May Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot

New Year's Eve, the birthday of Anthony Hopkins (70) and a guy I used to date in Florida (56), and somewhere in the world, my Brazilian pal Suzanne is remembering the same 1999 into 2000 New Year's Eve we spent partying like it was 1999, knowing we were going ahead into the new millennium in different directions, this night would not happen again. She was more stuck in Florida than I was, and was frankly jealous I was planning on moving to Oregon. We got to be really close friends while working together at the B-store in Boca, then when I left in July she never returned my emails or calls. Mutual friends said she had taken on her own store, was buried in work, and had to cut some ties. I understood, I'd done it myself. But I hate when great people leave my life. Tonight I'm not partying at all, I'm doing a Martha Stewart, baking date corn muffins and knitting a new black tweed wool cardigan, and the nutmeg is wafting into the living room just about now. I have an early appointment tomorrow.

My other blast of the past situation is playing out in the morning, Jasmine Tree Girl emailed me that she wants to hash out the relationship breakdown from the summer of 2005, and I said okay. My other friends have cautioned me, that this may not be recoverable, and I'm full of apprehension about having this chat, but don't feel I have any illusions about reviving our formerly sisterhood connection. I can predict that she'll not like what I have to say about it, and the whole thing may conclude for good by noon. Or, she may surprise me, it may make sense to her after all, and we can take a few steps forward in a fresh start in 2008.

Starting this blog last year about this time, I was facing a huge new threshold, a big expanse of unknown, and was paddling as fast as I could to conclude the heavy work of closing my stores and taking care of my people. It was easier for me to stay occupied with all of that and set aside my own coping until February 1st 2007, when I would be officially unemployed. As I've written about here, and spent hours and days re-examining, there's been so much discovery and release of old burdens this past year, and I am really happy where the past 12 months have brought me. Having this woman choose to contact me right now, and want to resolve things right now, I just don't want to get bogged down by something I was feeling settled with. Do we really have to excavate this whole thing now? I don't even care anymore if she understands my perspective like I did at the beginning, I don't need her to say I'm right or even agree about any of it. But she wants to understand more, and I'm going along, I guess for old time's sake. Either way, finish it up and keep moving, that's where I am about it all. Then drive to the gym and sink into the eucalyptus steam. Happy Spa New Year.

The muffins are out of the oven now, OMG, sometimes I forget what a great baker I can still be sometimes. I think I'm going to do more baking in the new year, brownies and muffins have been well received in the last few weeks, and it makes the morning coffee ritual so much more nurturing. And fortifying for the trek into the haunted house in a few hours...

Happy New 2008, new risks, new rewards, new journeys, new friends, continued happiness. Starting the Official Countdown to Porch Days 2008, 89 days away, or the first sunny days above 50 degrees, which ever comes first.

Lighten Up, Hon...

Okay okay, here's some chili con carne for us all.

Mr Torso and Aqua Girl were at the pool this morning, outdoing each other in the fast lap lanes, lots of camaraderie and coaching. (oh brother) He had been there Friday with one of the other Betty or Veronicas he shows up with now and then, which is more shy teasing and wow, you're greats. (yech)

As is his wont, after finishing his 90 minutes of laps, he emerges fully formed from the azure depths and relaxes his godly form in the pit of fiery waters, more to converse with we mortals that are his pitiful subjects. (verily) As surely he is omniscient and omnipotent (stop) Mr Torso, God, steps slowly down the tiled stairs, adjusting the strap on his tinted godly goggles, finally reaching the floor of the turbulent flaming pool, he takes a deep breath, and stands there glorious. Not moving. For an interminable time (like 20 or 30 seconds). As the water ebbed to the top of his loose fitting, low-slung swim trunks, my gaze worked slowly up the Elysium Fields of his heavenly torso like the hands of a newly blinded sculptor. Held captive by his loveliness, he stood there immobile before me in more humbling magnificence than the Monolith of 2001: Space Odyssey (cue soundtrack) The chatter of the other mortal subjects fell silent. Then, he lowered himself to the benchseat, the whirlpools of Charybdis overtaking the golden fleece in a temporary victory. His eyes closed in elegant repose. (breathe)

What is up with this guy??? I veer from "Thus Spake Zarathustra" to the acoustic guitar intro of Simon and Garfunkel's "Mrs Robinson" in less than three seconds. Someone suggested he reads my blog and is jerking my chain. Well, he is definitely jerking my chain, I doubt he reads this blog, but I don't doubt that he is fully aware of his affect on women of all ages and is juicing that to the max. Why oh why (but thank you) does he stand in front of me like that, literally 18 inches from me, and just stand there, up to his waist in hot water? When he gets out of the hot tub, we all watch him go up the steps, and turn right to (side elevation view) go to the sauna, then we look at each other and smile, roll our eyes and a few older ladies even giggle "I'm not dead yet, Ruth" so he has to be doing this on purpose, right?


Why do I care? Well, he's a beautiful man, and although has the body Michaelangelo might have made, he's not as petulant as David (who's always looked kinda 'Hey Sailor' to me) and has that amazingly perfect turfscape. And the being 18 inches from nearsighted me aspect. He's consistent, and never lets the sheilas keep him from his workout. Everyday, even on Sundays. I like that. I'll miss him, now that class will fill up my mornings, only Saturday and Sunday mornings will be my windows of breath-taking scenic vistas. Alas...

I think I saw him dressed once, wearing his little homeboy baggies and a brimmed cap on his shaved head, hoodie and silly shoes, talking to one of the very young women at the front desk. Call me superficial, but he was doing too good a job of hiding in plain sight, masking his magic. As I came in the front door, I brazenly walked up to the desk, looked him in the eye, and gave him a flirty smile. It may have been him, I don't know, he had his baggy shirt on.

It's Not About the House

House Envy---

It's ugly, petty, beneath me, and merely a distracting symptom from the real issue.

I'm not a monetarily successful middle aged woman. Meaning, I did not succeed at a high-paying, high-powered job, was not "old money", didn't inherit it, marry it or work to support a man who would reward me with establishing a lucrative practice then bequeath me a hefty divorce settlement and child support---god, I did it all wrong. Can this pitiful life be saved? Is it too late now?

Some of my friends have politely asked me how the lunch with long-lost Jasmine Tree Girl went, what's next now, are the edges mended?

It's been two weeks already, and I'm finally almost done sorting through all the upturned earth that day left behind for me, and seeing what's there. And like I said, it's not about the house, and I'm not jealous of her (though I have been in the past), it's about seeing my life in her mirror of success and being much more Shabby than Chic after traveling much of the same road with her, we began in the same place, in the same restaurant kitchen job. We made such different choices and arrived in the same town again, but it looks so differently. I mean, a woman doesn't usually say to herself, 'Wow, how can I financially sabotage my life? Let's do this,' does she? I never did anyway, but I also very seldom said, 'What is the Biggest Money route here? I'll do that,' either.

J.T.G.'s new house is a 1920's bungalow showcase. She and her husband have slaved on it for over a year, and they've done a beautiful job. He brought funds, she already owned a house, they combined strengths and created this dream home. I loved it, and can see the labor of love and commitment it is, they have fine taste, and have made it their home together. Both of them have jobs that take them away from it for such long days, that it's their retreat and sanctuary on Sundays when they cocoon and sleep. They nurture each other there and it shows in each unique detail of cabinet, glass, color, fabric and light.

