had visited the surgeon on Monday and he gave me the go ahead to begin therapy because my movement is good for someone two weeks out. Well, it hurt. It hurts still. It hurt anyway, so what's the problem? It felt good, in a masochistic kind of way, to feel blood flow in the area of my shoulder and neck, but still... Damn.

So, on Monday, I applied for 5 jobs. Got a call back from one within 15 minutes of faxing it, complete with a near offer. The money wasn't what I want, so I had to pass. Two more responses throughout the day. But I should note here that I couldn't work yet if my life depended on it -- that I don't want to work for a couple more months -- I was just testing the waters. When I moved up here in spring of 2004, I intended to be off work for 6 months and then reach out and pluck the perfect job from the low hanging branches of the job tree. They would see my resume, think, "My God, She's Here!" and offer me buckets of cash. It wasn't so easy as all that. After 6 months off I began applying and experiencing rejection for the first time in my life. After a month of that, I scrambled and took a job as a social worker for less money than I've seen in awhile. So now, I'm a little nervous, two years older, and my body a wreck. A wreck. And I don't want to wait until the last minute. But my dilemma is this: What if somebody offers me a great job?

I have spent the better part of my life just saying YES to the next thing, and it has worked out pretty well so far: Yes to the boys, yes to motherhood, yes to whiskey, yes to heroin, yes to more heroin, yes to NO more heroin or whiskey, yes to education, yes to homeownership, yes to the sweetest marriage proposal, yes to this life. So, yes has worked out fairly well for me. I'm gonna stay with it, only be choosy about the job thing. I don't settle easily or well. Like I mentioned a few posts back, I don't like to do what I don't like, so the job must have some appeal.

In my world, we are considering a weekend at the coast to spend with my outlaws -- my ex-never-were-really-inlaws, but the closest family I've been part of since mine went to shit which was a long time ago. My son's father's family. He is dead--my son's father. I danced on his grave. But I love them. My ex-mother outlaw has been more of a mother to me than my own. My ex-outlaw sisters closer than my own sister, sadly. So, we will locate a place to stay where Sid and the girls and maybe Marky can hang with us. cool.

Sid -- He'd die left to a weekend alone. What a baby. We got him a new toy at a yard sale, a stuffed dog, not lifesize, but bigger than usual. I'm not confident of the wisdom of buying a pitbull an animal-shaped thing to thrash, but at least it wasn't a baby doll. Anyway, we got him this dog. He thrashed it around for awhile, but not like usual. Ordinarily, toys are consumed in a matter of moments, thus the need to shop at yardsales and Goodwill.... Sid's ritual is this: Each morning, he listens for the sound of the furnace revving up, then he gets off the sofa to lay in front of the vent until he is toasty. So yesterday morning, we get up. The heater comes on. We walk into the living room and Sid has placed his dog in front of the heater vent and he is laying on the loveseat watching this dog. His friend. He is such a failure as a pitbull.

The boat search continues, and we are looking for a bike for Lorretta. I appreciate her aversion to gears. She is my best friend for a reason.

hobbies

My husband is looking for another boat now. "Looking" may be too timid a word to describe his quest for the perfect vessel. He is a man obsessed. I have watched with great joy the metamorphosis of his hobbies over the past couple of years.

With bikes, the evolution went something like this: we want cruisers. We want the perfect hawthorne cruisers. Then, we want to go faster, and uphill. We don't need mountain bikes, we need road bikes.

We bought the Cruisers new, and, together, they probably weighed 75 pounds. It was about that point that I said, "Hey, have you heard of craigslist?" And it was on.... He found that not only could he find bikes for us, for the girls, but that he could repair bikes, old bikes, and people would love them, and both seller and buyer could buy them for a fraction of their worth. Initially, the bikes were 15-20 bucks each. From childhood he knew he was a Schwinn man, a classic. He wouldn't buy or sell a Huffy if the profit margin was 200%. He surfed craigslist daily, made mad runs to be first come-first served for each fixer-upper. As the buying and the selling progressed, the quality and initial investment increased. He began to take calls on things called Treks, Bianchis, Cannondales. He was laying out significant piles of cash with increasing risk. But the sales continued. Woven in and among the sales was the evolution of my husband's own personal bicycle. I remember a beautiful Trek, orange to red (color is important to me) sleek and simple.



He paid some guy 100.00 for it. It was the first "high-end" bike. When he called me, as he does, to report his current expenditures, he said, "I've finally found it. This is the last bike I'll ever need." Famous last words. If I had a nickle....

Currently, our garage houses my bike, which, I'll admit, is nice. (A black Marin with a fat tractor seat and a gold bell that looks like a buddhist temple and great road gears.) And his: a billion dollar Jamis with razor thin racing tires and a seat that would get lost in my ass, a brand new Raleigh crossover and a beautiful lavendar Bianchi (currently for sale on craigslist). Oh, and a vintage tricycle that some woman asked him to find handlebars for. He'll fix it eventually. And, a big motorcycle. And, until we finally tired of cramming it in there, the Wacanda. The Wacanda had been parked curbside for the past 9 months.

So, what's my point? I know I'm digressing like mad here. Here's the thing: Now, its boats. Do you know how big boats are?

Really, when you live in a city, and have a classic Portland sloping driveway and an underhouse garage that was probably perfect for a model-T Ford, and now he's shopping craigslist for boats? I'm a little nervous. I'm learning about boats, which is fun. But the real fun is watching him, seeing the light in his eyes, the smile I live for. But BOATS?? I envision a somewhat slower process, one boat at a time, two tops. Keep in mind that the cost of the Wacanda was 600.00, sold for 1000.00 after having exactly that much into it. It was a great boat, and sold to someone who is into classic fiberglass. Now, he's dreaming about new boats. And when he said, "I'd never need another boat," I knew I'd heard it somewhere before.

Yesterday was an education. We raced madly to Vancouver for a 14 footer which turned out to be a 13 footer; to a new boat store in Beaverton where yachts are parked next to camouflage fishing boats that I'd lose in the morning mist; to 139th and Powell for a 14 footer that would NEVER fit under our house; and finally, to 71st and Sunnyside for a sweet little 13 footer with a suntop (my personal requirement).

Usually, when shopping craigslist, there is somewhat of an honor system. If you're the first to call, the seller will give you first shot, within certain timeframes. But this guy needed rent money. He said, "Two other people are on their way, but if you get here first, its yours." We were outta there. I liked the boat first sight, but like I said, I'm learning. When we rolled up to the house in felony flats, a man came outside. I should rather say the ghost of a man came outside. A meth-monster, reeking of booze, nearly transparent, unaccustomed to being out in the light of day. Making eye contact was too hard for him. He needed to sell that boat like I needed to sell my son's Christmas tricycle the day after christmas, or the Kirby vaccuum cleaner, or my soul.... So, I'm thinking, okay, the boat is sweet. He needs money, we need a boat. Contributing to his delinquency whispers in the back of my mind, a minor discomfort--I am an opportunist. Then my husband does what he does, he asks the magic question, "Do you have clear title?" The guy nods, sort of. Or maybe it was just a twitch. We look a little closer, see that the grass it sits on is undisturbed. It hasn't been there long at all. I see this. I know. I'm a thief. Still, though, I want the boat. I am capable of overlooking other people's faults. This does not make me a good person as I hope it will work out. It IS, afterall, the last boat I'll ever need.
"Okay, let's have a look at that title," husband says.

The ghost replies, "I'll just write you a bill of sale. That's all you need in Oregon." The unuttered "Trust me" passed his thin blue lips, falling soundlessly on the undisturbed lawn beneath (probably) his landlord's boat.

"Gonna need to see that title." says husband. We're Oregonians. We know better.

And that's where the sale ended. It may have been his boat. He spoke unconvincingly of salmon and sturgeon, but his voice shook and he had to keep his hands in his pockets to keep them from flying from his shoulders in frantic neurological distress. I know the pose.

