I had to get out of town. Had to. I've been working for months!
I wanted to drive all the way down to Port Orford to see my sister in law. I wanted to visit the town where my brother died and see the art life, studio life, they live (she lives, he lived.) Joyce is getting ready for a one-woman show in Coos County. She is miraculous. My husband couldn't see the point of driving that far just to have a conversation that could be had on the phone. But seeing Joyce is an act of self love. She embodies joy and well-traveled sorrow and when I am with her, I remember who I am.
And to be fair, so many of my kin are dead it is good to see a live Kinney here and there, in-law or out.
As we made our way south, Haley called. As fortune would have it, she had the weekend off, and was to land in Port Orford at 7 a.m. Now how random is that? So suddenly, Kurt has every reason to want to be that far south. We found a room -- not hard in Port Awful, worst weather on the coast --by a friend of my brother's, so we got the pet deposit waived, met Haley and Steena, her lovely New York friend who also runs Northwest Youth Corps work crews, for breakfast at Hook'd. Clever name, right? It was awful. Awwful I just wanted biscuits and gravy. I don't know about you, but if I want biscuits and gravy, or any other certain thing, and what I end up with is terrible, I'm out searching for good b&g like a crackhead until I get what I want. These were singularly the worst b&g I've ever eaten. Alltime. And the thing was, the old, chatty waitress who was younger than me but old to be so chatty like she was trying to provide local color for the entire town. putting on the old fishwife act like she could nail it. From my point of view, there is no type for that unless you knew Paula Lindbladt in Bunkerhill whose husband died at sea -- or jumped if you ask me-- but anyway this waitress says "we really went over the top with our biscuits today, oh boy!" So my expectations (hook'd as I was) were high. And promptly shattered. Had I been paying for breakfast, I wouldn't have. We took off early and headed north the way we came.
On up 101, outside Lincoln City at a roadside perma-sale, we pulled over to look at the glassware -- I like bowls -- and Julie Rose was there. She is grandmother to Kurt's daughters. I'd heard much about her: bipolar, insane, violent, chased my husband around with a butcher knife.. blah blah.I've considered it. She seemed like kind of a crusty old gal, and to be fair, making your way alone on the coast for many years would wear on any person, mental illness notwithstanding... But we met, said our hellos and goodbyes, bought a bowl and made it to Seaside same day.
We drove 101 North through Garibaldi,
watching as the ocean ripped alongside us, thick, muscular waves, now
blue now green now gray, undulating, strong and dangerous on their way
to the open sea, to the treacherous bar at Tillamook Bay. Along the bayside were
small docks and piers -- fishermen's tinkertoys -- and I wondered how they'd stood
the pull of time and tide.
Once in Seaside we rented a hostel. How bad could it be?
Have you ever stayed in a hostel? I had not, but was so exhausted that I didn't care nearly as much as my husband. The dog's loved it. They love motel-life. Its always hard to get them back in the truck the next day. But it was small, cell-ish, spartan. No TV. That impressed me. And the guy, the silver painted mime-guy who juggles down at the Salmon St. fountain? He was staying there, all silvery from working the Seaside boardwalk all day long. It was interesting and had benches along the little river that flows through Seaside, kind of a tidal river, don't know the name. The bed was terrible but maybe better than the one in Port O, which was like sleeping on a twin bed with a giant marsh-mallow topper to make it seem like a queen.
We (he) awoke early next morning to clam our way home. The dogs were unwilling to get in the truck but we prevailed. The take was good, easy. I didn't know how Kurt's leg would hold up, but he is doing so well. So we had limits of medium sized clams within half an hour and home we headed, breakfasting at Camp 18. Oh man. I love that place. Great b&g. Kurt ordered a 6.50 cinnamon roll that I had to help him with.
It was good to get out of town, just the two of us, as we near the time
that Nicole is to move out of our attic and embark upon her own life.
The cord is strong between her and her father and it is a painful
rupture that I alternately welcome and fear. I hope our marriage can
withstand her.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Saturday, April 04, 2015
white powder and fifty shades of pink
Its now twice that white powder has nearly ruined my life. The first was more expensive in so many ways than this last. The people I had to deal with were worse: pounding on my door in the middle of the night wanting that one thing: more. And more. And, I'd gladly pay you Tuesday for a half a gram today. Remember Wimpy? Only his MORE was hamburgers. And then more became taking back the kid's Christmas tricycle or the vacuum cleaner.
Anyway.
But this time.
So, we've needed to remake the stairwell in the middle of our house for a long time (see the post: garret.) They were 18" wide and steeper than the back of God's head, as my old logger friend Darryl Buoy used to say. So in March, this sometimes friend of my husband's who tried to chop his wife's head off with an ax in Alaska -- it kind of sounds better, at least more culturally sound, if it happened in Alaska -- came by our house and told us he was out of work. So, to keep the domestic bliss (of course they got back together) in some kind of hellish equilibrium, he asked if there was anything that needed doing around our house. I said, have him do the stairs. He's a carpenter, right? How bad could it be? And the thing is, he gave us a great price. 3,000 for a job that was last bid at 15K.
Yes. Please.
As he began the job, I'd come home after work each day to sawing and pounding and grunting followed by, "How d'ya like me now, bitch." But there was no one in with him. No bitches. Not a bitch in sight. But Troy was big and friendly -- well, except for that incident in Alaska -- and able to do the demo work and framing. He cleaned up after himself during those days. Eventually it came down to the finish work. This requires a different skill set. A finer touch. As Siri David used to say, "You can't fix a rose with a hammer." He was referring to the tender soul of an addict, and he was right. But Troy, with hammers for hands, was a blunt tool himself. So rather than finish carpentry, he just slapped on a whole lot of mud. Pots and pots of plaster. He'd say things like, "Judy can finish it up with her artsy stucco." I am Martha Stewart, after all. No pressure.
So it finally came time to sand down the plaster and create those invisible transitions where lath and plaster meets drywall. Now Elizabeth, the little German woman who owned the house before us, who destroyed the Victorian built-ins: the glass cabinetry and crown molding, the indoor gingerbread, she had, in her zeal to modernize, installed a wall covering -- I hesitate to call it wallpaper. It is more like wall-cloth. I am unclear as to its ultimate function. It surpasses ornamental: this stuff may actually hold the house up. So this mighty wall covering which defies both paint and scissor, has the texture of a rubberized bamboo mat, and when removed, brings the lath with it, has now become more liability than asset. Mud won't stick to it. Troy's solution? More mud.
I'm not sure what the ratio of mud to sand is. i.e. how much powder is generated per square foot of mud, say, half an inch thick? And, what is the strategy for keeping it from infiltrating every single thing in the entire house, bar none. (Not true -- we kept the bedroom door closed, thank God.) It seemed lighter than air. It will ruin a HEPA filter in no time. Kurt tried to explain to Troy something about putting a fan on a box and aiming the fan out the open window, but he either didn't understand or didn't agree. We discussed tarps and plastic sheeting. I'm certain of it. Troy didn't wear a mask -- this seems important. I walk through the house and can't breath. I cannot imagine how caked his brain is.
So, I've spent the last three weekends cleaning white powder out of every shoe, every stack of paper, every electrical component, every single book we own. I have done so with damp rags,, furniture polish and an air compressor. I tried working top to bottom: starting with the ceilings -- my dust mop wrapped in a damp flour sack dishtowel and wiping down every inch of ceiling and every inch of wall, only to find that each footfall raised a small cloud of pure white flake, like Charlie Brown's Pigpen. I've used the ShopVac until it is full and my Dyson until it is done. Toast. I am traumatized.
Now it is time to paint, and my husband, ever the bargain shopper, has checked every Fred Meyer Scratch and Dent for mis-tinted cans of paint but all he can find is pink. Every freakin' shade of pink you can think of. He finally found a really good can of Miller paint, off-white, semi-gloss. Perfect. That gave us this great idea.... I'd go in and buy a gallon of paint, tinted to the off-white we need, Then, return it and say it was the wrong color. Then Kurt would circle back and buy the same can at a tenth of the price. Slick, right? (We really wouldn't do this.)