Is this what they call "settling down"? Adulthood? I told a friend that for a while I felt like I had walked into an episode of "thirtysomething" and was the impractical, whimsical artsy chick and Hope's older sister and I were chatting while Hope was making tea in the stainless-cherry-granite kitchen Michael had restored with Craftsman details. It felt like a long winter afternoon to me, and I left at 4:30. With an entire fallow meadow overturned in my soul, what does it mean, how did we arrive at such different places, what would I have done differently, what is this going to look like now, what do I want to do with this? It is and it isn't about the house, it's the paths to the house that I'm analyzing, and I'm not resolved yet about it.

School is 100% of my headspace right now, and that afternoon has receded into the mid-winter murk somewhat. No, I didn't give her my blog address, and we've only exchanged one email each since then, everything is open-ended and friendly. We've both moved on quite a distance, so it remains to be seen what's next. Finishing my degree is so much more than merely fulfilling credits to an end goal, and I'm reminding myself every day over and over that this is really happening, really really happening, my 'Student, Interrupted' phase is getting mended, healed, fixed-up, revived. This is such a huge thing to me, in some ways I'm 19 again, then I catch a glance in the Success Mirror and see what the rest of the world sees, and it stops me cold. Still have much to sift through, I guess, and school is the best vehicle to do it.

Silent Solstice

A dear friend of mine is the happiest little Christmas elf I've ever known. She's sparkling with that classical Christmas Spirit that is sincere, heart-felt, generous, and evergreen. We can out-do each other in snark contests, but when Autumn and Thanksgiving roll around, she creates the traditional Christmas Home and Holiday experience for herself and her lucky family. And she enjoys doing all of it, fits it all into her working schedule, and pulls it off splendidly. She gets her Christmas cards mailed before the 15th. This morning I received a beautiful ecard from her, with a chorus singing 'Silent Night', of a snowy lake shore and gazebo, cue snowfall, light Christmas tree, skaters glide, night falls and the moon rises. It reminded me of being about 6, the Mythical Winter of 1967, when my dad stood outside night after night spraying water onto the backyard to create an ice rink when I got new ice skates for Christmas. He installed flood lights on each corner of the house so we all could skate at night, and the neighbor kids came over with their hockey skates to play off the street (which was solid ice for weeks) and I spent hours out there. We didn't have a gazebo, just a big white doghouse, but the moon did rise beautifully, and it was so far below zero for days at a time, that you could hear the Milky Way tinkle and chime overhead over the scrape scrape of your skates. The big multi-colored Christmas lights on the eaves around the ranch house made it all feel even more magical and outside of time, and the sub-zero silence was profound, even to a 6 year old.

That is the Magic I love to create this time of year. Even without ice skates, without the home-made ice rink, the 10ft high snow banks, or even the 30 below zero nights playing outside, what I love about the start of winter is the deep stillness you can find, and how the chill makes all the lights even brighter. This time of year all the colored and white lights come up, but to me it all has little to do with Christmas, even though that's why most get put up. The darkest time of the year, with short and shadowy days, calls for the most stars and moons and Milky Ways we can find, to bring outside for each other to admire. Late December to me is monolithic pine and fir trees blanketed in snow, then shrugging it off later in a good wind to sigh all night in relief. I got to wear the hand-knitted sweater my grandma made for me that was too big the year before. It's hanging on to the nylon rope while our black Lab Whiskey pulled me in my slick plastic boots down the icy road fast enough to make my eyes water. Outside was where it all was for me, the fun, the beauty, the make-believe kingdoms.

Holidays, cooped up indoors with uneasily blended families, lots of cigarettes and alcohol, hurt feelings and other injuries---"I'm goin' outback to skate!" met with some chuckles, a reminder to wear the dry snowpants, and go through the garage. Within minutes, I was free.

Hours would go by, people would start to go home, one of the neighbor kids would come over with his new skates, it was so quiet, the air smelled so fresh and blue, the fireplace smoke would float by once in a while, and to me, the whole Santa and Jesus thing just wasn't this good. Polar winter was what I loved, snow forts, tobogganing, your nostrils freezing together, all the ways the snow sounded depending on how cold it was, the green smell of cloudy afternoons, the liquid amber sunsets glowing through the icicles on the front of our house.

Working retail and restaurant jobs for so long brought me to a high bitterness with the whole Christmas idea, the cranking, wheezing and groaning machine of it, the Mall of it. Tuning in to Solstice is closer to what it means to me, but not in any kind of organized Pagan denomination either. Work-wise it was always a misery for me in my professions, then add on what people in your life expect you to play along with. For years, I just boycotted the whole thing, played Scrooge better than anybody and meant it. Anyone who's heard David Sedaris perform his piece "Holidays on Ice" has an understanding of my personal take on American Christmas in my tarnished experience. To those who love and do it so well----I salute you.

My neighbors throw an outdoor winter blitz that can only be a Rite of Baccus, and I think they frolic naked and debauched around a roaring fire, but I don't want to look. With all the leaves gone now, and the bloated chorus at 1:45AM, there are just some things that should remain a mystery.

This year it's different, in every way.
There's no sick employees and customer madness, no greasy aprons and slow-healing burns, no drunk and surly boyfriends or relatives, no feuds or car wrecks, no frantic, no airports, no bad Jello to choke down. The sourest part of my Inner Scrooge is getting some rest and twinkling lights therapy, does not have to teach a lesson about over-consumption when someone wishes me a Merry Christmas, and is taking the next few weeks off in honor of my Christmas Elf pal.

I almost don't know what to do with myself. Got on a hand-knit sweater, strung up some colored lights, and I even saw a movie filmed in Siberia that just blew me away. My bones like the milder Portland climate these days, but Elemental Winter just awes me. There's so little human interference with it, and I respect that power, and find it hauntingly beautiful.

Under All That Weather

I'm so sick.

Ugh.

So today is short and crabby.

PSU has my transcripts and all is underway now.
Saturday I met the Jasmine Tree Girl for lunch at the Kennedy School---so much to say, but not today.
Never underestimate the power of Taco Bell to raise the dead( or someone who looks like it, feels like it and drives like it.) Two double decker taco supremes and a large Pepsi made me believe I was going to live again.
While in the fever stage, I hallucinated an entire three story haunted home with made up best friends and we were ghost-busting and painting the walls, reinforcing the assorted balconies, setting up a pink fur bar and lounge area, fighting over the secret rooms, hanging lights and putting in cable outlets. I woke myself up, shouting for help to get unstuck from between the worlds, hanging by a piece of loose carved molding over the cobble stoned street, and the shimmering, evil hungry ghost was ready to annihilate me. The two cats were looking at me with worried faces, from the safety of the hallway.

When I wake up again this afternoon, I'll take the long hot shower, change every linen and article of clothing anywhere near me, and try to make it up to the cats. I'm not usually violent.

The Russian Returns

After an absence of several months, the resonant voice of The Russian rose from the group of old men sitting near the pool, and I could discern they were conversing in Russian. There's just no mistaking his voice, and the last thing I ever want to do is interrupt him and make him stop talking. Being surrounded by tile and water, we were in a unique sound chamber that amplifies every layer of acoustics, especially those palatized Slavic vowels, so I sat in the 105 degree hot tub with my eyes closed to not miss any nuance.

Someone re-starts the tub motor and enters, some women leave chatting, and I hear the voice right above me, "So hello Laow-ra, what is new in your young life?" and he's making room on the shelf seat next to me, looking exactly the same as he did when I first met him 6 years ago. Who cares about me, let's give him a chance to go on and on, and I volley the question right back to him.

"Well, I am officially retired January 1st!" he pronounces.
"Oh oh, so now you're going to take up golf?" I laughed. How capitalist.
He laughed, too. "No no, never to my taste, not at all. Now I want to do some traveling, you know, while I'm still sharp," pointing to his head and rolling his eyes. He had put in 27 solid years of work history since arriving in the United States, working well past 65, so now he wants to play a little. So I let him tell me all about it.