It is difficult to hope he got his rent paid. I hope he gets some help, and in retrospect am relieved that we did not contribute, altruism not a factor.

Today, Sunday, I am home. K on the beach. My arm hurts bad. I know it is better but wish it was over. Back to the surgeon tomorrow to report my progress. I am doing great, but it is every other day that I am comfortable. I guess that is twice as often as pre-surgery. Whine. And its freakin' cold around here. I'm pretty done with winter, so, it could start warming up now.

Wacanda

We sold the boat. It's a '58 Wacanda. Still looks like a Buick to me. Some guy who used to live in Ashland bought it. Now I hope K will search for another one. I loved cruising around under the bridges of Portland. It wasn't a fishing boat, wasn't meant to be... but we'll find the right one. I want a sun cover, a lid of some kind.

Here's my diet plan (in case you were wondering): chocolate soy milk all day and a -- what do they call it? -- a sensible dinner. Sensible. I'm sure that's the part of the plan that will undo me. Me and sensible never did get along. I will make homemade pizza tonight. But really, I do like Soy Slender. It is sweetened with Splenda and is rich and yummy and only has one carb. I only eat meals to find my way to the sweet stuff anyway and this will short circuit all that chewing. I hate lettuce.

I have gone this long without talking about pain. I'll keep going.

So, its back to beach fishing on The Mighty Columbia with the beach boys. We saw one caught last weekend -- one -- but hear that they (Dept. of Fish and Wildlife) are closing the season due to low fish-counts. So salmon fishing is pretty much over anyway. We'll try for sturgeon. They are big and fight hard and you can only keep certain sizes, like, between 4 and 5 feet long. What the hell am I supposed to do with a four and a half foot long fish that looks like a prehistoric monster? I'm not cleaning it. I just want to be very clear about that. Catching halibut out on the sea is another thing. YOu come back in from the trip and there are fish maidens awaiting the catch who gut out and filet the halibut for a price you are more than willing to pay. Coastal women, wind-worn and harsh, who look better at closing time and know good jokes. I used to be one. I know.

My fucking arm hurts.

There.

It snowed. It is not snowing here at this moment (you should see the news: "Its snowing out here in the Cascades!! Two days in a row now!!" This is in the shadow of Mt. Fucking Hood for Chrissake, of course its snowing.) Anyway, I was planning to charge out this morning and do stuff in spite of pain. In absolute rejection of pain, of this invalid season, this supine lifestyle, flipping side to side on a sofa that will not cooperate, like a too-round piece of meat, always just this side of comfort. I have visions of health, but rather eat myself into a carbohydrate coma with two pieces of peanut butter toast. Why would you have one when there are two slots? I am so susceptible. I am so tired of tired. So sick of sleep. So ready for spring.

Whhhhiiiiinnnnneeee.

But it snowed, so my visions of walking Sid in Laurelhurst park are delayed for another day, or a later time. But really, I can't see sitting here a whole lot longer. I am bored, watching the same striped hat pass my window this morning as last, thinking about my own hat, my many-colored Carson City Heidi Hat that my husband got me matching mittens for last Christmas. And a tall bike just went by, three bikes tall, and I can't show you a picture of it because I don't know how to use a digital camera.

Life goes on below me, around me, and this is time off work. I want to embrace it and have only one arm. Time takes time.

dv

Yanni was arrested for domestic violence. Is nothing sacred?

not working

I'm not. I'm bored. My arm is better now. I need a job. Or, I could write a book again, get it published and be rich. er. I wish I had the nerve to live on my creative wits, but so far, I have opted for a paying job.

My arm is not really all better. It hurts, or rather, I am usually aware of the recent surgery. But I am, like most bad patients, in a hurry to regain the lost season. I guess the fact that it was winter is something to be grateful for. I can think of many other things, such as my ability to heal.

And now that I am not sedated, I am not sedated.

I must quote a. of ashabot when she told me (of being medicated post surgery) something like this: "Once you go under you begin to drown, and pretty soon, air doesn't sound so good anymore."

That tiny little jones behind me now, I want air. I want to gulp it, to slurp it from the giant juicy peach of life, to never have to know sedation again. I want it all. We speak of moments of clarity... I want a lifetime.

It is good to be healthy. And like James Spader said on Ellen today, "...besides my lines and world events, the only thing i think about is my weight gain." So, on to the gym. I decided to wait for the physician's release before charging out to re-injure myself, but soaking in a spa sounds good. My tub works.

birds and banners

yesterday morning the birds were singing in my back yard. the sun was out for a good part of the day. i left the doors open. the pain wasn't so bad yesterday. yesterday... all my troubles seemed so far away. not so much now. wow. it is the only near expletive i can think of that really sums up my experience this moring. WOW. fuck is useful, dammit--not bad, but wow really kind of encompasses the wide-eyed wonder of the ongoingness of this condition. i don't dream in pain, thankfully, and waking up to it is such a stark and unpleasant contrast that it catches me off guard every time. like i said last post, i always think its over now. i really believe i'll go to sleep and wake up and be clear and jump up and make coffee and write for awhile, and wham. I guess this is evidence that pain meds work on some level. every day i believe it is over now. I'm better. And I am. I'm another day through this one. I am deeply apologetic for whining over such an extended period of time. I've had 3 pretty major surgeries in a year: tumor under my chin, exploded appendix and now, shoulder repair. its no wonder I'm depressed. and i know i am.

back to the birds. i used to dread the sound of birds in the morning, proof of another night spent, another chance to sleep lost, another day when my sleepy-eyed little boy would wake up, innocent of my sins, and i would hear him stirring and scurry to my unmade bed to pretend to wake up as he crawled in bed with me. I am glad i maintained the illusion of sleep, but it was thin, and he saw through it eventually. "remember when you never slept and all we ever had was peanut butter and crackers?" we think they don't know.

Birds in the morning, sign of spring, evidence of god, of hope, the world turning, the end of pain. my personal pain. I will make my bed, begin my day in the dark of my bay window, overlooking clinton street and the waking others who share my world. I love spring. I am grateful to be alive.

Nicole came over yesterday to see me. Just to see me. I like being her sometimes mother. She went to a punk show the night before and a band called WWPRF played. the PRF stands for Punk Rock Faggots. apparently the queer community got ahold of it and protested the name. See the portlandindy site for an exhaustive discussion. exhausting. it provoked a lengthy discussion of PC behavior, punk theory, who gets to wear which banners of oppression, the definition of faggot. me? i think many things: queer adults could find a larger battle than 15 year olds who are all about shock me shock me shock me with that deviant behavior.

banners. so many to choose from. mine are: woman, mother, wife, writer, artist, junkie, drunk, criminal. they hang in my closet, rattle like the skeletons they are. useful in a pinch, but costumes one and all. distancing mechanisms. this dialogue provokes in me questions about banners and epithets, slurs, internalized oppression and the apparent competition for who is the most oppressed. why is it that I, as a straight adult, should probably say "the gay community" while gays can now say "queers", why blacks can call themselves niggers again, why I have to say the inconvenient "native american," rather than indian. I like the word indian. it slips easily from my western tongue. I have my own bags to carry. As a white woman, raised in Southern Oregon, I am born racist, even though i was not raised racist and do not knowingly participate in discrimination. I benefit from white privilege with or without my consent. I don't see myself as homophobic, but I am deeply homobored. The whole notion of PC language is discouraging to me, especially as it evolves and seems little more than fashion. I hate to be censored, regardless the cause. Were the kids right? No. They rarely are. But they do love attention, and this was certainly galvanizing. I'd like to say to the guy who spoke for the queer community, "this isn't about you," but he wanted it to be, so now, apparently, it is.

the thing is this... no one owns the word faggot. pc language is about exclusion, about separation and entitlement. our collective life is suffocating under the great flat hand of neocon powermongers who use fundamentalists (whether hamas or gay activists) as the puppets of separation. the soil beneath us all is shifting, is on fire, and we are attending to our crotches? please tell me there is something more important, at least more INTERESTING to defend, than what humans suck on in their private moments.