So we go to Freddy's to buy stair paint, good, high gloss, and again, can after can of pink paint in the return section. We told the kid at the paint counter our brilliant plan and he told us that the reason there is so much pink paint is that people actually DO what we were joking about. And Freddy's has it all figured out. Any paint that is returned as a mis-tint, they throw in a little red pigment and voila! Pink paint.
HA!
Anyway.
But this time.
So, we've needed to remake the stairwell in the middle of our house for a long time (see the post: garret.) They were 18" wide and steeper than the back of God's head, as my old logger friend Darryl Buoy used to say. So in March, this sometimes friend of my husband's who tried to chop his wife's head off with an ax in Alaska -- it kind of sounds better, at least more culturally sound, if it happened in Alaska -- came by our house and told us he was out of work. So, to keep the domestic bliss (of course they got back together) in some kind of hellish equilibrium, he asked if there was anything that needed doing around our house. I said, have him do the stairs. He's a carpenter, right? How bad could it be? And the thing is, he gave us a great price. 3,000 for a job that was last bid at 15K.
Yes. Please.
As he began the job, I'd come home after work each day to sawing and pounding and grunting followed by, "How d'ya like me now, bitch." But there was no one in with him. No bitches. Not a bitch in sight. But Troy was big and friendly -- well, except for that incident in Alaska -- and able to do the demo work and framing. He cleaned up after himself during those days. Eventually it came down to the finish work. This requires a different skill set. A finer touch. As Siri David used to say, "You can't fix a rose with a hammer." He was referring to the tender soul of an addict, and he was right. But Troy, with hammers for hands, was a blunt tool himself. So rather than finish carpentry, he just slapped on a whole lot of mud. Pots and pots of plaster. He'd say things like, "Judy can finish it up with her artsy stucco." I am Martha Stewart, after all. No pressure.
So it finally came time to sand down the plaster and create those invisible transitions where lath and plaster meets drywall. Now Elizabeth, the little German woman who owned the house before us, who destroyed the Victorian built-ins: the glass cabinetry and crown molding, the indoor gingerbread, she had, in her zeal to modernize, installed a wall covering -- I hesitate to call it wallpaper. It is more like wall-cloth. I am unclear as to its ultimate function. It surpasses ornamental: this stuff may actually hold the house up. So this mighty wall covering which defies both paint and scissor, has the texture of a rubberized bamboo mat, and when removed, brings the lath with it, has now become more liability than asset. Mud won't stick to it. Troy's solution? More mud.
I'm not sure what the ratio of mud to sand is. i.e. how much powder is generated per square foot of mud, say, half an inch thick? And, what is the strategy for keeping it from infiltrating every single thing in the entire house, bar none. (Not true -- we kept the bedroom door closed, thank God.) It seemed lighter than air. It will ruin a HEPA filter in no time. Kurt tried to explain to Troy something about putting a fan on a box and aiming the fan out the open window, but he either didn't understand or didn't agree. We discussed tarps and plastic sheeting. I'm certain of it. Troy didn't wear a mask -- this seems important. I walk through the house and can't breath. I cannot imagine how caked his brain is.
So, I've spent the last three weekends cleaning white powder out of every shoe, every stack of paper, every electrical component, every single book we own. I have done so with damp rags,, furniture polish and an air compressor. I tried working top to bottom: starting with the ceilings -- my dust mop wrapped in a damp flour sack dishtowel and wiping down every inch of ceiling and every inch of wall, only to find that each footfall raised a small cloud of pure white flake, like Charlie Brown's Pigpen. I've used the ShopVac until it is full and my Dyson until it is done. Toast. I am traumatized.
Now it is time to paint, and my husband, ever the bargain shopper, has checked every Fred Meyer Scratch and Dent for mis-tinted cans of paint but all he can find is pink. Every freakin' shade of pink you can think of. He finally found a really good can of Miller paint, off-white, semi-gloss. Perfect. That gave us this great idea.... I'd go in and buy a gallon of paint, tinted to the off-white we need, Then, return it and say it was the wrong color. Then Kurt would circle back and buy the same can at a tenth of the price. Slick, right? (We really wouldn't do this.)
So we go to Freddy's to buy stair paint, good, high gloss, and again, can after can of pink paint in the return section. We told the kid at the paint counter our brilliant plan and he told us that the reason there is so much pink paint is that people actually DO what we were joking about. And Freddy's has it all figured out. Any paint that is returned as a mis-tint, they throw in a little red pigment and voila! Pink paint.
HA!
Sunday, March 22, 2015
why I don't write
Like anyone cares.
In December, my computer died a slow death. I took it to my usual computer shop. "It's the charger." They know more than I do. "Okay," I say, and hand them money for a slick new charger with every style of plug I'll never need. I took the computer home and it died in exactly the same way . I took it back. "Its the battery." Their voices calm and assured. "Okay," I say, and hand them more money for a new Norton subscription and a battery. I took the computer home and it died. It is now early February. I'm not kidding. So I, slow learner, take it back, third trip. "It's the motherboard." This spoken in hushed tones: final, eulogyical. That probably isn't a word. So this means I have to buy another computer. So I hand them some more money and they sell me this piece of crap Lenovo with a keyboard that is so sensitive that I can't use it. CANNOT. So I take it back and by now they hate me. And I secretly hate them but have to be nice so they'll keep helping me. I used to have a sign on my desk at work that said, "If things don't get better around here I'm going to have to ask you to stop helping me." So. So I take it back again because Cliff, the tek wizard who has been robbing me for three months, can make my computer less sensitive. The way he says it is as though he is creating a special slow-witted computer just for me because I am so sensitive. Fine. Just make it so that every time I hover over the mouse pad it doesn't erase every word I've typed. "Okay," I said, "but I reserve the right to decide this isn't the computer for me."
It is working fine now.
In December, my computer died a slow death. I took it to my usual computer shop. "It's the charger." They know more than I do. "Okay," I say, and hand them money for a slick new charger with every style of plug I'll never need. I took the computer home and it died in exactly the same way . I took it back. "Its the battery." Their voices calm and assured. "Okay," I say, and hand them more money for a new Norton subscription and a battery. I took the computer home and it died. It is now early February. I'm not kidding. So I, slow learner, take it back, third trip. "It's the motherboard." This spoken in hushed tones: final, eulogyical. That probably isn't a word. So this means I have to buy another computer. So I hand them some more money and they sell me this piece of crap Lenovo with a keyboard that is so sensitive that I can't use it. CANNOT. So I take it back and by now they hate me. And I secretly hate them but have to be nice so they'll keep helping me. I used to have a sign on my desk at work that said, "If things don't get better around here I'm going to have to ask you to stop helping me." So. So I take it back again because Cliff, the tek wizard who has been robbing me for three months, can make my computer less sensitive. The way he says it is as though he is creating a special slow-witted computer just for me because I am so sensitive. Fine. Just make it so that every time I hover over the mouse pad it doesn't erase every word I've typed. "Okay," I said, "but I reserve the right to decide this isn't the computer for me."
It is working fine now.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
homesick
I am taking a day off. Two, actually. I can't tell what is wrong with me and won't take the time to list my symptoms, but let it be known that I am tired of medicine. Tired to death of pills. There is a new one on my growing list and I don't want to take it and I don't think I will. I know what ails me: an appetite bigger than I am. I hate diets. I hate dieters. I hate plans for living that are "not diets." I hate new ideas about food like paleo and gluten free and all the other shit that makes fat women act special at food events. As my terrible doctors keep saying: Eat less, move more. I hate simple solutions to complex problems. I like quick fixes and immediate gratification. There..Jesus.
My house is torn to bits. I have no home. We have stairs emerging from the ceiling, now, and a proper way to move items between floors. I think we finally actually, almost have a two story house with a basement. More to decorate, which would seem like bliss if I felt better. So, I am not at home at home.Clearly, this is destabilizing for me.