First there's the season in Provence in a pensione, cheap local wine and market shopping, day trips here and there, maybe coasting down to the Spanish Riviera, "Is cheaper," then to Italy and Germany, Austria. "You know Austrian shoes?" he asks. I don't. He tells me all about them, how many years they last, not flashy like Italian ones, unique craftsmanship, worth the trip.
"But you're not going there to shop, I don't imagine," I said.
"No---stuff---who needs it? But shoes, you need shoes," he reminds me. I do, it's true, like he knows somehow.
"How far East are you going?" I lean over to ask.
"East." He sits up and looks at me for a few seconds. "Not that far," he finally says.
"Prague?" I offer. Thinking Moscow and Petersburg, of course.
"Prague. Yes, most definitely Prague, it's beautiful, the architecture, still unspoiled, cheaper than Paris---and the food---" he breaks off. He goes on about the European food he can't wait to enjoy again, and what a shame it is that the dollar is so low to the Euro right now, that's why he's not that interested in London or Paris, he wants to go to Germany, Bavaria, Austria, the Czech Republic, Budapest, and it sounds very food-oriented. I imagine sitting down to a meal in a Graz restaurant and letting him order for us, bring it all, take the whole evening, talk and wine and reminiscences.
"Going any further East?" I press.
He leans towards me, "No, you mean--"
"Moscow."
"No." He sits up again. "Nothing to go there for, not a good idea, you know, things happen, you never see it coming."
"Like Litvenko."
"Anyone, anywhere, it's just not a good idea, I'm not interested anymore, I wish them all well, I want them all to be well and have good lives. It has nothing to do with me and I won't go back."

I decided to shift the topic a bit, and told him about the Nikita Mikhalkov movies I'd seen, and the Russian painting series the director did for Russian TV, so then I got to hear about all his visits to the Hermitage, the Winter Palace, and we branched off onto museums and Comcast Cable's Russian Channel One.

Thirty minutes in 105 degree water is a tough stint for anyone, so the Russian stood up to leave. I thought his wife was going to show up to let him know she was done working out, but she never did. Maybe he was there alone to hang out with the old Russian guys and shoot the breeze in Russian. I'd like to schedule an appointment for the next time he plans on spending the morning there with the Russian guys, so I can be sure to show up early and get a good seat. There's just so much more ground to cover, there's Cuba, and more dirt on glastnost, and what a joke the New Revolution was, what good capitalists the young Russians became, and why he wouldn't talk about Siberia when I mentioned Shaman mummies discovered there on TV.

Always, I remind him he needs to write his book, especially now that he's retiring. He just laughs and waves his hand at me dismissively. "Please," he says, "for insomniacs," and walks towards the outer doors.

Led Zeppelin brings down the house - CNN.com

Led Zeppelin brings down the house - CNN.com


god help me if they tour...

Schlepping Towards Portland State

Oy-vey, vas gibt es nach kockhen?

(oh bloody hell, what's screwed up now?)


First of all, I just love Yiddish. One of the biggest things I miss about South Florida. Hearing it and knowing people understand it when you use it. Totally missed Hannukah this year, gibt mir leid.
(bummer)

Anyway, the end of last week consisted of me on the phone at 5am calling Massachusetts and Michigan at the beginning of their business days, to see if I could straighten out what appears to be the dropped ball here at PSU Admissions Office. PSU kept emailing me and telling me on the phone that they hadn't received two of my three transcripts yet from my old schools, la dee dah, sit on our hands, glad you asked. Both Smith College and University of Michigan showed they had sent them out within two days of receiving my request letter the second week of November, and they generously agreed to re-send them without a new request letter mailed to them from me. (I don't know the obscene Yiddish for how I felt at this point, the old men would never tell me this stuff in Boca)

Helpfully, I forwarded all of these back and forth emailing threads to PSU Admissions Office, along with a note from me about my concern with getting enrolled for January, BTW the Financial Aid is essential to my being able to go, hello Houston, is there anybody there??

And then I torqued my back lugging my antique trunk around and schlepping books to Powells to sell. Ice then heat, repeat. Anglo Saxon will have to do here : Son of a fucking bitch, and god fucking damn it.

You see, if I was admitted now, like I should have been over two weeks ago when my transcripts got lost, then I'd be able to register for my classes, receive my financial aid grants and loans for January 2008, know what my open hours are, get a job to start immediately, not have to schlepp heavy things around to sell, have so much less stress, and know what is happening from day to day and hour to hour. Es geht ganz hodgekeposchge. (its all f-ed up)

Trying to take the higher Zen perspective, my being a bitch will not fix this or make it flow easier, so I won't. Each fiber of my being wants to revert to Royal Bitch mode, but I will not stoop to it, no I won't. But I need to take a day or so not-schlepping to get myself set to rights with the She-Beast known as my lower back. Futz!

PS--get "Yiddish With Dick and Jane" to learn some basics and laugh your tuches off, or read "Born to Kvetch" and "Disco Bar-Mitzvah" if you want to die laughing.

Jasmine Tree Girl

Oh, the sudden surprise, to see that name in my inbox this afternoon...

Jasmine Tree Girl sent out an exploratory jingle, anyone still out there? Hope you're well, want to sip tea and talk?

Funny, I was thinking of her yesterday afternoon while washing dishes. A picture of her with very short hair is in a funky sage green frame on the wall above the sink, with a splendid blue Hindu god in the frame next to her, and I mused about how it had never occurred to me to take the picture down, not ever. I hoped she was doing well, and thought how happy she'd have been to know I was going back to school. Lala la la la, back to the Mrs. Meyers and sponge.

I didn't really hesitate to reply, but I did marvel a bit and wonder what would happen next. How will it be now, is this a touchpoint only? Or a new era of our friendship? Will we just start again from here, or go over what happened two years ago?

What taking a two year break has done for me, is to have undergone what always was my greatest fear about her, losing her, and I survived quite well. I lived through losing her, and all the part of my life that we had shared for 25 years being lost, and I'd consciously changed some perspectives I'd had for so long. There were major life transitions for me that I had walked and cried through without her, and I'd still been able to keep going, without her understanding and emotional support. I hadn't regretted what made the break happen, but I did miss her less and less than I was always afraid I would. She was the sister I had never had, and I lost that sister, and it broke my heart. But I managed to keep going, and that is good, a realization I may never had been able to make without this separation. So---that is good, too.

The daydreams we both had, about what living in Portland at the same time would be like, never really became real, and I wish it could have happened. It was a beautiful life, and real enough to me living miserably in Boca Raton to propel me out here with my cat, books and music. I thought about the best days when we were housemates in Ann Arbor, when we first met, living in the funky sage green bungalow on the cul-de-sac called Bath St., doors and windows open wide all summer, communal living and herb gardens. I brought that all with me out here, intact like a relic in amber, thinking it would all just come back to life. She was not such a preservationist, and doesn't remember those bungalow days with as much fondness as I do, and is usually much better at working from where she is now. The daydream fell apart.

We always complimented each other well, her Aquarius to my Cancer, but I had a lucid moment once listening to her, when I realized she had matured so much more than I'd noticed, she'd become a real 'grown-up', which I resist more and more as I get older. When we met, I was more mature than I think I am now, and she was whimsical and romantic---now we've flipped sides somehow, she's gotten really good at maneuvering in the grown-up world, and I want to get back to simple as much as possible.

What is next? Tea, a chat, weird silences? A long hug, tears, babbling brooks for hours?
Stay tuned.