my contribution to the dialogue is this: choose your battles. divide and conquer was never more visible or pathetic than the squabbling of well-fed liberals when competing in the "most-oppressed" category. It is the single, most powerful tool of the oppressors. and in my overblown opinion, the only voice that should be louder is that of the environmentalists, although truthfully, i don't think we'll live long enough for global warming to be an issue. we'll be too busy warming our feet at the cold chemical campfires of an urban wasteland.

premature

here's the thing.... i always think i'm going to get off light. i always think the worst is over just before it hits. in the immortal words of crosby stills and nash, its always darkest just before the dawn and i always think i can see the dawning from where i sit, think i am already in the dark, and then, it gets darker.

every time.

my freakin' shoulder hurts. they told me it would. but then, he pulled the pain pump out and told me i was probably through the worst of it, but shit man. it may have been the worst of it, but i had the pain pump in. see? So i get all hopeful, and think i'm on the happy road, and wham! the party starts in earnest. Now, the good news is that this may mean i am not a pessimist afterall. it may mean i am easily seduced by the carefully chosen words of physicians. it may mean i'm rebecca of sunnybrook farm or an idiot. you decide. so, i hurt. but it is a healing kind of bone pain, not the torture that came before.

anyway, asia from deconstructionist came by and brought me thai food which was yummy. Jill brought me roses and a young women's fashion magazine called Jane which was thoughtful and maybe a little edgy. Jill's a little edgy --alot, really-- and she thought it wasn't "too gap". in reference to the store i think. But it looked a little gap-ish to me.

Lorretta just wrote. my old house in talent is empty. that breaks my heart. you should have seen the kitchen. i designed it myself, with open shelving and tile countertops with terracotta colored grout. it was perfect. and a dishwasher and garbage disposal for the first time in my life. that is one thing i did give up to get married and still want. And while i miss my little cottage in talent, it was an empty sanctuary at the end, and i hope whoever lives in it loves it like i did.

breathing

i cannot capitalize with one hand.

it is sunday morning on clinton street, as everywhere, but this is where i am. my husband is fishing on sauvie's island and i am healing slowly, staying ahead of the pain which is the center of my world for now. it is a footrace i am sure to win. healing is a beginning, and if i abandon my traditional apathy and wax philosophical for a moment, forgive me.

i will do yoga. i will do something. i am willing, at long last, to move, to bend, to stretch, to inconvenience myself, in hot pursuit of a more comfortable future. i am INTO comfort, and it seems that long term ease requires routine periods of physical distress (exercise). i don't like it. i don't like to do what i don't like. and in the past, the next phrase of that logism would have been: i don't do what i don't like. but i believe it is that very thought, that single attachment to short term comfort, that has, with lazy hands, placed my aging body under the surgeon's knife. my bones have been whittled on, and the resultant ache, deep and unreachable, was utterly avoidable. it was, on a deeply important level, an elective surgery. had i NOT been so utterly deconditioned, sid would not have yanked my arm from its socket so easily or with such far reaching effects.

i've wanted to do yoga for years. many years. i've wanted to do tai chi. i actually LIKE to lift weights. it is a gift i have the power to give, and yet, for reasons weak and transparent, i withhold it. i am an episode of oprah. i have misused the whole female talk show ethic (be good to youself) to my detriment. and it is a lack of self worth, not time, that denies me any attachment to the maintenance of my physical body. of many, many trite sayings, one that so often rings true is this: awareness without action is insanity. now i know a bit about insanity. a good bit. and as i lay in my sick bed in the middle of my wonderful life, i hope i can remember this moment... that as i heal and life normalizes once again, that my resolve does not dissolve -- that i make time to be better in the one way i refuse to face: the physical. bob earl said it best. "my mind thinks it can kill my body and go on." now granted, he was speaking about addiction, but this is an addiction: to ease, to laxity, to passivity, to pretending it doesn't really matter.

so, don't indulge me. don't tell me to put the bat down. don't tell me to take it easy. i have. i could, perhaps, be less dramatic, but what fun would that be?

enough. time will tell. for now, i heal. back to the couch.

morning after

ouch

stillness

Home. I wouldn't have to be rich to just stay here, day after day, watering the plants, sweeping the floor, folding the laundry. It may get old after awhile, but I am a homebody. Haley was telling me of her teenage angst, her wanderlust, her desire to hop trains and hobo her life away. My son wanted to travel, to see Australia and Amsterdam and any other place he perceived as permissive, any place but home. But all I've ever wanted was to make a home and stay in it. I've worked, always, and God knows I've moved my share, but home is where my heart is. I think if it were not for work, I wouldn't know how much I appreciated these periods of downtime, these episodic failures of body and mind that make it impossible for me to leave home for awhile. When I got here -- two years ago now -- I didn't work for months, seven, and I was so wrapped around getting settled and finding my way around that I never did relax. And now, pain denies me full appreciation of time to myself, but I am home, and it is still, and I am happy to be here, watching soaps and feeling no guilt at all.

The pre-op guys just called with all the pre-op questions and surgery looms ever closer. I have a coupon for a free milkshake at Burgerville and will stock up on Vanilla Swiss Almond Haggen Das, or plain vanilla. Did you know that Haggen Das means nothing? It isn't a real word or name or anything.

So, one more day and my arm will be repaired and I will do my therapy like a good girl and get my life back.

closer and closer

The time for surgery is approaching. I will go to one of those new, same day, outpatient surgery clinics at 6:30 in the morning and pop out, oh, say noonish, all stitched back together. McSurgery Drive-thru. I am looking forward to the beginning of healing, and the end of this endurance contest that has nearly gotten the better of me. It hurts.

I have new jammies. I have more soup recipes than I can count. I have solicited the support of my mother-in-law. I am planning what I can and leaving the rest to the four winds and hydrocodone.

Just to give you some indication of my perceptions these days..... I live a block from Nature's. Wild Oats. Its one of those higher-end green grocers with shiny food and big pricetags for votive candles. And I bow to my lack of grocery knowlege in general and admit that most green grocers are good to their employees and that paying a little more to forestall what seems inevitable to me: global warming and all that bad stuff that this blog declines to acknowlege let alone address, is not a bad thing. It is, after all, the corner grocery store, and from time to time I have picked up produce or a can of tomato sauce that I didn't find at Winko. I hate Winko.

So anyway, I went up there last night because K ate the last chunk of good sourdough bread and I am on a french-onion soup kick. I HAD to have it. So I wandered up the street and over a block, and the store was dark. And I thought, Ah, president's day. This thought is followed closely by a second: Since when do hippies give a shit about president's day? Then, I looked through the windows, noticed empty shelves, and thought: Oh, they're restocking one side of the store. And I get to the front of the store and there was no sign, and nothing in the store, and the store was pretty much gone. And I thought, why didn't I know this? How could the store close that fast? So, I consulted Gwen, the only grocery expert I know, and she said it has been a 30%-40%-50% discount thrift store for awhile, and I know I have slept through this winter.

It is unacceptable to me that the world passes me by. I lived the first half of my life in a coma,and I refuse to miss even one more springtime. There is much to do, and healing is the first thing.

Here's a poem about that:

What It Was Like To Be Drunk In The Country For Years

it was like comin' home
beer bottles stacked on the porch
lolling around in the dust of a hot day
not a hundred yards from the river
sweating pure whiskey
too busy drinkin' to jump in the water
sleeping face down in brown grass
missing the spring
and the summer
and the fall
and spending the winter
planning all those things we're gonna do
when the sun comes out

j

dog wear

We are up, making a sweatshirt for Sid. Nicole is a seamstress and is carving up an old gray sweatshirt and Sid is a reluctant model. Any time we ask him to hold still, he seems to think we are going to cut his toenails. He really hates that.