It is spring already, and this also concerns me. I know the foolhardiness of a false spring and planting early. I've murdered my fair share of tiny baby flowers. But this year, this evidence of climate change year, has had a false spring so long that the first day of spring is coming Saturday. I think it was less a false spring than a non-winter. My daphne is done, in fact, we're getting a second bloom; the bulbs are up and confused, the lilac is holding out for the right date, I think. She is the wiser of my perrenials.
My husband has nearly survived his time off and the surgery. He does more than he should, but he also seems more and more like the guy I married. It is good to see glimpses of him.
My house is torn to bits. I have no home. We have stairs emerging from the ceiling, now, and a proper way to move items between floors. I think we finally actually, almost have a two story house with a basement. More to decorate, which would seem like bliss if I felt better. So, I am not at home at home.Clearly, this is destabilizing for me.
It is spring already, and this also concerns me. I know the foolhardiness of a false spring and planting early. I've murdered my fair share of tiny baby flowers. But this year, this evidence of climate change year, has had a false spring so long that the first day of spring is coming Saturday. I think it was less a false spring than a non-winter. My daphne is done, in fact, we're getting a second bloom; the bulbs are up and confused, the lilac is holding out for the right date, I think. She is the wiser of my perrenials.
My husband has nearly survived his time off and the surgery. He does more than he should, but he also seems more and more like the guy I married. It is good to see glimpses of him.
Sunday, March 01, 2015
blonde and back again
I've been gray since August. When I had a little white mohawk, I grew fond of it, but it curled and fluffed into old lady gray with bits of white. At work I made funny jokes like, "when my hair grew back in after cancer it didn't have any bleach on it." So Ifinalllllly made an appointment with my stylist. Truthfully, she is my neighbor, and she walked past my house last weekend and I yelled from my porch, "Bleach my hair." I arrived at the salon. In salon-speak, which I never have understood, she explained that any real color will accentuate the spots of scalp not yet filled in by hair. Oh. Okay. So I asked in non salon language, "Can't I just have what I used to have?" The short answer was yes. But what I'd meant was blonde. Brightwhiteblonde. What she heard was: the color that lives under the gray. My natural color.
Make sense so far?
So, I leaned back, closed my eyes and waited for the magic to happen.
Or not. Turns out what lives beneath the old lady gray is a dark steely blonde, kind of like dishwater from cleaning camping pans. So, what I ended up with was an exact duplication of my darkest hair woven in between the gray. Steel blonde. She did a really nice job. She lives next door. Had I mentioned that?
So, after a rough night's sleep, I got up, drove to Target and bought a box of platinum dye for the absolute maximum lift. I got home, begged Nicole to help me -- this is her area, making people not feel like shit after stupid mistakes -- and she counseled me through the process. Midway, I had to take out the trash and who should be coming down her stairs? My sweet neighbor, Emily. I always thought her name was Abilene. Another story . Beings I was in a corner and visible, I was honest. "I couldn't hang with the dark ." She was so nice. "I would have done that for you." I assured her I knew that. I knew I got what I'd asked for. Only I'd asked in the wrong language.
My husband, who I now hate, says I look like a q-tip. I think I look better than gray. I just couldn't have gray hair. Not yet. If I'd come out looking like Asha, that would be one thing, but she's had white hair since she was five or something ridiculous.
So, my hair is blonde again. I will say that much. Exquisitely so. Now, instead of highlights, I need lowlights, but according to the specialists, I can't have them until tomorrow at the earliest. I'm learning the language of vanity.
Make sense so far?
So, I leaned back, closed my eyes and waited for the magic to happen.
Or not. Turns out what lives beneath the old lady gray is a dark steely blonde, kind of like dishwater from cleaning camping pans. So, what I ended up with was an exact duplication of my darkest hair woven in between the gray. Steel blonde. She did a really nice job. She lives next door. Had I mentioned that?
So, after a rough night's sleep, I got up, drove to Target and bought a box of platinum dye for the absolute maximum lift. I got home, begged Nicole to help me -- this is her area, making people not feel like shit after stupid mistakes -- and she counseled me through the process. Midway, I had to take out the trash and who should be coming down her stairs? My sweet neighbor, Emily. I always thought her name was Abilene. Another story . Beings I was in a corner and visible, I was honest. "I couldn't hang with the dark ." She was so nice. "I would have done that for you." I assured her I knew that. I knew I got what I'd asked for. Only I'd asked in the wrong language.
My husband, who I now hate, says I look like a q-tip. I think I look better than gray. I just couldn't have gray hair. Not yet. If I'd come out looking like Asha, that would be one thing, but she's had white hair since she was five or something ridiculous.
So, my hair is blonde again. I will say that much. Exquisitely so. Now, instead of highlights, I need lowlights, but according to the specialists, I can't have them until tomorrow at the earliest. I'm learning the language of vanity.
Monday, January 19, 2015
flu season
It hit today. Over the weekend, really. They've been heading out to the hospital like a flock of startled birds. We care for them, and about them, and still the sickness visits us each winter, claiming the old and unaware, the good and the better. We feed them banana popsicles and chamomile tea, we let them stay in bed like I did when I was young and had high fevers, thrashing in my bed, clawing the sheets like I was being chased by a bear. We get them boxes of tamiflu and hope it is magic and all its cracked up to be, but we know and they know that this is the thinning of the herd. This is life. Its what happens. They all go to heaven. I'm certain of it.
The staff get masks and vitamin C and disposable yellow paper gowns and hand cleanser with glitter in it, pink and purple bottles they argue over at shift report. They are so good to come and to stay, considering the certainty of exposure.
This is the hardest time.
The staff get masks and vitamin C and disposable yellow paper gowns and hand cleanser with glitter in it, pink and purple bottles they argue over at shift report. They are so good to come and to stay, considering the certainty of exposure.
This is the hardest time.
Thursday, January 01, 2015
resolute
Its not that I have a lot to say. This blog has never been about that. It is mostly a document of the mundane in carefully chosen words. I do love to stack words like beads on a string and sometimes I forget to make a knot and they slide on one end and off, the other, jumbled and meaningless. But now, with my next new job leaving me some space in which to consider my days, the things I see and how I see them, I feel more time to write. I don't necessarily have more time, I just feel it like an old chair that has been waiting for me all along.
This is my new year's resolution, to find time. I think you can only find time if you slow down. It hides in busyness and routine. If you are patient, it will bring you ripe oranges and chamomile tea and light a candle to read by. When you hang out with time you can do anything you want to, but be careful not to look away or time will slip by unnoticed and you will think you never had any at all. I don't think you can save time. Just try to spend it wisely. Its really all we have.
This is my new year's resolution, to find time. I think you can only find time if you slow down. It hides in busyness and routine. If you are patient, it will bring you ripe oranges and chamomile tea and light a candle to read by. When you hang out with time you can do anything you want to, but be careful not to look away or time will slip by unnoticed and you will think you never had any at all. I don't think you can save time. Just try to spend it wisely. Its really all we have.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
new year's evening
I remember when I was nine years old, the year after my father died, when my brother Doug and his first wife, Pam, lived with us. They had a baby and named her Pieper. Watching Pam get ready for anything was a lesson in femininity, a thing I was in awe of, that was just around a sharp and dangerous corner in my own tom-boy life. On New Year's, she was an extravaganza. In 1963, she had designed and made a golden mini-dress: a long fitted bodice made of some sort of stretchy gold fabric (lamae?), drop-waisted with a brief satin ruffle of skirt and a gold ribbon and bow between. Putting on the dress was just raise your arms over your head and slide into it and it was perfect. The lingerie was white and shiny and smaller than mine even then. Makeup took another hour, Twiggy lashes painted like spiders on her porcelain face. We kept the baby with us and woke up at midnight to rattle pots and pans and wonder what my brother and his beautiful wife were doing.
I never had a dress like that. Once I had a long skirt made of a re-purposed quilted black satin bedspread, covered with roses, that I wore with a red flannel shirt and work boots. It was fun to dance in. Once I had a beaded shirt from the forties. I still have it hanging in my closet, the beads danced off it long ago.