Here Comes the Fog

The fog each morning since the storm is comforting, healing to the ravages of the wind, and wraps me in a cool woolly shawl I didn't have to knit to enjoy. I think many of us are feeling a bit raw these days after the thrashing of the weekend, and feel fortunate when we glance outside hopefully and don't see splintered branches on our cars or upended root balls yawing like the threshold of Hell in the yard.

Ai-yi-yi I think, being on the side of a hill, how did we wind up with 6 inches of icy water in our newly finished basement? We thought that was all taken care of with last year's giant foundation shoring project, drains installed, weather-proofing. Not so. Only last night did I find out that there used to be a creek that flowed through the neighborhood, which didn't just disappear with homes and sidewalks, and our water table is higher because of it. The winter hurricane that screamed through here brought down the Sitka Spruce, velvety with glowing moss, the tallest in the world, twisted and shattered and pulled down to only a 70 ft trunk surrounded by spines of raw wood. The coastal flooding, power outages, the trains halted, the Interstate closed, airports shut down---everybody stop. Everybody just stop.

The indigenous people would have stopped and hunkered down and waited it out. Don't endanger yourself by pretending this storm is just a little rain, and insist on making a long trip.
Many of us made soup while the power was still on, I think it's in our DNA to do this. Make soup, gather around the hearth and stay warm together. Tell stories, mend something, doze off, find another blanket, stoke the fire, conserve your energy for the work of cleaning up after the storm blows through.

December is here with it's holidays and manic energy, the whole Christmas Machine whirring and grinding away, and the weather seems to be the only element that can slow it down. For a day or two, then it's back up to speed inhaling dollars and time and high expectations. I keep thinking "simplify, simplify, simplify" like a mantra, bring the circus down, keep your dollars and take care of yourselves, be in tune with the December Elementals of cold and wind and rain or snow. Be snug. Stay home. Don't be foolish about Nature and high waters. Mend something. Make soup and share it with people you're fond of. Tend your home fire.

Since You Asked

Thanks for the support, the waiting game is tough.

Still no word from Portland State University on my admission status.
My transcripts are all in, and I've already gotten a letter that had a student ID number on it, but it may have been regarding another student with my name and some previous PSU term grades. Of course, it arrived on a Saturday, when the office is closed, so I sent off an email asking them to please look into this ASAP so it doesn't hold up anything for me.

Classes start in 5 weeks!
Aaarrrrggghhhh!

Anyway, that's where I am with school, and will probably be able to meet with someone this coming week to get going with Registration and Orientation, etc. Then get a campus job and get going with my new life. Yesterday I talked to a woman close to my age who had her nursing school books spread out all over her workspace at a shop on Hawthorne, her anatomy final is this coming week, and she was cramming. We talked a long time about Life, and the timeless what-happened-during-my-20s-and-30s, and how it's pointless to regret past choices and what got in the way the first time. She said her hardest problem is wanting to be too chummy with her professors, being her peers, and not being a stand-out too much by answering all the questions out loud in class. I didn't ask her about the Mrs. Robinson Issue, maybe she's happily hooked-up, so she didn't mention it either. I'll have to just behave myself.

Speaking of... Consistent Mr. Torso sightings at the gym have me doing laps like Aqua Girl. He's in training, I overheard him saying the other day to the only other person under 60 with him near the pool besides me. Whatever gets me into the swimsuit and the water, whatever it takes. He's got to be under 30, which means I really need to get a grip and just admire the scenery.
Whatever. Like I told my pal Jolie, lucky for me he has a cheap hobby like swimming, all he needs is the goggles and trunks, unlike some people I know who have to own horses, rent the barn, buy the chaps and hat and gear, pay to show the horses, and you never get to see them (legally) smiling and relaxing in the hot tub almost naked. But she does have the hunky ferriers...

Sorry, my middle-aged lady got loose again, got to do something about that.

And I'm not going to Florida for the holidays, since Betty and I do the weekend 3 hour phone calls, we're pretty much caught up I think, and other than getting her computer set-up working at optimal level, there isn't much reason to fly me out there. Earlier this year I had thought about it, but that was so long ago, and now all I care about is getting into classes and arranging a job around that as best I can so I still have a life, time to study and write papers, and make stuff to sell. I'm going to get a portfolio of my stuff together, take photos, and shop it around the Portland Craft Mafias and see who wants to hook up with me, to supplement the Etsy site and focus on some local interest, too.
The Oregonian did a nice article on the hand craft movement here in town, and how high-profile it is becoming nationally, encompassing re-use, reduce, recycle and how to support local shops and craftsters instead of going zombie-like to the mall to have your brains and wallet sucked dry. One December night a few years ago, I came home zombie-like from my store at the mall, poured a tall tumbler of Merlot, and spent about 90 minutes being Santa and took care of Christmas all at one sitting. Didn't even need to refill my wine glass. What a relief that was, all shipped, all done. Ho ho ho.
This year I took the hand-made pledge. Hopefully they'll forgive me.

A Little Political

Sent Betty a Hillary Clinton bumpersticker from the H.C. website...heh heh heh heh heh

So I guess I'm throwing my support behind Hillary, since she's the next better thing since Bill, and we'll get more Bill, which delights me to no end. Which is why I sent mom the sticker---Betty despises them both. (evil cackle)

Hell, I always knew I'd vote for Hillary, who am I trying to kid, I just wasn't always certain she'd run. When she stayed with Bill, I knew she was at least thinking about it, get her own career back after the White House one way or the other, and she'd have to stay married to run for anything, damn his eyes...she's smart, that's why the ConFunds are so afraid of her. So, I emailed her today, just to suggest that she not sling too much nasty mud with Barack, since he'll be her VP most likely, unless he gets mad and refuses, then Richardson is my guy for the future VP. Not that Hillary has time to answer much these days, but I know she's open to consensus opinions, and does not want to uphold dirty old boy tactics. I'll put her sticker on my car, and try to convince Betty to at least give her sticker to my brother and not toss it in the trash. Unlikely.

My all-time favorite little ditty is the new "Dumb Chicks for Hillary" tactic of the angry-middle-aged-white-guys in the media, or even meaner, "Stupid Broads for Clinton" that I think Dennis Miller threw up on Fox not too long ago while hand-jobbing with Bill O'Riledup (or was it one-note 'El Patron' Lou Dobbs?). So building consensus is an estrogen thing, we've been told this over and over since middle school sex ed class, and violence and competition are testosterone things, and girls don't count, so there! Cheney is such a poster-boy for the AMAWGs, dying of heart disease, high blood pressure, terminal type-A, table thumping, war-mongering, hunting and back-slapping, this pile is mine and I'll shoot you dead, with us or against me, my way is the only way mentality---afraid that at any moment that defib gadget will fire off and keep this Frankenstein animated for a few months longer, the impotent wizard behind the curtain. I crowed like a mad rooster when I heard Trent Lott was the latest rat scampering off the sinking Bush junk---Dennis Hastert, too, both leaving before their term is up and costing their districts hundreds of thousands of dollars to put on mid-term elections a year after losing the House and Senate. I think they should use their remaining campaign funds to help cover the costs of these elections, since they are such poor losers that they take their marbles and go home so soon after being hell-bent on being elected. They should go, if they are going to be that ineffective. But I'm glad they don't represent my district and state, or I'd really be pissed off.

I'll be as glad to see the end of this 8 year dirge as I was to see Reagan hobble off to his ranch.

Not-Shop Friday

The morning after...