It is nearly over now -- the weekend. Sid's unfinished doggie-cape sits in a pile amid the recently re-organized sewing supplies we have pulled together in the past couple of days. We have many sewing boxes and tins and baskets --Me and him. Me and them. Us. Since move and marriage, the numbers of boxes has dwindeled, but it has been a slow melding, like butter and sugar over low heat. We are caramel. I rarely order anything online, am still a bit of a chicken about all that, but needed a basket for sewing stuff, and I know they exist but I shopped far and wide and could only find an old-lady tapestry covered easter basket with little plastic liners. I'd rather have a good tackle box, and frankly, had one in hand at Bi-Mart, but K talked me out of it. He wanted me to have the real thing. I couldn't agree more. But neither of us knew where the real thing was. So I went to Jeeves and typed in "sewing basket", which elicited the response "Do you mean sewing caddy?" which I did. Which in turn provoked my husband to rent Caddyshack, but that's another story. So I said okay to Jeeves, and went for the caddy idea. Tap tap tap and there it was: a three-tiered wooden box on legs that folds out like a two-sided tackle box like the big boys have, and I ordered it. And it arrived, and I am not yet a victim of identity theft. I would hate that.

So I got the caddy, and it is full and organized, and the girls know where to find a needle, and, more importantly, where to put it back so it doesn't stick someone in the eye while they are rolling around on the floor with the dog or the husband.

There is a point to all this.

As I have whined about since mid-december, I am having shoulder surgery next friday. The day is nearly here, and since I will be down (but not out!) for the count, I figured I needed a hobby. I decided to learn cross-stitch. Needlepoint. I can do it with one hand immobilized and it passes the time, of which I will have much. Well, the same amount, but it will seem different. Already does: It is sunday night and I'm not suicidal. I just don't think I was meant to work. Do you?

So, me and the girls (the girls and I) moseyed over to Michael's hobby shop because if I have a hobby, they need one, and Haley got a bunch of embroidery floss to make string bracelets and Nicole got a set of those knitting hoops and some yarn. .... Yarn. Wow. There is some trippy shit out there these days. I've been watching women working on projects (thus the cross-stitch idea) and they have any manner of string projects they are weaving into any manner of winter clothing. Not me. I'm afraid of string. Knots kill me. So, I'm sticking with the smaller version: thread. I never did take up macrame, when every hippie chick worth her salt had plant hangers and wall art made of tangled rope. No way. But there is yarn that looks like animal hair and angel feathers and disco sparkles and vomit. You can get anything.

Anyway, all of this is in preparation for the aftermath. A hobby and good pajamas. Pyjamas. Whatever I buy needs to be easy on and easy off. I should just get some mumus but I am absurdly fashion conscious. Pain will dictate fashion rather than the other way around this time.

And soup. Asia will bring me Tom Kar Mushroom. The girls will cook me whatever they can on lunch break, and my hubby will treat me to his cuisine in the evenings like he used to. He makes great spaghetti. Tonight I made french onion soup. I have been wanting it since Valentine's day. We went to Montage and I had heard they have excellent french onion on their menu. But they don't anymore. "Sadly," said the Maitre d. A convincingly forlorn metroboy.

So I have a hobby, jammies and soup. I'm ready.

My fucking shoulder hurts. It probably wasn't a great idea to go see Buddy Guy last night and stand for four hours bouncing to the blues, but we had tickets, and sometimes moving is better than sitting still with this thing. But it was so loud, and I was really hurting. And this guy, some aged hippie with gray hair to his waist, decided to dance. And it was crowded, and he was feelin' it, and had to get his groove on. And it had to happen in my immediate space. And he was seven feet tall with big hair and I shoved him at one point. Because look... I can stand there and be in pain, but don't bump into me. Okay? I had no effect on him. He just kept on dancing. I was so annoyed.

That's the weekend update. I'm not working tomorrow.

valentine oversight

oops. I am so married. I forgot to post valentine's day.

Here's my favorite valentine poem. It was sent to Cooky by her first husband, Sherman. She'll never get a blog so I'll publish for her:

If I give you amphetamine
Will you be my Valentine?

Simple, to the point. Appealing. The sixties were a simpler time. I would know. I was 12.

We had dinner at Montage and are going to see Buddy Guy at the Roseland Saturday night. A valentine's week. I had never been to Montage. The pasta was good, but the gooey butter cake was memorable. The perfect combination of sweet and salty and mmmmm. Montage is messy and loud and there were people in sweats and in red-velvet valentine hair-dos, long sculpted curls that did not move, would not move in this morning's arctic blast.

Arctic blast my ass. Where is it?

ahhhhhhhhhh

Me in the middle, walking down Eliott Creek Road, November 2003.




its over. I didn't keep the car that was behind door number three. Everything about that job was fiction. And it is over. Behind me. I got up this morning and didn't. Didn't get dressed, didn't scrape ice off the windows of the car that isn't mine anymore. Didn't drive to Mc-fucking-Minnville. Didn't.

Ahh.

I am sipping coffee, not on my front porch, which is my preference, but at this small desk, weather news in the background.

Once it was cold (view from the porch 2003:



It's gonna get cold. That's the news. I know, I know. I'm always whining about the weathercast. But it is february for crying out loud. Coldest month of the year. This is not news. But in the absence of something like the vice president shooting someone in the face, its all we have.

Dontcha love Dick Cheney? Isn't he just the epitome of power? When I behaved as though the rules didn't apply to me, I got arrested. Clearly not every time, or I'd still be sitting in jail, and I'm not suggesting Cheney should be arrested, but that guy really flies above it all. He just doesn't have to play nicely like the rest of the kiddies on the yard.

Well, enough political commentary for a non-election year.

The sun is out, my coffee's cold, and the most exciting thing I'm doing today is getting my teeth cleaned at 1:00. My shoulder is awful, still, and I hear surgery is a bitch. I am simultaneously embracing and dreading the idea. My arm hangs from its socket by skin and muscle, unaided by ligament, which is a real unsung hero in my world right now. Really, it isn't quite that serious, but it feels like it, and is the center of my thoughts most days, and spring is coming, and I can't use my shovel and that pisses me off. I'm planning to re-do the back yard so there is a pad for the pool (pavers) and sod for Sid to shit on. (say that three times fast: she sells seashells at the seashore...) and there is much to do. I understand that I will be out of commission for a couple of months, really, and the therapy is killer. But here is my plan: have surgery, get well, kick opiates, start yoga. It has been a long winter and I'm achin' for springtime.

What is the sound of one hand gardening?

The garden: post-hedge, pre-fence circa 2004




the garden midway taking the hedge down. This was the view into the neighbor's yard. Picture the cast of Deliverance.




The back yard in 2004 I think.

monkeys

Curious George is dead. Somebody killed Curious George. I don't know his name (the author) and it shouldn't make me any sadder than any other random death, but it does. I loved those books as a child, and have one of those monkeys in my truck. And the curious George lunchbox, and the Curious George-in-the-box the girls got me for christmas.

I love monkeys. I got a white one at a yard sale last summer. An odd looking homemade one. We have a collection of old stuffed monkeys my husband had as a child and one somebody left on the porch with a strange note taped to his overalls. I have one that sleeps on my shoulder, ever vigilant to a single missed step.

Here's a poem about that:

Junkies


Here’s to all you old junkies
still out there
keepin’ the home fires burning
the monkey on my back
only slumbers
light sleeper
my skin tightens
and leather begins to show through
my Eddie Bauer sweatshirt

on the other side of the other side of town
his porch is a minefield of
rotten wood and rusted nails
back seats from big cars
a water-stained curtain moves
slightly to one side

the smell of cooking heroin gags me
and I taste metal in the back of my throat
like a mouthful of cold pennies
syringes like tiny rattlers lay
ready to strike
veins like garden hose
hardened from unuse
give in

holding my breath
blood flags in the tiny cylinder
blossoming into
the warm brown liquid
like a dark rose
breath leaves me in contented release
and
just like riding a bike
I am home again


Anyway, I guess Curious George was co-authored. Look it up, I could be wrong. Sad day in the monkey world.

sweet endings

I was going to title this post "bitter endings" but it is sweet, really, to be leaving this job. As difficult as it is to fling myself out over the crevasse of unemployment, I will be better for it.