Tonight, we walked over to Clay's Smokehouse on Division and had smoked prime rib with slaw, home fries and garlic sauce, collard greens and garlic bread. Yum. Its a half-block walk from home. It didn't feel like a night for the half-block walk the other direction to the food carts. We have our standards.
Our Christmas was quiet and calm with gifts exchanged and appreciated. It is cold in Portland this week, it will warm in a few days and the rains will come back to stay.
Happy New Year.
I never had a dress like that. Once I had a long skirt made of a re-purposed quilted black satin bedspread, covered with roses, that I wore with a red flannel shirt and work boots. It was fun to dance in. Once I had a beaded shirt from the forties. I still have it hanging in my closet, the beads danced off it long ago.
Tonight, we walked over to Clay's Smokehouse on Division and had smoked prime rib with slaw, home fries and garlic sauce, collard greens and garlic bread. Yum. Its a half-block walk from home. It didn't feel like a night for the half-block walk the other direction to the food carts. We have our standards.
Our Christmas was quiet and calm with gifts exchanged and appreciated. It is cold in Portland this week, it will warm in a few days and the rains will come back to stay.
Happy New Year.
Friday, December 26, 2014
the greening
Rain is beginning to fall and the air has changed from fine dust to bright ozone, that lightening green just before a storm, thick round clouds pregnant with autumn. I want to buy pencils and notebook paper and little packs of kleenex. And clothes. Lots and lots of clothes in little boy back to school sizes.
I know this post is out of sync. It should have been posted when it was written, in September, but I was drowning then.
I know this post is out of sync. It should have been posted when it was written, in September, but I was drowning then.
review
Last year at this time my hair had just fallen out. I was to spend the next six months -- seven, eight -- in frightening uncertainty balanced with unimaginable support. I had cancer.
Now I don't. And it isn't just about how life goes on, or, now I see life more clearly or live it more fully or understand mortality like an old friend. For me, the astonishing part is that I'm back. Just me. In the midst of the surgery-chemo-radiation-doctor's office-lab stabbing roller coaster, I believed life as I knew it was over, that I would self-identify as a sick person forever. And I don't.
I got my port taken out June 30th and began a new job on July 28th. It was too soon. My body wasn't ready, but I was so so so bored. In the final analysis, that's what cancer is: boring.
On this day, Christmas Day, Clinton St. is right where I left it, leaves replaced by mud. Kurt woke up before me as usual, like a little kid waiting to open his presents. I caved this year and bought him camo things. I have been a staunch adversary of hiding in plain sight as a fashion statement. I bought camo jammies and a camo blanket for my husband to wear during his upcoming recovery from his upcoming ankle replacement. In his words, they are going to cut off his foot and sew it back on. Not far off. He is afraid, and I am nervous for him.
Today, I opened gifts of massage and colored pencils and books in a quiet home filled with Christmas light. I love it when my life is like that. It is rare these days.
Dinner was awful. Next year, remind me that my husband doesn't know how to cook prime rib. It was raw. Again. And my brussel sprouts were perfect. Again. Kurt's son Dave came for dinner and it made me miss Mark all the more. I wish he was here and I wish he wasn't alone.
This is my quote for my year. It is by Leonard Cohen.I may have made some minor grammatical changes:
Now I don't. And it isn't just about how life goes on, or, now I see life more clearly or live it more fully or understand mortality like an old friend. For me, the astonishing part is that I'm back. Just me. In the midst of the surgery-chemo-radiation-doctor's office-lab stabbing roller coaster, I believed life as I knew it was over, that I would self-identify as a sick person forever. And I don't.
I got my port taken out June 30th and began a new job on July 28th. It was too soon. My body wasn't ready, but I was so so so bored. In the final analysis, that's what cancer is: boring.
On this day, Christmas Day, Clinton St. is right where I left it, leaves replaced by mud. Kurt woke up before me as usual, like a little kid waiting to open his presents. I caved this year and bought him camo things. I have been a staunch adversary of hiding in plain sight as a fashion statement. I bought camo jammies and a camo blanket for my husband to wear during his upcoming recovery from his upcoming ankle replacement. In his words, they are going to cut off his foot and sew it back on. Not far off. He is afraid, and I am nervous for him.
Today, I opened gifts of massage and colored pencils and books in a quiet home filled with Christmas light. I love it when my life is like that. It is rare these days.
Dinner was awful. Next year, remind me that my husband doesn't know how to cook prime rib. It was raw. Again. And my brussel sprouts were perfect. Again. Kurt's son Dave came for dinner and it made me miss Mark all the more. I wish he was here and I wish he wasn't alone.
This is my quote for my year. It is by Leonard Cohen.I may have made some minor grammatical changes:
So, ring the bells that still can ring
Let go your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
thoughts on a dead queen's hive
I don't know if this guy Dave ever wrote that book. It was about the construction of the Applegate Dam in Southern Oregon, right about on the California border: my home. Upriver. He figured the desolation of the surrounding culture, loggers, hippies, ranchers, growers of green, would mean the end of something. He was right. I'm not sure who he meant to be the queen: the culture? the river? the city of Copper? the gold? But as we drove through the valley, bald eagle in the snag halfway up the has-been lake, guarding the vast emptiness laid waste by the Army Corps, it felt over.
Maybe its just winter, that time of wind-stripped trees and skies the color of unwashed sheets, stitches of birds darting across the horizon, off to warmer homes. But I couldn't get over the sense of waste as we passed homestead after homestead, good people getting back to the land in the forties and fifties, making lives for themselves in this rich valley, raising their children in relative safety. But ah, safety.
We, the children of these good people, the second generation who would carry on this good life, did not follow. Did not heed our upbringing, the lessons of our youth. Instead, we traipsed off to cities and back alleys and shooting galleries and killed ourselves for any kind of prosperity. Our own children scrabble up the sides of the holes we dug, in an effort to get out, but not to get back. They don't want to get back to nature. Nature kicked our asses. They want a tiny screen on which to live their muted lives, unseen, untouched. They don't even know that if you put a candle on the floor it will burn your house down. They just think the light is pretty.
So, I'm looking for the next generation, one that might still be entranced with the fog rising off the river, moss hanging in forgotten trees, who will build the next cabins, will save what is worth saving, and who will bring the Applegate Valley back to life.
Happy Thanksgiving. Sorry I haven't written. My computer is broken. Maybe Santa will bring me a new one.
Maybe its just winter, that time of wind-stripped trees and skies the color of unwashed sheets, stitches of birds darting across the horizon, off to warmer homes. But I couldn't get over the sense of waste as we passed homestead after homestead, good people getting back to the land in the forties and fifties, making lives for themselves in this rich valley, raising their children in relative safety. But ah, safety.
We, the children of these good people, the second generation who would carry on this good life, did not follow. Did not heed our upbringing, the lessons of our youth. Instead, we traipsed off to cities and back alleys and shooting galleries and killed ourselves for any kind of prosperity. Our own children scrabble up the sides of the holes we dug, in an effort to get out, but not to get back. They don't want to get back to nature. Nature kicked our asses. They want a tiny screen on which to live their muted lives, unseen, untouched. They don't even know that if you put a candle on the floor it will burn your house down. They just think the light is pretty.
So, I'm looking for the next generation, one that might still be entranced with the fog rising off the river, moss hanging in forgotten trees, who will build the next cabins, will save what is worth saving, and who will bring the Applegate Valley back to life.
Happy Thanksgiving. Sorry I haven't written. My computer is broken. Maybe Santa will bring me a new one.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
and the beat goes on......
In the morning I am Don Quixote, a three foot wide leaf rake in hand, slaying spiders and dismantling their finely spun condos in my path. It is late summer on Clinton Street and the baby garden spiders of April have once again become monsters in my path. Their alleged purpose is unclear to me.
Grass is turning crisp and brown, like walking on cookies. Portland has dried up and begs for rain. I water to little avail. I can hear my fuchsias gasping as they drink. More more more, their pretty little ballerina dresses sagging in the oppressive heat. We've used up the green and Portland is turning to dust.