My food stupor continues, hopefully improving after I finish this morning pot of coffee. I have russet potato peelings all over my kitchen from yesterday's meal preparations that I left for today to clean up, the sink full of dishes, the pile of tablecloths and other laundry, turkey soup to make, and a trip to the gym to swim off some of that amazing gravy Peg made to drown the whitemeat, potatoes and dressing.

Absolutely delightfully wonderful day yesterday, warm group assembled 'round the two-leafed table, lots of wine, desserts, slides from Bhutan, helpful German Shepherd doing floor scrap duty, sunshine streaming through the house...glorious day.

Thank you.

While I Wait....

This waiting thing is twisting me in half.

Reading other of my favorite blogs, they write about the usual things they always write about, crafting, writing, living with non-creatives, work, family, online life, kids, politics. It's comforting to read and know that these blog-pals are forging ahead, spit to the wind, writing when they can, and knowing why they do what they do.

Talking to my landlady last night, I saw the smiling webshot of the new Brittany dog coming home tonight from the shelter, and it is heart-warming to know the house will have a big lovey dog in it again. I have been doing dog-watching more frequently, and that has eased some of my dog-envy, but it never goes away. My cats love me, I love them (little beasts), but the space in your heart for a dawg is a specific place, like for a mate, a kid, a horse. Nothing else really fits that space, and you make the best of it, and love the hell out of what you do have. My life would have to completely change some more for me to fit a dog into the mix, and I don't know how much more utter change I can handle this year. Hanging tough with what I have started in motion feels like the way to go for now, and focus on school.

And wait some more, send polite emails with a slight edge of urgency, double check my paperwork and deadlines, and wait some more. Oh yeah, Thanksgiving. Sure, happy happy, whatever. Do not tell me the admissions office is taking this week off or I will run screaming down there to lodge a protest. Since when did Thanksgiving become a week off like Christmas?
It's a one day holiday, maybe two if you're lucky, but the whole week? WTF?

I am working through some of the frustration by swimming laps at the gym, with the occasional Mr Torso sightings keeping me motivated. Sometimes it's great to be half-blind in a swimming pool, you just don't care how you look because you can't see them either, so you're invisible. Except for the Mr Torsos, they're all a sodden blur, and I just make another turn in the lane and head out for the other side, odd number out, even number back, 19 out, 20 back, 21 out, 22 back, keep going until 30 then stop counting. Collapse into the steam room, inhale eucalyptus clouds, leave the gym a new woman. Come home, still no letter or email from the admissions office, grind teeth, continue job search. My gym is open the morning of Thanksgiving, so I can go swim off the feast I will eat later, excellent! There's a rhythm to this, and it's working so far, and I look forward to enjoying my first non-retail, non-restaurant business Thanksgiving and Black Friday in over 20 years. I remember working in a family owned deli in 1986 where they closed for the four day weekend...I believe that may have been the last time I was off.

Little things...I checked out of the Multnomah County Library a series of DVDs featuring classic Russian paintings, produced by a brilliant Russian director who won an Oscar in 1996(?) for best foreign language film. His name is Nikita Mikhalkov, and he made this series for Russian television and schools, but the subtitles are poetic and he presents each artist with passion and intelligence. I had never heard of any of these painters, and Mikhalkov delves into their biography, presenting each painting with an audio setting of what the painter may have heard surrounding him while painting and perhaps chatting with the subject of the portrait. The music is haunting, evocative, and pulls you into romantic era of these artists, from early 18th century portraits through early 20th century Impressionists. Delighted to see this DVD set is available on Amazon for @ $50, now I need to find some big Taunton or Rizzoli artbooks with these painters, because unfortunately PSU has no History of Russian Painting classes in the catalog.

This morning, a break from the rain, a splash of sunshine, but the chill is here to stay. Gloves and wristmitts to keep the damp out, and my craft room is too cold to use comfortably. So it's time to move the desktop computer back into the livingroom, rearrange the furniture again, vacuum like a madwoman, toss more stuff into the crawlspace, set up an area to study for school. The cats try to help, but I wind up shutting them in the bedroom for a few hours so I can actually get something done. They always sit just where you were pushing the couch to.
One of my favorite bloggers lives in Australia and is at the "too damn hot to knit anymore" stage of summer. I am building little nests of wool sweater for the beasties to sleep in on sunless days, every old wool store-bought sweater is a potential pet bed to me, and I have the nerve to felt a sweater I didn't knit, cut it up, and make it into something new and wooly-smelling. The beasties approve and don't have to fight over who's bed is who's anymore. It's the little things...

Hot hot hot historic telenovela will be starting after Univision's Gaviota concludes the first week of December. These are great series of Colonial Mexico, with carriages, horses, swords, duels, gowns, haciendas, rancheros, chaperones, nuns and priests, Generalissimos, mysterious spinsters, etc. Should be 9pm, maybe 8pm, depending on whether they overlap it with the finish of the Gaviota novela or not, check your Univision channel. Here in Portland it's Channel 31. What writers' strike?

Dreaded Gray Descending

Updates in no order of importance:

I have to get a mumps & measels shot, $85, to finish my admissions requirements for PSU. I think LBJ was still in office, the last immunization I received.

I may be cleaning houses for money, is that better or worse than---never mind.

We are out of crunchies, and two furry people are getting really crabby about it.

The wind storm was violent and blessedly brief here in Southeast, now I have a good reason to call Comcast to tell them the cable line came loose from the tree again (fourth time this year).

The arctic air mass got as far south as Palm Beach County last week and Betty finally could turn off the AC and open her windows, for the first time since March. (The Gray Ascends now in FLA).

I found another pic for my absurd food collection, perfect for today----

Entering Surrealandia

The first tingling of uncertainty began running down my neck late last night, that feeling that someone left a door open to the cold somewhere in the house and it had found me.

Holy shit, what am I doing? I'm turning my life completely upside down (again) and walking straight into the unlit expanse of a new place I didn't even know I was going to until last week.
Am I crazy? Can this work out? Can I really pull this off? Do I still have it in me to be a student? Will the money come through or will I hit the ground really hard on my face in 8 weeks?

This morning the cold draft is only my back porch door cracked open to the sunrise and it's warming quickly in the sunshine. The creepies from last night are gone, but I should have expected them just about now, after making so much progress in this whole project in so little time. One more poring through the catalog's flagged pages is enough to restore my certainty that it's about damn time I'm doing this, and the biggest regret is that it didn't become this obvious to me earlier in the year. Not sure why, but it didn't, so that is past and start from here.

Everything is sent off now, the ball is beginning to roll, and now I stay busy finding work and getting other projects done (another Etsy sale came in overnight) and actively wait. Work through the self-doubts that are like having a bad hair day, they come and go. Time to start winterizing the garden, restock the booth, ride my bike to the library, sew a few pillows, check into scholarships online, go through craigslist and jobdango 3 or 4 times a day. Maybe Powells to sell a few books, check Belmont and Hawthorne shops for job openings. There's a scholarship contest I found that is judged on a written essay from one of their topics you choose to write about, for $10,000. That's my housing expenses for a year, so a worthwhile time expenditure I think. (waiting waiting)

It's going to be a few weeks at least, so busy is best. Gotta run now....

Regroup Again, With More Feeling!

There was one entire sad day last week when I discovered I didn't get any of the jobs open at the Glorious Stained Glass factory. Not the manager's job, and not even the sales job, and the "thanks but no thanks" letter must have been mailed within 24 hours of that last interview, when they had another four days left until their deadline for making a decision.

Blue blue day, a half hour of stunned silence, then the rest was the swamp of dejected shadowy disappointment.