Anyway, the synchronicity of my shoulder surgery reminds me of a force beyond my own, beyond my knowing, that protects me from bad things. And the job was a bad thing. Bad for me. I lost my confidence, more than anything. The 15th will be my last day. I'm interviewing, but nothing yet, and I don't care. I just don't.

and the beating goes on

I am so sick of feeling like this that I am going to rant about it. No, I'm not. Second thought, I'll just write. You all know my arm is hanging by a thread that seems to be connected to every pain-related neuron in my body. Typing is beginning to hurt, and that is truly unacceptable. Work? Who cares. But writing, now that is important.

a. sent me the film of bennet, the smoking dog, which is always good for a laugh. this one made me laugh, but will piss off my peta friends, although I don't think the moron that made the film thought it through. He sounds regretful in the soundtrack.


We went clamming yesterday (what is the sound of one hand clamming?) and got skunked. We got one. a clam. one sixty dollar clam. (8 dollars each for shellfish tags, and gas.) the clams won. So we came home and had chicken instead. We timed it right, though. It was beautiful. A high and angry sea, any shade of gray, blue sky and white clouds, rain in the offing, sun setting through the clouds with rays like heaven behind it all. Since I was a one-armed clam bandit, I spent more time appreciating the scenery than looking for clams. They weren't home anyway. It takes a fairly good minus tide to find them, and low tide was at 5:30. We got there around 3:30, and clammed until just about sunset, but 5:30 was after dark or just at, and we didn't have light. I did purchase a set of waders last year, the kind that are lightweight overalls with nice, stretchy straps and footies made of foam that slide easily over whatever I am wearing and keep all water out. Out. I can do anything if I am relatively warm and completely dry. We went up to Mt. Hood last weekend and the snow blowing straight in my face exceeded my comfort levels. I am INTO the appropriate equipment. You should see the seat on my bike. It looks to have been made by John Deere. Comfort. That's what its all about.

So, today, we are having shrimp. Purchased at Winco.

Here's a picture of Nicole and Sid.

pain

I filled out a silly little questionnaire about friendship yesterday. One of the questions was about pet peeves.

Currently, mine is pain.

Yesterday I was not in pain for the first time since mid-December. It was galvanizing. It lasted a day. One day. I got a cortisone/novocaine shot in my shoulder and for a minute, it seemed like everything was going to be alright. The sun came out (figuratively, we're in Portland, don't forget...), my mood shifted, and the drive to McMinnville wasn't quite so unbearable. But it is not going to be that easy. The pain is back this morning, and last night, and the monkey that lives on my back, the light sleeper, is up and screaming for breakfast. It is a tightrope I walk, the abyss beneath me with depths familiar and terrifying, looms in and out of focus. And I starve the monkey today, as long as I can hold out. Surgery is sounding more appealing by the minute. My arm hangs from a partially detached shoulder joint, stretching the muscles of my neck and arm simultaneously. Something's gotta give.

nope

They didn't pick me.

Well, they did, but then some guy showed up who used to work for them and they gave the job to him. He's bald. That's all I know. He showed up just as my interview ended. If I was fatalistic, which I am not, I'd say it was meant to be, or not be, depending on your point of view. But there is no anticipating that. They want to hire me for another position. Okay. Whatever. Anything for a buck.

I'm hoping for a vacation between this job and the next, frankly. I may get it.

the waiting

I could write a book about this process. I am sitting at home, too nervous, full of anticipation about this pursuit of a new job. There is so much more riding on it for me than for the organization, and I wait. And it is only a job. I have had others, many, and like pippi longstocking always said, "Don't worry about me, I always land on my feet." Or is that a cat?

Anyway....

The tough part about waiting is the re-thinking I should have said this or that, done this or that, worn this or that, been this or that. And they will or will not PICK ME. My readers, my friends, my compadres, are certain I am THE ONE. I am not so confident. I know what I know, and am who I am, and so far so good. If I had the poem "Disclaimer" at my fingertips, I would include it here. I'll try from memory:

Disclaimer

Now it is not the best of me
that glorifies the worst in me
and it is not the east of me
that contradicts the west of me
nor is it just the first of me
has changed to suit the last of me.

the last of me has not yet been
the worst has never given in
or given up
or ever will
or even can
or has the will
to go beyond
the who I was
and still may be
and without pause
I celebrate the rest of me
I celebrate what’s left of me.

Okay. That wasn't entirely from memory... I had to peek.

So, anyway, I am waiting for this phone call. All Known Life hanging in the balance. And I have given notice. So I am out on the proverbial limb. I have said to others in similar positions, risk. Get out there on that limb. (the hum of chainsaw on wood behind me) but I do believe this is where the rubber meets the road. Risk is life. I hope they choose me. They should.... but they don't know me like you do.

I am working at home today.

Yeah. That's what I'm doing.

everyday halloween

We live in the Hawthorne. I think its why I like Portland. Now, I'm not much of a theme dresser--I wear black turtlenecks. I have 10. Three of them fit me. But I digress. We were walking driving riding down hawthorne last week, monday, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and in all of the store windows were mannequins dressed as, well, beyond the fact that they are all nazi atrocities and testimonials to bulemia, the clothing was so whip-me-beat-me that I thought it was halloween all over again. Ground Hog's day. I don't object to the style, I just can't wear it. I am so grateful that I know what age-appropriate dress means. I see women my age in belly shirts and low-rise pants and cringe. But walking down hawthorne, we saw an 80 year old indian princess, two or three librarians (you know the type: black hair cut with severe bangs, horn-rimmed glasses with wings like a 1958 caddy, nets and striped long stockings with club-footed shoes), several sluts, poor single mothers with 5000.00 strollers that weigh 14 ounces, roll uphill and can accomodate a 500.00 shopping spree at Walmart.

Here it comes.... I remember Marky's stroller. It must have weighed 25-30 pounds without him in it. He was one of those children who were simply reluctant to walk. I wouldn't say he was lazy (not until he was 16) but he just wasn't all that interested--takes after his mommy that way. And the stroller was one of the metal folding models. A goodwill find, probably free, and it got me through the first year. I was hitchhiking. That's how I got around in those days. Baby on one hip, thumb out, stroller full of laundry, groceries, garage sale treasures, you name it. Fold it up, get in the car. Get out of the car. Unfold it. Fold it up.... you get the drift. It was in the early days of public transportation in the Rogue Valley-- 1978-- But I didn't have any money. I had treasure... who needs cash? So, I was waiting for a ride, standing in the blistering heat of a Jacksonville day, sky as blue as a fair ribbon, too long in town, ready to head for the hills: my home. So an old chevy truck pulled up,'53 I think, so I unloaded my crap, and tried to fold up the stroller. It wouldn't fold. I tried and tried, exhaust billowing in my eyes, baby flailing around trying to get away. So I picked that stroller up over my head and flung it as far as I could into the Blackbird parking lot. That's when Marky learned to walk.

I also have to acknowledge the holiday just passed: Martin Luther King Day. Cooky and I were driving somewhere and she said, "Guess who's going to speak in Ashland for MLK day?"

I said I didn't know.

She said, "Martin Luther King, Jr. I heard it on the radio."

I said, "He's dead, Cook."

She said, "No, its his son. His kid. He's speaking."

I said, "Wow. That's amazing. I mean, here we are, in Southern Oregon, the last stronghold of the KKK and MLK's kid is coming here to speak?"

We sat there, together, for the longest time.

"Naw," I said. "That can't be right. MLK jr. IS MLK. He's already the Junior. His kid isnt' even named Martin or anything."