Ah, it is sprinkling as I type.... the first edge of damp moves in across the city desert.
Speaking of condos: fuck the urban planning league or whomever is responsible for wrecking my life. You know how much I love my neighborhood most all the time. I know its been a coon's age since I've blogged anything but cancer whining, but in my absence, while my head (and breasts) were turned, Division, the narrow, funky industrial zone of a street, dotted with coffee shops and the occasional thai food restaurant, has become, in the words of Sunset Magazine, some kind of urban mecca. The line for twenty dollar blackforestham and bleu cheese ice cream cones from Salt&Straw winds its way past my living room window. Gargantuan neon-orange or lime and gray condos rise from smallish lots once occupied by ordinary wooden houses. The urban leaguers seem to think none of the occupants of these multi-hipster dwellings, drive cars. Maybe they don't, but there is nowhere to park in front of my house. Ever.
Since last week, a large food cart operation has sprung up half a block from my door, smoke wafting through the house from every imaginable cuisine. There is even a double-decker boutique dress shop. Jesus. It is exactly like living on NW23rd, for the shoppers in my readership who even bother to stop by anymore.
I can't let this post go by without noting the passing of Robin Williams. Shit. NanuNanu.
So, work. I can't yet articulate how I feel about being in charge of the wandering gentiles again. Mostly gentiles, I think. It's in Sherwood and very clannish everyone has the same shaped blue eyes kind of place. I am spending the weekend getting a more distant view of my responsibilities. It is impossible to work in the current level of disorganization, and is a physical illustration of the old managerial saying: When you're up to your ass in alligators it is difficult to remember that the primary objective was to drain the swamp.
That being said, I love it. I'm back, redux. The weekend receptionist is a sweet, lovely girl named Katrina. She is probably just nineteen and has worked there, like most of the staff, about five minutes. I asked her what I thought was a simple question: "Is it long distance to Woodburn?" she looked at me as though trying to determine how far away Woodburn is. I rephrased the question. "Do I need to dial 1 to reach this number in Woodburn?"
She smiled and said, "You know, its so strange. Some of these numbers work if you push a "one" first and some of them don't." She shrugged. "Wierd."
I am so old.
Grass is turning crisp and brown, like walking on cookies. Portland has dried up and begs for rain. I water to little avail. I can hear my fuchsias gasping as they drink. More more more, their pretty little ballerina dresses sagging in the oppressive heat. We've used up the green and Portland is turning to dust.
Ah, it is sprinkling as I type.... the first edge of damp moves in across the city desert.
Speaking of condos: fuck the urban planning league or whomever is responsible for wrecking my life. You know how much I love my neighborhood most all the time. I know its been a coon's age since I've blogged anything but cancer whining, but in my absence, while my head (and breasts) were turned, Division, the narrow, funky industrial zone of a street, dotted with coffee shops and the occasional thai food restaurant, has become, in the words of Sunset Magazine, some kind of urban mecca. The line for twenty dollar blackforestham and bleu cheese ice cream cones from Salt&Straw winds its way past my living room window. Gargantuan neon-orange or lime and gray condos rise from smallish lots once occupied by ordinary wooden houses. The urban leaguers seem to think none of the occupants of these multi-hipster dwellings, drive cars. Maybe they don't, but there is nowhere to park in front of my house. Ever.
Since last week, a large food cart operation has sprung up half a block from my door, smoke wafting through the house from every imaginable cuisine. There is even a double-decker boutique dress shop. Jesus. It is exactly like living on NW23rd, for the shoppers in my readership who even bother to stop by anymore.
I can't let this post go by without noting the passing of Robin Williams. Shit. NanuNanu.
So, work. I can't yet articulate how I feel about being in charge of the wandering gentiles again. Mostly gentiles, I think. It's in Sherwood and very clannish everyone has the same shaped blue eyes kind of place. I am spending the weekend getting a more distant view of my responsibilities. It is impossible to work in the current level of disorganization, and is a physical illustration of the old managerial saying: When you're up to your ass in alligators it is difficult to remember that the primary objective was to drain the swamp.
That being said, I love it. I'm back, redux. The weekend receptionist is a sweet, lovely girl named Katrina. She is probably just nineteen and has worked there, like most of the staff, about five minutes. I asked her what I thought was a simple question: "Is it long distance to Woodburn?" she looked at me as though trying to determine how far away Woodburn is. I rephrased the question. "Do I need to dial 1 to reach this number in Woodburn?"
She smiled and said, "You know, its so strange. Some of these numbers work if you push a "one" first and some of them don't." She shrugged. "Wierd."
I am so old.
Friday, July 18, 2014
re-entry
I am woman hear me roar. Two more clamming episodes. In June we did a one-day set, then last weekend, mid-July, three days of pain and clam guts. Now, I ask myselves, what exactly is it that I like about this sport? I do love the hunt, ankle deep in seawater, waves hitting me at the knee and nearly ass over teakettle, as my sainted mother would say. I keep thinking that clamming would be so much more fun if I could just get the water to hold still. But, christlike as I hope to be, I cannot yet calm the seas. My husband invited a co-worker out to learn how to clam and she was nice but her husband was reluctant to take advice in how to clean the clams. He said, "We've eaten clams before." Steamers? Not exactly the same. Razor clams are a special hell. So many moving parts. And the fukishima parasites were back. But, the take was good, the clams huge. I fried clams the last night and a nurse from the trailer next door rescued me with a set of tongs which I had forgotten. We have many many more to make chowder for a year.
Monday, June 30, 2014
road trip
I just returned home from my final surgery to remove the portal that the chemo drugs went through to make me sick and make me better. The procedure was painful, labor-breathing painful. Now I am numb. I also had the surgeon drain what we'd assumed was a seroma (an accumulation of fluid) but it was a hemotoma instead. It is still bleeding. I have a little advice. Most of you won't need it, but in this era of drive-by surgery I'm sure Amy Vanderbilt would agree with me: Don't wear white linen to day surgery. I bled all the way home. They kind of patched me up and sent my on my way. Driving. In traffic. I was shaking like a leaf and could barely get my breath.By the time I got home, my pure white eighty dollar linen top was drenched and the absorbent dressing, absorbed. But the hematoma is gone! My surgeon told me this is the rite of passage out from cancerland. I am happy to leave it.
We're just back from a roadtrip: Redwoods. Glass Beach. Mendocino. Time to get out of the house and drive through the deep green cathedral for miles and miles. It was Kurt's idea and I jumped at the chance. We took the easy way: car and motel rather than truck and trailer. Kurt and me, Nicole, Sid and Duffy, all in my car.
The first day we made it all the way to Garberville, the land of weed and little else. After picnic-ing our way south with a mediterranean lunch in the grove, Nicole and I wanted something light for dinner. Maybe a taco.
Behind the motel was a restaurant called Sicilio's. The sign out front advertised Pizza, Mexican, Seafood, Burgers, and Italian Food. Now, I know a restaurant that claims to do everything usually does nothing well. So, we went in, read the menu, and found no Seafood, no Mexican. It was pretty much pizza and burgers. I asked the waitress what was up about mexican food and she said, "Yeah, its pretty much false advertising." The prices seemed pretty high, so we passed and went on back to the room, then down to the complementary wine and cheese social, and settled for cheese squares and crackers for dinner. They had brie so I was okay. We had asked the waitress beforehand where we might find a good taco in town. She said, "Deb's has the best tacos. They're about five bucks but they're incredible. I don't know what spices they use but they are amazing. Go a couple miles down the road and blah, blah, blah."
The next evening we drove the two miles to find Deb's. The prices were incredibly high and we finally deduced that local income derived from weed had created an inflated economy. So I ordered the amazing taco. My husband, smarter than me, ordered a burger. When the remarkable taco arrived, I was stunned. It was a small, corn tortilla with a crumbled hamburger patty topped with chopped lettuce, tomato and cheese and a small cup of salsa. It had virtually no flavor at all. Except beef. It did taste like beef. I could only imagine that they don't get much of a Mexican influence in Garberville.