However, by the end of that day, I had circled the wagons and then set off in an entirely new direction, left the paved roads completely and blazed trails towards ----going back to school.
Started the online part of it, and the next day got the Portland State course catalog and schedule for January 2008, and sent off for transcripts, test scores retrieved from the electronic bowels of the ACT and SAT (skip PSAT) warehouse of students of the 1970s, and felt so much better.

By Friday I had had many of my questions answered by Jane Sproul at the Women's Resource Center Continuing Education Office, and I now have a sensible chronology of what to do when and what's next.

I get so psyched I can't fall asleep the past few nights, until I haul out the course catalog one more time and go over the requirements (Freshman Inquiry??? WTF???) and the tagged pages in the Anthropology and History sections, skimming Business and English/Writing, and what the different Masters' programs look like. Then I doze off thinking of studying and sitting in class again and taking notes....zzzzzzzzz until morning.

This does have a huge impact on the job search, obviously. A high-powered manager's job for only the next two months is not so hot of an idea, unless I can't get admitted until Spring or Summer Term, then that route is the way to go. If I can get admitted in time for the January 7th 2008 start of classes for Winter Term, then that $12/hr temp office thing is the way to go.
Or the mindless holiday cashiering job at any local retailer. If I'm starting school in 8 weeks, I don't care as much who's nametag I'm wearing, suddenly my Sense of Meaning is strung to a very exciting comet of finishing my degree, a solid gold Get Out of Jail Free Card, $200, Pass GO!!

Monday morning (right after Pet walking and feeding) I'm hitting the admissions and financial aid office to sign in for appointments to get more answers, and hopefully by the end of the afternoon have a rounded-out idea of a "YEA" or a "NAY" on a January start. If I have to wait a term or two----not my preferred choice, but at least I'll know and set my teeth on the bigger bone. Head down, make cash happen, stay focused on deferred gratification, still good.
If I can start in January, my neighbors will think I won the Powerball lottery, I'll be running around and screaming until the police arrive.

Winter in School, it's been 25 years since I've done that, but all intuition lights are full on green for it, all reaction by friends and family has been positive, and Jane Sproul was optimistic. I could work in the PSU Bookstore---who there would be more qualified than me?

Late Afternoon Walk in the Neighborhood

These were actually taken last week, between 4 and 5:30pm. They've changed a lot since.

Dia de los Muertos

Day of the Dead, All Saints' Day, cleaning smashed pumpkin off the streets day.

Also my dad's birthday, 68 years ago my grandmother had to slam the door on the trick-or-treating kids in gangster and hobo and witch costumes while my grandfather pulled the car up for the mad dash to the hospital. She always told this story with a snicker, how the bowl of buttered popcorn on her gi-normous belly started moving down and she realized this was it.

One 10lb 6oz baby later...my 5'2" grandmother came home to rotting pumpkins on the front porch, a sink of dirty dishes from the week of bachelor living and couch sleeping my grandfather had been doing, and all that candy still there from October 31st. She dove in to that project first.

It's been fun to see the swing back to door-to-door trick or treating, and last night the adorable bobbing little costumed gnomes started swimming from porch to porch, and all that delayed evening gloaming of daylight's savings time made the usual beer-in-hand of the dads in the street rather un-PC. Too bad, really, because the beer keeps them from eating all the best candy out of the loot bags and plastic pumpkinhead buckets. Maybe it will be moms with Starbucks cups glowing in the twilight instead. My neighbors' son was dressing as a scary tiger, all 2 and a half years of him, to scare the little kids, he said, rawrrr! Too funny, I think his Gran made his costume, which is the absolute best.

I used to have a picture of my dad and me, on Halloween, carving and drawing on a 3-gallon pumpkin. I had on my golden rayon satin tiger jumpsuit, probably about 3, but I'd taken the stiff plastic mask off some time earlier. My dad had my mom's dark brown waxy eyebrow pencil in his hand, and he had just finished drawing some tiger whiskers and eyebrows on my face, with a round dark circle on the end of my nose. I'm looking up at him, and he's leaning over, with his black crewcut and white crewneck t-shirt on, putting the finishing touches on the devil face of the pumpkin, a focused look on his face. It had sharp horns drawn on, and he had cut out the jagged sneer of an evil smile, arched narrow eyes, all menacing. He was good at this, a prelude to his birthday festivities every year. The neighbor middle-school boys would come over for my dad to help with their pumpkins, to be r-e-a-l-l-y scary. Then we'd wash, salt and bake the seeds on cookie trays, crunchy snacks, a great contrast to all the candy.

She Knits! She Sews! She Sells!

Here's the latest little project I finished over the weekend, and promptly decided to sell it.

It's beautiful, luxurious, silky, beaded--and a bargain at $40 at my online Etsy store.

I made it for myself, and after admiring it for a few hours, realized that someone else would love it, and it hadn't given me any grief to make it, easy to let go. A sexy linen/rayon blend with faceted beads and paillettes (sequins), and the manner in which I did the pattern stitch wrong made it come out looking like elegant chainmail. I was impressed and wrote my mistake down so I could do it again on purpose. It is scarf season again, and it's easy to whip some up while watching a DVD or two on a rainy afternoon off, and enrich the hand-craft marketplace.

Besides, I'm in full assault job search mode right now and am not anywhere nears the challenge of a Shula-sized headache, like a cashmere sweater made with spiderwebs and pins.

I have an interview with an esteemed Portland art glass company tomorrow morning, and I'm trying to not be nervous. Love love love glass, always have, and I think it would be a fun job and give me something new to learn from the inside out. It's just been so long since I had to cold-interview, I hope I do alright. The responses from all the applications I was sending out are coming in steadily, so tomorrow will be good practice no matter the outcome.

Plus, I've decided to try and get back to school next year, and have begun the whole process of filling out applications and forms for that, also. It is very different than the first time I did it while still in high school, but luckily some things are now free (sending transcripts) and almost everything is online and fast and easy to find. The thought of Portland State has been floating around in my mind for a few years, and somehow the idea of being in a classroom and writing clicked for me the last few weeks. What will transfer, what will not I can only guess, but after all these years, anything that does will help. Skipping down to the PSU bookstore to pick up a course catalog will send me spinning with excitement (it always did, even then) as I mentally try on taking these classes. Getting into the Spring term would be great, but it all depends on if I just am too far past meeting any deadlines for applying. There's a department for Women's Resources that includes Women's Continuing Education, and I contacted the point person there, and the admissions folks---where do I even start with this? I can already hear the snickering of the poor student working at processing these emails "Duh, hello? It's obvious, damn boomer" delete delete. Maybe not. Going forward, this is another layer to the Larger Plan I have, finish the degree, keep learning, that's always been the plan: Keep Learning. Always. Keep knitting(thanks, gramma).

Laugh Your Ass Off

Today's Poppalina Blog


I'd love to go get sloppy drunk with this woman, or a least tea-tipsy...

Okay, the joke is that the sweater pattern came from an old
knitting book from the 40s or 50s, I think, and the pattern
was called 'Jason', and Shula started the sweater and began to
refer to it as Jason, and it took on all the qualities of this bloke
in the picture and their up and down relationship (hell of a
knit project, tiny needles, yarn like thread, huge size, tedious),
and increasingly she was over it, over it, OVER IT!! See the
relationship connection? Plus she whaps us with her cursing,
biting humor, and it's a riot (to us knitters). Never mind.

The Actively Waiting Game

Absolute flurry of activity since Monday, and now I am on pins and needles, wondering, waiting, carrying my phone to the powder room so I at least hear it ringing, checking email 17 times an hour---no it's not the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes, I'm waiting for word from some of the many applications I've been submitting, and still applying while I'm waiting.