Cooky considered this. She started laughing, the kind of piss-your-pants laughter I miss so much about her. We laughed all the way to Ashland.

Each year I call her up and ask her who's speaking. Is MLK coming back this year? We laugh so hard every time. It never gets old. But we do.

interview questions

I'm still thinking about my upcoming interview.... Sorry. You'll have to endure my angst for a few more days.

I asked the corporate recruiter what the interview would look like -- questions they would ask, etc. and I thought you, my captive audience, could review my answers and it would give me an opportunity to express not only what i might say, but to also give voice to the truly unacceptable answers that might pop out if not given voice somewhere else. A vent, if you will, for impropriety. You know how I am, and underpressure, the whole "not caring" thing might get the better of me. I could decide halfway through the interview, for instance, that "fuck it" is the best I can do, and this would be based on a sideways glance that had absolutely nothing to do with me. An unrelated sigh. The wrong clothes. Somebody prettier than me. I throw in the towel for the most bizarre reasons.

So, according to Andrea the Recruiter, the questions may include:

1. What brings you to long term care?
A. A car.
B. I loved my grandmother.
C. No, really, this can be a short or long answer, and I think I'll try to keep it fairly short, (but I'll give you the full monty.)

In the early 70's I had been involved in a string of small robberies and was nearly caught. (Obviously, the statute has run out and I can tell you this without threat of incarceration.) So there I was, finally in need of legitimacy. A real job. Not drug dealing or petty theft. So Karla, this girl from downstairs, said, "Go to Hillhaven, they'll hire anybody." So, being anybody, I drove to the nursing home. It was a brief interview. "Can you take a temperature?" Mrs. Ingersol, director of nursing asked. I said, "Sure." And she said, "Be here at one." Then, as an afterthought, "Do you have any white pants?"

So, I showed up at one, in my white pants, and began my life's work. I wasn't serious. I didn't (as you know) care, even then. I was 19 or 20, and really an unfinished version of myself. Arrogant, drug addicted, but clearly on the cusp of something. So, they set me up with these two experienced aides who I was to follow around until I "got it." We went into this room and there was a man who, in my limited experience, appeared to be suspended from the ceiling by a series of leather straps. I hung by the door, staring, horrified at the circus geek in front of me. My trainers went to work on him, doing this or that, and ultimately, pulling a bedpan out from under him. I was horrified. They handed me the gigantic metal bowl full of human shit and I said, "Oh, so I get to do the good stuff."

And the man said, in a voice I will never forget, "Honey, if there was any other way...."

It is difficult to express the sudden onset of knowing that was contained in that moment: He became human, the job became real, and in my humiliation, I became part of who I am. His name was Gene Austin. He had been an army pilot and had the top of his head blown off in Korea, I guess. It left him quadraplegic, but his mind was intact.

And so it began. I have always treated arrogant young women who want to work in the industry with a measure of patience. I know what they can become.

Okay, question #2.

I don't really have that one figured out yet. It may be, "Why did you leave your perfectly good job last May and how do you have the audacity to come back grovelling for yet a second and better paying job???? Hmmm, biatch?" And you know, guilt may color my response just a teeensy little bit.
A. There was a car behind door number 2.
B. There was a car behind door number 2.
C. I wish I hadn't. I thought the job would be different. I didn't know where McMinnville was. Seriously. I just thought: free car, more money. But it is notable that I took a job without knowing where it actually was. I mean, I knew. But driving 99 day after day -- not so good. And like so many things that seem too good to be true: it was. The car wasn't free. The job wasn't anything like I was accustomed to. So. Here I am. Grovelling. Pick me. Everybody loves me, baby, what's the matter with you?

I hope they don't ask. It will be difficult not to be a tongue in cheek version of myself.

So, it is Sunday morning.

dreams

I woke up this morning disturbed by dreams I can't remember. I know I was giving gifts to people and they were the wrong gifts. Big wrong gifts. My dreams are not usually too mystical. This one derives, I am certain, from the fact that I sent my son a ceramic drum for his birthday. In my distant memory, there was a time when he wanted one. They are called dubeck or something. Anyway, we found one at Goodwill in Lincoln City,and I mailed it to him, late, in a box stuffed with goodies and money. At least I know he liked the money and the cashews. He likes the drum, he says, but denies ever wanting one. But he says it looks good in the living room and is fun to pound on. Ah well, there is always next year.

The job thing continues. I just got an email from my former boss that I am the frontrunner. I do not feel confident at this point, not yet, but it helps to know that. I am still competing with someone already in the company and it helps to know that is what I am dealing with. Next week sometime is the showdown.

windows

Here is my Christmas Window, in pre-finished state:



Speaking of windows, the window of opportunity has not slammed shut just yet. Finally, I did get called for a third and final interview, a panel of judges, the corporate heads. ooooh. But now, I am competing for the job, hoping age and experience will win out over youth and beauty. But what do I know. I assume my competition is younger, and, by default, prettier. But as usual, I am making it all up in my head. I am studying, and making use of the time until the interview in ways other than shopping. For the last interview I spent about 400.00 on clothes and wore my black turtleneck. As usual. Its what I wear.

Working in the nursing home last year at this time, was gruelling, but a homecoming nonetheless. And working where I have been since May, I know that I should have stayed, and wish I had. And the reason I know this is because I was writing more then. That's my barometer of personal contentment. I may write shit, but I write. Just the opportunity to leave this job thrills me and makes it even more difficult to get in the car at the butt-crack of dawn and drive halfway to the coast.

I am quite ill, bronchitis, and my rotator cuff is still torn, awaiting MRI results and surgery. I am falling apart. And the related medication makes me feel dead.

So I remain just this side of oblivion and try to get a handle on what little I can (food) and control those parts of my life left to me. A woman at the nursing home where I worked last year just died. The cook. She was diabetic and ate badly. I've been eating badly for about a year, maybe. Off and on. And I was doing so well. Her death got my attention. It is a treacherous condition to have.

Isn't my window going to be pretty? we're still working out the final design of the side panels. The big square of glass in the middle will probably become different.

New things

I was up late so am up late. Clinton street is already alive and happening. There was a huge party last night across the street and hopefully some of them stayed put, didnt' drive home. It was a quiet night, a good night to be home. We watched the original King Kong and it was so much better than the new one. I did like the new monkey, though. This one, the original 1933 model, was such a cartoon of itself, and I know that at the time he dazzled audiences and struck fear in the hearts of children. We have come a long way in the movie biz. Too bad we don't bring such monumental change to politics.

Not to change the subject, but who the hell is going to be the next democratic frontrunner? I am always concerned at this stage, waiting for something like the Christ-child to be born in Bethlehem to lead us away from this mire. I don't think he/she will or can. I think they are all the same. I heard maybe Tom Hanks and Bill Cosby as the ticket to beat, but don't want to throw political commentary out there ahead of the pack. I don't know shit. There's always Hillary.

I think Jack Black ruined King Kong. I really do.

Well, it is a new year, and in the spirit of all that, I will remind you that I don't really do the whole resolution thing. They are all the same: Lose weight, exercise more. I would like to stop saying FUCK when I'm annoyed, but I never do. I try to stop cussing, but sometimes there simply isn't a more succint way to get my point across. My (tiny, asian, female) doctor says, "Whatever you eat, eat less; whatever you do, do more." Great advice. I hate her. The Christmas 10 sits on the hips of the Thanksgiving 5, and I sit on both.

My shoulder hurts. My arm hangs like a deadened limb in need of pruning. I had an MRI last thursday and should know the cause and cure on Tuesday. Probably a rotator cuff tear and subsequent surgery. I hate surgery. I mean, who doesn't, right? But I can speak with some authority. When my appendix blew up in July, I was really hoping that would be the last time somebody carved me like a ham.