We couldn't pass through Fort Bragg without stopping at Glass Beach*. At first glance, all of the beaches were completely empty of glass. We tried the final beach off to the left, access was limited, with rocks quite difficult to climb down, especially for me, having worn my evening gown for glass picking. I'm exaggerating -- it was a long summer dress. After the climb, I sat on the beach and picked to my heart's content. I have a nice collection to use in my encaustic work.
The final morning of our road trip, Nicole and I were heading down for breakfast. Two crackhead women were lingering around the door of the complementary breakfast room. As we approached, they put on their act. "Did you bring your key?" The other one looks horrified. "Damn! Do y'all have your key? We forgot ours." I let them in. Who am I to censor the hungry? They followed us in and made up plates to take back to their cronies parked out back.
We stopped in Mendocino, wandered on the headlands and in town. Bought white chocolate with fresh raspberries, and a bar of espresso bean dark chocolate for Kurt.
* In the 1800's, the early inhabitants of Fort Bragg threw their trash off the cliffs at the ocean's edge. Gotta love the white man. Over time. the churning of the surf created shards and bits of colored and clear glass that sparkle like gems when wet. Over the years, folks have scooped buckets of beach glass until the beaches are empty. Only one area remains, and picking is forbidden**.
** Sue me.
mendicino
earrings
swimming
We're just back from a roadtrip: Redwoods. Glass Beach. Mendocino. Time to get out of the house and drive through the deep green cathedral for miles and miles. It was Kurt's idea and I jumped at the chance. We took the easy way: car and motel rather than truck and trailer. Kurt and me, Nicole, Sid and Duffy, all in my car.
The first day we made it all the way to Garberville, the land of weed and little else. After picnic-ing our way south with a mediterranean lunch in the grove, Nicole and I wanted something light for dinner. Maybe a taco.
Behind the motel was a restaurant called Sicilio's. The sign out front advertised Pizza, Mexican, Seafood, Burgers, and Italian Food. Now, I know a restaurant that claims to do everything usually does nothing well. So, we went in, read the menu, and found no Seafood, no Mexican. It was pretty much pizza and burgers. I asked the waitress what was up about mexican food and she said, "Yeah, its pretty much false advertising." The prices seemed pretty high, so we passed and went on back to the room, then down to the complementary wine and cheese social, and settled for cheese squares and crackers for dinner. They had brie so I was okay. We had asked the waitress beforehand where we might find a good taco in town. She said, "Deb's has the best tacos. They're about five bucks but they're incredible. I don't know what spices they use but they are amazing. Go a couple miles down the road and blah, blah, blah."
The next evening we drove the two miles to find Deb's. The prices were incredibly high and we finally deduced that local income derived from weed had created an inflated economy. So I ordered the amazing taco. My husband, smarter than me, ordered a burger. When the remarkable taco arrived, I was stunned. It was a small, corn tortilla with a crumbled hamburger patty topped with chopped lettuce, tomato and cheese and a small cup of salsa. It had virtually no flavor at all. Except beef. It did taste like beef. I could only imagine that they don't get much of a Mexican influence in Garberville.
We couldn't pass through Fort Bragg without stopping at Glass Beach*. At first glance, all of the beaches were completely empty of glass. We tried the final beach off to the left, access was limited, with rocks quite difficult to climb down, especially for me, having worn my evening gown for glass picking. I'm exaggerating -- it was a long summer dress. After the climb, I sat on the beach and picked to my heart's content. I have a nice collection to use in my encaustic work.
The final morning of our road trip, Nicole and I were heading down for breakfast. Two crackhead women were lingering around the door of the complementary breakfast room. As we approached, they put on their act. "Did you bring your key?" The other one looks horrified. "Damn! Do y'all have your key? We forgot ours." I let them in. Who am I to censor the hungry? They followed us in and made up plates to take back to their cronies parked out back.
We stopped in Mendocino, wandered on the headlands and in town. Bought white chocolate with fresh raspberries, and a bar of espresso bean dark chocolate for Kurt.
* In the 1800's, the early inhabitants of Fort Bragg threw their trash off the cliffs at the ocean's edge. Gotta love the white man. Over time. the churning of the surf created shards and bits of colored and clear glass that sparkle like gems when wet. Over the years, folks have scooped buckets of beach glass until the beaches are empty. Only one area remains, and picking is forbidden**.
** Sue me.
mendicino
earrings
swimming
Friday, June 06, 2014
the skater and public nudity
Since this blog is really just the news from Clinton Street, I have to document the skating man. He must have moved here about six months ago. He looks kind of like a pudgy Elvis Costello, probably in his early thirties. He is nothing like the ordinary youngish Portland male: metrosexual, skinny jeans, striped t-shirt, perfectly messy hair, black hornrimmed glasses. The skater looks like someone from the fifties with a wad of curly dark hair on top of his head and whitewalls over his ears. He wears tall white socks and long shorts (not stylishly baggy) for skating, which he does all day every day. To be fair, which I rarely am, he skates a good part of most days. Back and forth in front of my house. Back and forth. Back and forth. And he signals to no one when he makes a turn, using hand signals as though in a car, sharp, Natzi-esque motions, executed so precisely that it makes me think he is in some sort of competition. Or is insane. He wears a blinking light on his ass.
This is how bored I am.
There is much more traffic on Clinton Street these days. Division St. -- one block north -- is under continuous construction and has become a tourist destination according to Sunset magazine. It has hundreds of high-end condos with no parking, four thousand bistros, and Salt & Straw, the best ice cream store in the universe two blocks from my front door. Seasalt and Caramel. Mmmmmmm. Since Division is so busily becoming fabulous, driver after driver opts out and yanks their car out of the construction to take Clinton St, fast and frustrated, past my house. The skating man is in peril. I saw someone try to run him down yesterday. I didn't know which way to hope.
Anyway, Its D Day. What a colossal mess that was. Thanks to all the guys who died and who lived to tell.
Next day: Naked Bike Ride in Portland. I guess this is happening the world over.There are probably places that don't think it is such a big deal. We had the Clinton Street contingent saddling up about a block from our porch, so we sat out front and waited for the firm bodied youngsters and were treated to all manner of breasts and genitalia. I suppose there are all kinds of bodies represented at the main starting line, but our neighborhood looks fairly fit.
The most notable quote of the evening, "Dude, this seat feels so weird up my ass." Indeed.
I liked the beautiful boys with antique flowered doilies covering their business and one lovely girl with lacy black panties. Classy.
This is how bored I am.
There is much more traffic on Clinton Street these days. Division St. -- one block north -- is under continuous construction and has become a tourist destination according to Sunset magazine. It has hundreds of high-end condos with no parking, four thousand bistros, and Salt & Straw, the best ice cream store in the universe two blocks from my front door. Seasalt and Caramel. Mmmmmmm. Since Division is so busily becoming fabulous, driver after driver opts out and yanks their car out of the construction to take Clinton St, fast and frustrated, past my house. The skating man is in peril. I saw someone try to run him down yesterday. I didn't know which way to hope.
Anyway, Its D Day. What a colossal mess that was. Thanks to all the guys who died and who lived to tell.
Next day: Naked Bike Ride in Portland. I guess this is happening the world over.There are probably places that don't think it is such a big deal. We had the Clinton Street contingent saddling up about a block from our porch, so we sat out front and waited for the firm bodied youngsters and were treated to all manner of breasts and genitalia. I suppose there are all kinds of bodies represented at the main starting line, but our neighborhood looks fairly fit.
The most notable quote of the evening, "Dude, this seat feels so weird up my ass." Indeed.
I liked the beautiful boys with antique flowered doilies covering their business and one lovely girl with lacy black panties. Classy.
like any other day
My dogs are asleep, Nicole is in the attic, sleeping or applying for great jobs available to beautiful young women, Kurt is at work and I am getting well enough to be bored. I took down the drapes and washed them all hung them on a self-installed clothesline (dog run); shampooed the carpet so it smells more like us than the dogs for a minute; organized my closet and packed a b'zillion boxes for our upcoming yardsale. Be there!