My friend Steven has helped me do a breakthrough with this process, by reminding me of some staggeringly obvious things about Working: A: If you don't like it, quit soon.
B: If you need to work ASAP, it's okay to take
another retail job and keep looking for
a new job while you're earning money.
C: There's a million office jobs that will allow you
to leave the job at the office, to go home and
do the art, writing, craft pursuits that you
have re-prioritized as essential to your new,
non-B.store manager Life.
D: You had a great sabbatical, keep your values.
E: Get serious about your money & your worth.

Whew! Is he a pal or what? I've promised him a fine dining experience at our favorite local restaurant Venerable Quandry as soon as it is feasible for me, and probably some more stops at Pok-Pok nearby.

I've already checked phone and email twice while writing the above, this is madness.

So, part of the Re-invention Process for me is also remembering the interview process from the side of the table I am now on, and being warm, engaging, disarmingly competent, using just enough corp-speak to sound like I know what I'm talking about but not so much to sound like a Dilbert cartoon, and find out what the holiday scheduling will be like---I'd still like to figure out a way to get in a four day stint to FLA for Christmas, or at least get a few days off. My new priorities are showing.

I also need to make a list of all the places I've applied to, after 12 you can start to forget. This is when it really hits me that I haven't applied cold for a job in over 10 years, and before that, there was a lot of 'he knows my friend, who worked for them, who dated her' kind of thing. How often is too often to call to check on your app? My rule was if they call more than once every other day, that's too often. If I didn't respond within a week, it meant I was not interested in setting up an interview with the applicant. But the County, State and City hiring procedures are based on a cut-off application date, so if someone applies right after the job was posted, the waiting period may be three or four weeks until the hiring manager even looks at the applications. Now that I am the applicant, it gets me growling, grrrrrr.

My booth is still operating, but I had to re-evaluate the profit vs expenses aspect of it, and since I always knew at least a part-time job was in my future, I decided to do something full-time that was less interfering to my personal life than retail management, and secure benefits, too. Once I gather some more capital funds to invest in the project, I'll see greater returns, and besides, it's still a blast and very creative. In fact, I feel like I'm just getting started with it, so taking the pressure off of it to be my sole income source opens it up to more whimsical and funky ideas, just in time for the Holidays. Overall, all is good with Groovy Rhubarb. I have so many cool sweaters to sell, and things made from old sweaters that I felted and fabricated into new items. My great-aunt Meta would be so proud (and 112 years old) to see my craftiness, and she would know that she was the greatest contributor to this obsession I have, Auntie's influence lives on.

Official Blog Day Official Post

My favorite blogger has stopped blogging, and I'm concerned.

But I don't want to be a nudge, so I'll just hash it out here, in my safe little blogspot.

This esteemed person has put years into building this blog, has thousands of readers, hits and links, hundreds of posts, topics and famous persons who read it...and it's fizzling it seems due to situations beyond their control, and I'm getting frantic that all that work will be lost to the ethers.

Reading this blog re-started my own blog engine last year, after I had already given up on one that was pious and book review-based, and I couldn't keep at it in my free time because it was just more work, at home and that killed the thrill of doing it. This inspiring bloggerperson set the spark to the gasoline that was forgotten, and I was ignited to write again.

So I'm kinda worried, and how can I help out?

And how does one end a blog, anyway, if one wants to be done with it? A formal, Fare-Thee-Well posting, with a connecting link to someone similar for your avid readers to try instead of you? A quick and brutal, "F-you, I'm outta here!" and eternal silence? Delete the whole thing at your server page with no peep, evermore? Like breaking off a starter-phase romance that you just don't have the time or energy to hand-hold at all, "Look, it's not you, it's me, and you deserve some blog who can better meet your needs, I'm just not in a good place right now, no it's nothing to do with you (but it does, you're drippy) I just need some space and maybe started this without being really clear about what I want yadda dabba doo" and it's over before the drinks even get to the table? TMI, I know.

Maybe some anonymous reader (who happens to know the blogger's location) could send them some incredibly decadent chocolate somethings, with a teeny note that says "Get writing soon" and a smiley face.

Or a new laptop.

Not that I am in any position to manage anyone else's life (my own is barely managed) but sometimes a person has an insight, and it can't be too nosy to pass it along, right? With cookies or cuppycakes? Or that lively young stripper who works at---never mind, it was just a thought.

One of My Favorite Fantasy Journeys

Okay, so now I am your personal New York Times Liaison---

Take a trip to Darjeeling

Nobel Prize for Literature: Doris Lessing

Doris Lessing interview

Gosh what a lot of carping about her winning this year, some of the comments are so snipping (Harold Bloom, of course) and almost sophomoric, I was laughing in my coffee this morning.

"Unreadable" Harold said. When has that ever stopped someone from winning the prize?

And I have to confess that when I tried to read "Love, Again" this summer, I put it down and walked past it for a week or two, then finally tossed it into the next bag of books to sell at my booth.

It's still there.

And I gave it a really genuine try, but the fault is entirely my own. After a long stint of reading only magazines this spring, Doris' book was not appropriate for me to pick up then, I hadn't yet adjusted my language cortex vocabulary back to books and British English. She never had a chance. But I've fixed it now, and will pick her up again. And the new War and Peace translation I've been waiting 20 years for.

But I've loved reading about her in the online articles, of which there are the usual slew after her win. The link above is an interview from a few years ago that I liked the best; honest, just crabby enough, and unapologetic. Don't mess with a woman who wants to write, you're going to get hurt.
Doris on P.C.
Doris Wins Nobel

I Miss Radio

You know, real radio, without 10 minutes every half hour of amped commercials, chatter heads filling every nanosecond of non-vocal intro and fadeout with inanities, overgrown adolescents trying to be Howard Stern in the morning, or the new dentist's office soundtrack of "smooth jazz".

Help. I thought I was alone out here. With mp3 players and portable CD players, a whole generation watching videos never needed radio, it was that talking crap their parents listened to when dropping them off and picking them up at school, "EN-PEA-ARR" holy holy holy. Or the right-wing-nut AM guys shouting at each other about family values and football. Obsolete.

For years, I had this idea of resurrecting radio theater, with sound effects and background music, character voices and serial stories, 30 or 60 minutes each week of pure audio adventure and movie in your mind. People gave me weird looks and shook their heads. "How would that make any money?" they asked dismissively. I was thinking how it would be great fun to introduce middle schoolers to it, with the whole "studio" experience so there would be some unknown territory for them to be awed by and then learn to master, grow confident, and have some secret swagger to take to high school with them. "I know how to mike sound effects and shrill character voices," she said a bit smugly to her guidance counselor. Kind of like Steamboat Punk, leaning back onto older technology and see what it can do now, make it do new things now, revive it for a new generation.

This summer, I had this vision of "Old Fashioned Porch Nights", with some strings of icicle lights glowing, a bunch of neighbors sitting on a wide porch after sunset listening to some old radio show recordings (mp3 or CD) and old big-band music, and talking, sipping cold beer or wine, knitting, mending, reading the paper or even laptopping, no agenda, no plan, just folks and some low-key leisure. People I shared the idea with nodded and said they thought it was a great idea, kinda odd but weird in that Portland-kind of way, "You should do it!" they said. Remember the whole Utne Reader magazine "salon" thing from the 90's? Great idea, no legs.

The other day it hit me that having no real radio in my world has left a huge gaping hole in what I have always considered my foundation identity. Ye-gads, why has it taken me this long to realize it? I don't know really, having OPB and 89.9 and KBOO just wasn't exactly hitting it for me. For all the years working for the Big Book Store, we had new music coming out our ears, and played a revolving playlist every open moment and the really good stuff before and after hours. You got to hear music from co-workers you would have never found on your own, and the best of local heroes who play around town. I took it for granted, completely.