I also had my big interview Thursday and am anxiously awaiting their response. Anxiously.... very. I met with two women, talked for nearly 2 hours, and came away feeling good about it. But time passes and I lose my confidence, and can't imagine anyone hiring me for anything. I should write for a living. I should paint. I am not fit for public consumption. Poor me. But truly, I will quit my job no matter what. I will jump out on the limb and trust. That may be a bad idea, but I am considering it. Driving to Mac every day is not okay.

My shoulder hurts. Did I mention that?


As to my life, I received a letter from my cousin Reed on Thursday. He is an honestly sweet man, first cousin on my father's side: the somewhat saner side. Actually, both "sides" are fairly sane. It was just that my family was the anomaly. The black sheep family of many fairly well adjusted families. But I'm sure you know what I know: scratch the surface and they're all a mess. Some just cover better. We didn't even try. We wore our wounds like badges of some unconveyed honor: the proud, the poor, the mad.

The Drunk.

So, my sweet cousin writes: "You have disappeared from the family."

I have. Effectively. And I am a happier woman for it. It is terribly convenient that I fell dead-set in love just after burying my brother, just after buring my mother, and deciding unequivocally that I would not see to the final events of my drunken sister's life. I was done. I am done, still. Done being the family social worker. And I don't know how to explain this to dear sweet Reed. I guess I could direct him to this diatribe and let him ferret out the reasons for himself. I am transparent as glass. No secrets here.

I think disappearing at 50 is a great idea. Become someone else. We live too long anyway. Have a couple of lives. Have three.

But whatever you do, have a happy new year. And I think: the whole year? Be happy the whole freakin' year?

Okay. I'll try.

Endings

Amateur night.

We are safely at home, toasting one another with Martinelli's after a morning spent watching the spouting horns in Depoe Bay, salt spray in my mouth and on my blue Nevada hat. We probably missed the worst of the storms, but got to stand by the sea as it proved point after point: I am not in charge. I am small. I am here.

Happy New Year.

26

My favorite day: December 26th. It is over.

I love Christmas, but it really stresses out alot of people around me, and I am glad to be through it. It was a good day. We planned well, and had the big shebang at our house on Christmas Eve day. Nobody in this family really wants to participate. They show up and roll their eyes as though we all understand each other and endure the time together for the sake of the children. But the children aren't children anymore. They are urban waifs who do not believe in anything, nihlistic little wannabes who suffer tragically in imitation of the homeless, a slap in the face of the truly poor.... So it seems a little silly to go to the extent that I do, but I have my fun, and some traditions must survive my former life, right? Next year we will tell everyone we are leaving town and stay home. The food is ridiculous. Excessive. But I didn't spend much this year on gifts, and had fun making candy, except for my shoulder injury.... it hurts. My son was flooded out of his underground apartment two weeks ago, so his holiday was spent relocating, which I don't thing was a bad thing. Sometimes it takes a push to move on, and he had been in the same funky little place for a long time. It did mean that he couldn't come up for christmas, but then he probably wouldn't have anyway. This way, I can pretend that he really wanted to, and the flood prevented him from a truly family holiday. HA!! He celebrates the 26th like I do. In our family, my former family, the pressure to be the Waltons is so intense that the day is lost in imitation of something we never were. In this family, it is different, but much the same. I don't know what is right. The older I get, and the more families that become mine, I have so many versions of Christmas to compare with my childhood, which seemed so simple. But it was a simpler time. My father loved my mother. My aunts and uncles were intact families. We celebrated pretty much the same way: not much money, lots of love and food. Board games. Remember board games? We got Haley Travel Scrabble. She was happy for a minute. That was worth it all.

Today, I am going to do something I ordinarily leave to the stronger in the herd... I'm going shopping on the day after Christmas. I am not looking for a sale, although I wouldn't mind one.... but I need something to wear to my job interview on Thursday. If I get the job, I will have to wear suit-like things. Suits, I guess. I will try to find some way not to do that. I am already looking for the back door. I see myself trying to be the one administrator who is allowed to wear levi's to work. It is tough to be this special. What I know is that I really had it made in my last job. And I knew it then, but I had to get married. Had to. It wasn't a shotgun weddin'... don't get the wrong idea.

So here I am, Clinton Street waking up beneath my bay window, rain falling down down down. There is a mountain of laundry awaiting my folding expertise. Why does it matter that the hand towels, the wash cloths, this dish cloths, the dish towels and the cloth napkins are each folded correctly? Who taught me that? They are all square-ish, and really, who cares? And bath towels. In my opinion there are two kinds of people in the world: the ones who fold in thirds and the ones who fold in halves. Kurt Vonnegut said (in Cat's Cradle) that there are two kinds of people in the world: the ones you know and the ones you don't know.

I don't know.

clay rabbit

Since I've lived here, there has been a shop on the corner of 26th and division called the clay rabbit. I guess it went out of business and they moved the whole house today. The whole house: a huge, two-story, shingled house. We walked down to the coffee shop to watch it go by, but it didn't. Here it sits in the middle of 26th, waiting for the power line crews to make way.



I was thinking what a bad idea to move it on a windy day, but worse is coming -- just ask the newsmakers.

It is so cold today. Bitter. Windy. The Channel 6 Storm Troopers are anxiously awaiting something, anything, to report. It IS cold. But they promise tragic proportion, bodies on the roadside, car trouble. As I look outside my window, clinton street is bathed in the cold white sun of winter, and but for the wind, it is a beautiful day. I may eat my words.

We put the tree up last night. I am so deeply compulsive about how to do this. K thinks it looks like the presidential tree, which is to say it looks nice. But then, he was accustomed to dragging something home from the corner the day before christmas and letting the girls have at it. Which is fine. And sweet. But I have been hauling my hand-picked ornaments around for a bzillion years, and really enjoy the process. I have one ornament that my mother purchased with her first paycheck when she was 14 years old and an usherette at the North Bend Theatre, which was likely child labor. So, if my math is correct, that thing is about 70 years old. I have the first ornament my son hung when he was a year old, a little wooden boy on a rocking horse and I have real blown glass ornaments from when, at a later age, he was making pipes. Ah, how they do grow up.... I have icicles by the box. It is a beautiful tree.

I was thinking, as we sat in the biting wind, holding sid for a hand warmer, about moving, and how I wouldn't have to pack if we just moved the whole house.

later same day.... the clay rabbit house is nearing the corner of 26th and Powell (Not 6 blocks since 8:00 this morning.) and the ice is falling from the sky. We left to go food shopping and didn't make it to Winko. We were stuck on 82nd, Christmas traffic and ice stalling the whole thing. We turned around, drove back roads home through the neighborhoods, happy to have all wheel drive, watching pickups slide around corners. We stopped by safeway for coffee and creamer and brie, and crept home. Safe and warm.

rotator cuff

I have a torn rotator cuff. or cup. call it what you will. I believe it is cuff. Anyway, Sid, pictured here,



took me for a walk and jerked my arm so hard he tore it. So for the past month or so, I have been in pain. Now, on top of my recent complaint: the snot-fest, I am miserable this morning. I slept all day yesterday, and thanks to my shoulder injury, not much of the night, and am happily NOT, for a change, driving to fucking McMinnville.

My arm is numb.
I am waiting for the job interview phone call.
I am going to take the maxx out to hillsboro and have lunch with my sweetie.
It may involve shopping.

Last night, we got the free tree.



and, like asia, I was grateful. I set aside all of my consumerist perfectionism and decided a free tree wasn't so bad. And like charlie brown, I can make anything beautiful.

And then my husband says, "Does the tree smell funny?"
"Smells like mentholatum to me," I reply. "But so does Sid." My nose is caked with it and Sid licks my nose.

So I wipe off my nose best I can and get up close and personal with the tree. It smells like trash. The pig farmer said he'd thrown it on the burn pile with a bunch of other trees from the boy scout sale that didn't get sold. And it smelled like a nasty old burn pile -- a non-wood burn pile, like garbage and burnt egg shells--my personal un-favorite. I hate it when people with wood stoves burn egg shells and that is what it smelled like.

"Nasty." I said. "Get it out of here."