I am hosting a brunch for the local women who have supported me through the little cancer blip on my screen (Nina, g/r and Asha, wish you could be here. Truly. Your support was and is so very appreciated.) I'm making two quiches, a baked praline french toast (screw gluten) and lots of fruity salads. And good coffee. Great coffee. Tea for the weaklings. And new linen placemats I got at a yardsale which will establish the blue and white Delft-ish theme which is very important to me. Gotta have a theme. And good linen. After all, I am Martha Stewart, criminal background and everything.
I need a job. The dogs are in danger of redecoration.
I don't think I'm getting the job I applied for. Shocking. I'm always surprised by rejection. I usually at least get an interview. But... the older I get...blahblahblah. It looks like they're hiring from within, which lessens the sting a bit. Am I ready to go back to work? How will I know? This job just came my way -- I hadn't started looking. So, I think I'll begin poking around to see what's out there.
My mother in law just had back surgery and I stayed with her the first night after surgery. She did not arrange to have help and knew she needed it. She did not ask me for help, but her failure to arrange help left her in a tight spot and her very elderly sister was going to fill in, "because nobody else will." (The sister can barely walk, falls at home, should be in assisted living, etc.) It forced my hand (emotional blackmail). I've been pretty clear that I'm not interested in being her caregiver as she ages and has various surgeries, etc. It is a slippery slope. I know I sound like a terrible person, but I've taken care of the elderly for a thousand years, including my mother which was my pleasure, but she allowed very little help. But this woman is not like the women in my family. She wants a servant. She is vain, desperately chasing the ever-disappearing tail of youth. Now, another elective surgery is coming up and I think we need to have "the talk." I am not going to empty her bedpan.
Why I bring this up, other than pure irritation, is because while she was in the hospital, a demented woman was roomed across the hall from her. I just fell in love. The staff were way out of their depth, behaviorally speaking. She had Capgras Syndrome- a paranoid symptom of Alzheimer's wherein the person thinks, for example, that her dead husband was there. A conversation may go like this:
Patient: My husband just left.
Nurse: I thought your husband had passed away?
Patient: No. Alot of people think that, but he's here.
Nurse: I don't see him.
Patient: Some people can't. But they have him in that phone. Hand it to me.
Nurse: (hands her the phone which she begins to dismantle.) Oh, no! (nurse tries to take the phone , calls for backup and sedating medication.) You can't do that. We'll need the phone. (power struggle ensues.)
Patient: (now very agitated, screaming) This is what they use (the phone). Now I know you're in on it...." and so on.
How it might otherwise go:
Patient: My husband just left.
Nurse: Oh, okay. What are we having for dinner?
To make matters worse, she had a huge mirror over the sink which faced her bed, so when two staff came in, she saw four. When she saw herself in the mirror, she thought it was a visitor. She called them angels. I recommended they cover the mirror. But they didn't. I just went in and hung out with her. Listened and laughed and helped her hands find something else to do as she tried to dismantle the phone and nurse-call lines. By the time I left, she was tucked into bed, her poor little blue feet elevated for a change. She'd been up all night. I think I'd like to have a job as a sitter in hospitals to keep the crazy people calm. I could do that. You just have to learn how to be invisible.
That's my week. Today, I'll find the strength to take both dogs to the p-a-r-k. Shhhh. Don't say it outloud or they'll stare at me until I cave.
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
clamfest 2014
Our anniversary celebration is always held on the weekend of
the best spring clam tides on the Oregon Coast. This is our tenth and the clams this year are
huge. A limit of 15, carried in my mesh sack, weighs three times as much
as in previous years. Fukushima. I know. On the upside, the clams glow in
the dark, so if you start clamming before sunrise, you. can do without a
lantern.
I made reservations a bit late, as is my custom, and we ended up in Venice, an RV park turned crack 'hood. "Venice" because it is set along the tidal canal that wanders through Seaside. Word has it that Venice used to be one of those upscale mobile parks that only accepted newer mobile homes, must-have aluminum skirting in place, no vehicles-in-progress, no faded plastic flowers in plastic pots. Well, not anymore. Now, an old woman with COPD struggles to breathe through her memorized tourist script, including how to tell if the tide is going out or coming in. We know this, of course, but were afraid to interrupt her lest she run out of air completely and fall over. I believe that she is being taken advantage of. The drunkards and addicts run amok, all stopping by her place daily, which is next to our place. I hear snippets of conversations, "...yeah, it'll be here on the third," and "No, really. I'll be out by the end of the month...." For all I know she's selling meth.
I can't imagine, given the general entropy of Venice, that she gets many cash customers. These days, any remaining "permanent" trailers are in utter disrepair and have become rentals. The maintenance man is drunk, driving around in a front-end loader/backhoe that the crackheads refer to as his hovercraft. No one has pulled a weed in years and the blackberries have thus far consumed the Spanish-style wrought iron trellis, a set of concrete seagulls and the compulsory wooden sea captain with their persistent, thorny vines. Crackheads don't mind the ambience. All the better to hide in plain sight.
As with any three day tide set, the first days are the best, because the clam beds are being revealed -- this is the first real set since last year -- so the clams are plentiful. By day three, they were over-picked and a small storm had blown in. No self-respecting clam would put up with such a beating; they stayed under the sand. We had to work for our take on the final day, but came home with 74 clams.
It was all work for me. With my right breast still smoking from the radiation burns, it was all I could do to get through the hour of physical labor each morning. But I prevailed. I will not give up my life. Not yet. And good news! A possible job has come my way. It is something I think I would like, and does not involve death except to the extent that human beings are involved. I am not quite ready to work though, and I hope our time frames can co-exist and they will wait for me. Either way, all is well. I've done my part and the outcome is not mine to fret over.
A radical hailstorm followed us back from the coast and tore through my sweet little spring flowers. They will bounce back. We finally made it home (the hail stopped freeway traffic) and I fried a big batch of clams. Kurt's mom and Nicole joined us. Nicole is staying here these days and was such good company during the post-radiation inferno.
And that's the news from Clinton Street.
I made reservations a bit late, as is my custom, and we ended up in Venice, an RV park turned crack 'hood. "Venice" because it is set along the tidal canal that wanders through Seaside. Word has it that Venice used to be one of those upscale mobile parks that only accepted newer mobile homes, must-have aluminum skirting in place, no vehicles-in-progress, no faded plastic flowers in plastic pots. Well, not anymore. Now, an old woman with COPD struggles to breathe through her memorized tourist script, including how to tell if the tide is going out or coming in. We know this, of course, but were afraid to interrupt her lest she run out of air completely and fall over. I believe that she is being taken advantage of. The drunkards and addicts run amok, all stopping by her place daily, which is next to our place. I hear snippets of conversations, "...yeah, it'll be here on the third," and "No, really. I'll be out by the end of the month...." For all I know she's selling meth.
I can't imagine, given the general entropy of Venice, that she gets many cash customers. These days, any remaining "permanent" trailers are in utter disrepair and have become rentals. The maintenance man is drunk, driving around in a front-end loader/backhoe that the crackheads refer to as his hovercraft. No one has pulled a weed in years and the blackberries have thus far consumed the Spanish-style wrought iron trellis, a set of concrete seagulls and the compulsory wooden sea captain with their persistent, thorny vines. Crackheads don't mind the ambience. All the better to hide in plain sight.
As with any three day tide set, the first days are the best, because the clam beds are being revealed -- this is the first real set since last year -- so the clams are plentiful. By day three, they were over-picked and a small storm had blown in. No self-respecting clam would put up with such a beating; they stayed under the sand. We had to work for our take on the final day, but came home with 74 clams.
It was all work for me. With my right breast still smoking from the radiation burns, it was all I could do to get through the hour of physical labor each morning. But I prevailed. I will not give up my life. Not yet. And good news! A possible job has come my way. It is something I think I would like, and does not involve death except to the extent that human beings are involved. I am not quite ready to work though, and I hope our time frames can co-exist and they will wait for me. Either way, all is well. I've done my part and the outcome is not mine to fret over.
A radical hailstorm followed us back from the coast and tore through my sweet little spring flowers. They will bounce back. We finally made it home (the hail stopped freeway traffic) and I fried a big batch of clams. Kurt's mom and Nicole joined us. Nicole is staying here these days and was such good company during the post-radiation inferno.
And that's the news from Clinton Street.
Friday, May 09, 2014
over
I am now in the surreal place of having completed cancer treatment. Eight months have passed with little participation from me except survival efforts. Important, to be sure. My breast is like an eight pound Judyroast that seems a bit on the well-done side. Pain is unignorable. I realize this is not a word, but it is my current experience. My MD said, "You are doing as expected given your anatomy." Read: more tissue = more trouble. The right breast, the one reduced by surgery, is now nearly twice the size of the left. The skin on skin truth of my anatomy offers many square inches of tenderness now occupied by searing, weeping flesh.
Enough.
My arm is responding well to the compression garment and I am being fitted for a permanent sleeve. Being a chicken about tattoos, I'll decorate my sleeve instead.
Enough.
My arm is responding well to the compression garment and I am being fitted for a permanent sleeve. Being a chicken about tattoos, I'll decorate my sleeve instead.
Thursday, May 01, 2014
radiation, succulents and anniversaries
Down in the bowels of Providence hospital, beyond the bounds of cell service, we arrive, one after the other, for our daily dose of cell-killing rays. We sit and wait our turns. I've been showing up earlier to grab a cup of coffee with an older couple who like to chat. We all have our stories. She got to keep her hair, I didn't. I miss my hair most of all. It hasn't really started growing back yet. I hope it will. I have lymph edema in my right arm because the lymph fluid can't find its way back to my heart since the surgery. Instead, it leaks out my eyes and I bloat up like a whale. I have physical therapy appointments, radiation appointments, and any day without one is a gift. I want to sleep, but life calls me. I have a garden, after all.
Today the physical therapist said (of the edema), "Well, since this is something you'll have to manage for the rest of your life, blah blah blah." I pretty much stopped hearing at that point. "What?" I may have yelled. "The rest of my life?" "Yes," she said, very nicely, "It is incurable." Was anyone going to tell me this? I've had it for months. Now, turns out I have to wear an arm length ace bandage-ish thing, two of them on top of each other, to get the swelling down to the point where they can make a permanent one for me. f-o-r-e-v-e-r. What a bonus, eh? And now, in addition to breast-shrivelling radiation, I get a permanent elastic sleeve to wear. Even in the sun, which has been out for two consecutive days, only to slink back to wherever it goes when it isn't in Portland.
Next topic: For ten years we have been fighting a battle to maintain a spot of lawn in our backyard. Just a little bit. Ten by ten. And each year we begin anew, sod or seed, it doesn't matter. We plant, water, baby along the soft green fuzz, and enjoy it for the summer. But each year, the encroaching moss takes more than its fair share and gobbles up the grass. This year has been darker and wetter than usual, which, for Portland, is saying something. The interminable, dreary gray of day after day after day has invited a moss revival. We finally gave up. The moss won. I wasn't sure what I would do in the absence of grass, but decided on a rock and moss-like plant garden instead. As it happens, as soon as I made this decision, my cousin, who had just moved from inner Portland out to the Sandy River (their place is lovely -- their own state park complete with waterfalls and river frontage) she no longer had a need to landscape the place, so she gave me nine flat stones, each about the size of a very large coffee-table book each. No -- they're bigger. About two of those books side by side. Anyway, they are big. So now it is a design question. I've considered placing the stones in a circle; making a path to nowhere? Well, its too late for input. Time has passed, it is now two weeks later and the path is laid. I decided to be practical for once instead of purely ornamental. I made the path to correspond where I walk when I water. That way, all of the "steppable" plants I have planted (I think I got one of everything) won't get crushed and die when "stepped" on.
So, today is our 10th Wedding Anniversary, We took a long drive through the gorge and the waterfalls and around the base of Mt. Hood. I stole a big chunk of moss from one of the waterfall parks. Horsetail Falls. It was already on the pavement and sprouting ferns. Not exactly theft, but I'm still glad we weren't accosted by the tour bus of elders from "Friends of the Gorge."
Ten years of marriage and I am so happy. This past year has been a beautiful demonstration of our commitment to each other. He kisses my bald head and tells me I'm beautiful. Always marry a liar.
Today the physical therapist said (of the edema), "Well, since this is something you'll have to manage for the rest of your life, blah blah blah." I pretty much stopped hearing at that point. "What?" I may have yelled. "The rest of my life?" "Yes," she said, very nicely, "It is incurable." Was anyone going to tell me this? I've had it for months. Now, turns out I have to wear an arm length ace bandage-ish thing, two of them on top of each other, to get the swelling down to the point where they can make a permanent one for me. f-o-r-e-v-e-r. What a bonus, eh? And now, in addition to breast-shrivelling radiation, I get a permanent elastic sleeve to wear. Even in the sun, which has been out for two consecutive days, only to slink back to wherever it goes when it isn't in Portland.
Next topic: For ten years we have been fighting a battle to maintain a spot of lawn in our backyard. Just a little bit. Ten by ten. And each year we begin anew, sod or seed, it doesn't matter. We plant, water, baby along the soft green fuzz, and enjoy it for the summer. But each year, the encroaching moss takes more than its fair share and gobbles up the grass. This year has been darker and wetter than usual, which, for Portland, is saying something. The interminable, dreary gray of day after day after day has invited a moss revival. We finally gave up. The moss won. I wasn't sure what I would do in the absence of grass, but decided on a rock and moss-like plant garden instead. As it happens, as soon as I made this decision, my cousin, who had just moved from inner Portland out to the Sandy River (their place is lovely -- their own state park complete with waterfalls and river frontage) she no longer had a need to landscape the place, so she gave me nine flat stones, each about the size of a very large coffee-table book each. No -- they're bigger. About two of those books side by side. Anyway, they are big. So now it is a design question. I've considered placing the stones in a circle; making a path to nowhere? Well, its too late for input. Time has passed, it is now two weeks later and the path is laid. I decided to be practical for once instead of purely ornamental. I made the path to correspond where I walk when I water. That way, all of the "steppable" plants I have planted (I think I got one of everything) won't get crushed and die when "stepped" on.
So, today is our 10th Wedding Anniversary, We took a long drive through the gorge and the waterfalls and around the base of Mt. Hood. I stole a big chunk of moss from one of the waterfall parks. Horsetail Falls. It was already on the pavement and sprouting ferns. Not exactly theft, but I'm still glad we weren't accosted by the tour bus of elders from "Friends of the Gorge."
Ten years of marriage and I am so happy. This past year has been a beautiful demonstration of our commitment to each other. He kisses my bald head and tells me I'm beautiful. Always marry a liar.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
news poetry
I am home daily, watching daytime TV instead of writing for my life. There is much to complain about, but I won't embarrass myself by outlining the shortcomings of Kelly Rippa or Ozzie Osbourne's wife. Its the news that drives me mad. Here's a tiny example: "She was released from prison after 28 years and her family released its joy." Do they need an editor? Is the news so pressing it has to go out for wholesale consumption before anyone can reel it back in for a literary check? Or, conversely, is the news so bland that journalistic poetry might save it? Might keep consumers from seeking straight talk on the web? I'm just wondering.
The other menace is the barrage of pre-news questions posed by newscasters: "What did one family find in its closet that left claw marks on the front door? We'll let you know on our midnight newscast." Why do they do this? Do they really think their questions are so intriguing that we'll stay riveted to our 50" screens until the tell us it was a cat? Maybe they do. Maybe we will.
I feel better now.
The other menace is the barrage of pre-news questions posed by newscasters: "What did one family find in its closet that left claw marks on the front door? We'll let you know on our midnight newscast." Why do they do this? Do they really think their questions are so intriguing that we'll stay riveted to our 50" screens until the tell us it was a cat? Maybe they do. Maybe we will.
I feel better now.
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