So on went the night. MY darling husband, of course, had to post it to the free section of Craigslist and we answered the phone all evening and put a free sign on it. It is gone this morning, and who knows who got it? Some passerby, I hope. I just hope it had been sitting out long enough to air out a little.

So, that's my day, sitting at the keyboard, looking out on a frozen Clinton Street in the near dawn of a good friday.

'tis

'tis the season. I have a job interview in the morning and I am sick. I have used airborne all season, and have been sick much less than ususal, but will fight no more forever. I've been exposed many times, and finally, it got me. I am okay. Home, feeling like I am playing hooky, but am just taking care of myself. I have written about this before: the level of self-esteem required to take a day off for self care reasons. I have supposed that it is related to the many times I did not take care of myself, kept going in spite of clear symptoms, and like a psychotic energizer bunny, kept on. And that balanced by the many times I fucked off perfectly productive days for no reason save self interest. Nowadays, I am not so quick to be heroic. It plays well with the general tempo of this narrative: I DON'T CARE. And when it comes to giving my 12 hours to that fucking job (as I have begun to call it -- the whole acceptance thing is so over I need a new word for over) that it is fairly easy to walk away and take a day to heal.

So, heal I will.

I am learning, though, in this job and in this marriage -- (the hunchback just walked by in his shiny blue fur coat) Some things I am in the midst of learning are: I am selfish. (Not news.) I am a little lazy. No -- that is not so true. I just really really don't like to do what I don't want to do, which is to say I don't do it. I lag. I whine. I bitch. I don't. I don't like authority. I like attention. I don't like obligation, but do best under some pressure. I am absolute. Absolutely. But not concrete--an important distinction. I do not often indulge in magical thinking, and I find that a little sad. I am rational. My world, for the most part, is demystified. Einstein (or Edison) said, "It is a miracle that curiosity survives formal education." There is much I don't know, but what I do know, or think I know, involves some fairly strongly held beliefs. I wish I was more magical. I wish I believed in something. Which is not to say I do not have faith. I do. It just annoys me that I do.

I am rambling, but it is my blog, so fuck it.

We are supposed to get a tree tonight. Some pig farmer from K's work is giving us one, and I am trying to be very conservation-minded about it and take it no matter what it looks like, but I love christmas trees. Mine are famously pretty (I'm going to try to add a picture:

well, obviously this is not last year's tree. But it is a Schwinn Apple Crate bicycle that we have for sale for 600.00. It is actually worth more. Will find the tree. Just a minute....



here is my favorite ornament



and another one



and an angel on top



So, see? I don't want some crappy pig farmer's tree that was leftover from the hillsboro boy scout sale. I want a DDT special. A brand new noble fir, fresh cut, billion dollar baby. I am a consumer.

So, back to politics as usual.... McCain says no torture, and Cheney gets booted off the committee. I believe we are listening to the next president. And the little I know about PTSD is that under enormous strain, people get a little sketchy. I'll bet he has PTSD in spades. He seems nice. But I always say that. I do think he'll run, and if he does, will be elected. There is no democratic candidate who could come close.

Is there?

tunnel lights

After a 12 hour, gruelling work day (I am cinderella), I came home to a message on my answering machine about a possible job. I have hope. I experience hope along many dimensions, and one look at my life and anyone would say, "that chick has it made!" But lately, it has been hard to find the strand, the silvery little thread connecting me to the great ah.

two new women friends - one just a girl, really - were sitting there waiting for me yesterday. me. and they had saved a chair between them, and I felt a part of that whole. finally. A year and a half later, and I felt that sense of belonging that has eluded me for so long. And it will slip away again. This i know. As they look to me and lean on me and I can't tolerate the leaning for long and I begin to lean back. It is as though their trust, their need, and the resultant obligation, just brings out the aloof side of me that I am so famous for. infamous. whatever. We'll see. One of them is very smart. I feel for her. There is no intellectual solution to a spiritual problem.

So, there is light at the end of the tunnel, and if it is a train, that's okay. It is illuminating the path for a little way.

Christmas looms ever closer, and I have hauled a couple of boxes of shiny objects down from upstairs and cleared a space for the tree. I have chosen and rechosen and rechosen the colors for my stained glass gift and my honey has cut them all out and it will be beautiful. Its funny. color is really difficult for me. this is my first foray into glass, or a glass store anyway (Cline's Glass on Grand) and there were so many choices. So many. There were rows I hadn't noticed at all. K says, "Oh, you finally looked up?" Yes. And there were more colors. And I had created this pattern, and it was supposed to look like rain, and so I got all tangled up in that IDEA. And the window will hang in the bathroom, which is kind of yellow-orange, and I had picked out this whole batch of teal glass, and anyone who knows me knows I hate teal. But some of it looked like a swimming pool, and it was entrancing. But I got it all home, knowing. Knowing. Knowing I had purchased blue glass because it is his favorite color, and rain is that color, and really, who cares if it looks like rain? I'm the only one who even knows what the pattern is supposed to be. It is quite abstract, as you might imagine. So, I admitted my mistake, and he knew it. He didn't care. Couldn't have cared less. Just wants to make me something I will love. And it could be nothing and I'd love it because he made it. But it will be beautiful, with faceted glass in a celtic knot in the center a foot square, and champagne pink around it, inset with glass drops-- rain ;) -- and bars of tiffany blue and pink marbled sky top and bottom. I'll take a picture when it is done. You'll see. Very girly.

So, that is my day. I sure hope I get that job. But the thing is that today was decision day with or without that happy little phone call. I had decided to quit the job anyway. I had finally arrived at something akin to acceptance -- acceptance that I am done, that there is no reason to take it further. I have nothing to prove. And that has always been the key for me. You can't fake that shit. Really. And it unlocks the cosmic tumblers like nothing else I know.

back to basics

Well, I don't really get how to do the wraparound text thing, but I'm sure it will come. I remember the first person who encourged me to learn how to type on a computer, and I said something very insightful, something encouraged by the lead pencil society, "Me? Never. Its fine-tip pens and yellow, thin-lined legal pads for me." And here I am, able to compose only in the shuddering light of a failing monitor. Time passes, and with it, my beliefs: about myself, about others, about so much.

I was so grouchy yesterday. It was a 12 hour day. A two hour commute home. Fuck that job. I just want you to hear it right here. I am nearing done. Stick a fork in me. Can you tell? And the thing is, I could quit. I am a quitter. Happily. I do have the money to coast along for a year or so. But I want to keep that money. I LIKE having money in the bank. Its a first for me. But this job is taking all I have and asking for more. I am a big baby. I REALLY don't like to do what I don't like to do. And the trouble is, I think, that the resistance really makes it more difficult. I am not a buddhist, although I think they have some nice ideas. I am a struggling, wailing, whining, white girl, living just this side of abject poverty. Close enough to smell the garbage that didn't get picked up because I didn't have the 8.65 to pay the bill for the third month in a row and now I have rats. It was like that, and I am not interested in living that way ever again. So I show up. I do. Like it or not. I go to work. And bitch.

I am grateful for weekends, for friends who show me how to press buttons and make magic, and now you can see my life. Its a good life. And 'tis the season, "Its a Wonderful Life." I a supposed to be grateful for my job, so I will be. Today. It allows me to pay the DSL bill. There. The beginning of a gratitude list. Oprah would be so proud.

We are going to see the Narnia movie. I read the book when I was a child, and loved it. I guess the movie is crappy, but so are most anymore. I like CS Lewis anyway. He described addiction better than anyone I've heard, "An ever increasing desire for an ever diminishing pleasure."

Yes.

okay

Alright. For the visual record:

haley at the record store



I think this is the kitchen, wall of plates.

the peonies in full bloom, corner of back yard.

my apricot begonia last year on front porch.

this may be nicole and sid.

nicole. she calls this one "woo"

This is haley's chalk art in front of our house.

I'm not sure, but I think this is kurt when he was seventeen.

.