Now that I solved the puzzle, I took immediate action. Not willing to sell my soul and remaining self-employed dollars to iTunes, I started searching for the best of what had to be on Internet Radio, and I found one that has pleased me very much. The name implies its philosophy, and I'm not endorsing it for any reason other than it has served me nicely so far, and I hate to keep secrets about something this inalienable-rights-ish and easy to share: Slacker.com Rules!

No, they don't have old radio shows, I'm still on my own there (for now) but they do have a pretty broad assortment of music and the gadget to make your own list of stations and play any version of the Way-Back Machine you feel the need to indulge. And unlike playing a stack of your fave CDs or iPod playlists, you get to hear random songs by random artists so the whole tedious predictability of spinning your own tunes is blasted out of the water. WOW---the randomness of Real Radio, and no videos to distract you from what you're doing or supposed to be doing, leaving you free to work or whatever. The magnitude of that alone made me feel as if I had rediscovered electricity, and after a whole energized afternoon of productivity, I emailed my pal Jolie that it felt like a blood transfusion, "This is the missing element, why did it take me so long to figure it out??"

"That's what kids are good for, I get to hear it in the car everyday, happy you're back on it," she laughed, "I'm downloading the Slacker desktop player right now, thanks!"

So there's the feeling silly part, that it took me years to figure this out, but there it is. Fixed now. And no pesky commercials and robot DJs or idiot un-comedians. My productivity has quad-rupled, making the inner Boss Lady very very happy. "Back to work, slacker!"

Nostalgic Autumn Projects

Autumn Childhood Fun Ideas:


Iron beautiful leaf specimens between sheets of waxed paper (low to med heat setting on iron)

Add grated or shaved crayon bits to it for a stained glass effect

Collect glossy horse chestnuts and pile in a bowl or fill a vase---add branches of sumac, mountain ash or bittersweet

Drill holes in chestnuts and make big strings to hang up on fences using shoe laces or twine

Caramel apples with wrapper caramel (easy) or microwaved caramel cubes (still easy)

Rice Crispie treats with some melted caramel cubes stirred into the marshmallow goop, a dust of cinnamon and some chopped dried apples stirred in, too

Dip pretzel rods in white chocolate for skeleton snacks

Make dried gourd monsters (or luminarias) with sandpaper and a Dremel tool, paint and tea light inside

Thread sunflower heads together and hang along with the chestnut strings on your fence posts for the birds and squirrels (peanut butter is optional)

Make a giant Trick-or-Treat loot bag out of a white pillow case and, with a black marker, draw the mask from "Scream" on it so the open side is at the top

Make more "Scream" masks from white pillow cases, open side down, for your shrubs near the front door to pull over the bushes on Halloween Night.

Fill an old (clean) milk carton with ice cubes and a candle wick, then pour melted max over it to make ghost candles

Designate once and for all that Candy Corn is purely ornamental and not really edible by gluing a bunch to some white pillar candles

Save some egg shell halves to use as bug-eyes for your Jack-o-Lanterns---carve the round eye holes the same size as the eggshells, and have the bloodshot eyes already drawn on with a pinhole poked through when you put them in the pumpkin--scary!

Turn your homey porch "Harvest" hay bale and corn stalk display into the "Children of the Corn" theme for Halloween with a big plastic scythe and ax, some fake blood, some zombie dolls
and rubber masks peeking out with red glowing eyeballs--or Amityville Horror, depending on your style of porch

Remind your mom that the "Elvira Mistress of the Dark" costume is not appropriate to drop off the cupcakes for the lunchroom Halloween party---besides, you're wearing it to school

Free Burma!

Participate here

No Shame and No Apology

NYTimes Dining Letters Re: Portland Restaurants: Golden Age of Dining and Drinking 9/26/07

Well, you know I have to run off immediately and buy copies at 7-Eleven and Fred Meyers so I can mail off the Dining section to Betty in Florida. I have to. Small and petty though it may be, I need to show her this, even though I can hear her comment from here--"What? It's not like you got paid for that."

And it is so abbreviated, and they left out the "See you at Pok-Pok!" which I thought was friendly and a genuine sentiment. Oh well.

More later, you know it.

Falling Water

Five pm and it's dark, blowing, rainy and cold.

Sorry to state the obvious, but I just needed more time to bid summer good-bye, and I'm not going to get it. There's some leaves stuck to the street, anything yellow glows supernaturally, and everyone is wearing their shoulders in the "up" position, total defense. I begin hearing the sawing of the strings in Vivaldi's Four Seasons, audio shadows, abandoned porches.

The grass looks great, as do the remaining dahlias, chrysanthemums, and the tawny gold hydrangeas. How about some snapping fresh-crop apples and a few caramels? That's much better.

The last two days I have spent in the belly of the bureaucratic beast, three hours one day and almost three the next, remembering a time when people grew or traded for most of their food and material needs, and wondering how to get closer to that myself. By the second day I was almost in a trance from the noise and frustrated hostility of the workers and their customers, and watching so many toddlers running around with circles under their eyes and gray skin. There were five people I saw reading the Jon Krakauer book "Into the Wild" which is a new Sean Penn film also, and the irony of it made me smile. Surreal bureaucracy and eccentric survivalist meet in the Oregon Job Search offices. Unexpectedly my caretaker instinct rose up, and I wanted to sit all those little kids down to a good hot nutritious home-cooked from scratch meal. No nuggets of any kind. There's my Mid-west again...

The change in weather has brought an abrupt end to the "outside on the porch" season, and for the distraction I find such weather to be, and it's all scrub-a-dub-dub indoors. Sewing, posting items on my online site, writing, going to the booth with more stuff, putting on a pot of rice and beans, start some soup. 'Portland Rain' is a scent you can find at 'Escentuals' on Hawthorne and also on NW 23rd, and it has that subtle fresh smell with a hint of spice and wet leaves, not too heavy, and perfect for this early Autumn time of year. What they don't (and can't) manage to capture in the scent's complexity is the occasional wave of thai wok from down the street and the chimeria in my neighbor's back yard, and the wet mulch from the garden. Or whatever else you smell in your part of Portland---pizza, headshop and fried chicken? Bio-diesel, burnt toast and coffee roasting? I'm not going to go into what the waiting room at Job Search smelled like.

House of Vintage Rocks!

Rainy, chilly weekend. October arrived early and started sulking immediately.

*sigh*

I went down to House of Vintage right after it opened to see how my big weekend discount sale was going, and to make the Big Decision---close it or stay open and hang tough.

Number crunching until my teeth hurt, I knew it was bad business to pull out right before the pre-holiday sales ramping started, but I thought about just cashing it out and starting something new, paying the bills and relegating the booth to the summer period.

You know what's next: Get a real job. But I have to say, I spent three hours there, going through each booth, checking out the new vendors, new merchandise at the usual vendors, seeing the shoppers and post-hangover-breakfasters moseying, buying, and marveling at the place, then going to get more coffee then coming back to look some more. And the big TA-DAH moment descended upon my shoulders---I need to stay here. This will continue to pay off more and more and supplement whatever other income I manage to free-lance upon, and be an outlet for me to sell what I make and/or accumulate for re-sale. And it leaves me free enough to do something like a (gulp) job and it upholds a huge slice of my personal values of artsy-crafting, and reduce/reuse/recycle/repurpose/resell. This was a big TA-DAH I'm talking about here.
And I found a $3 oil-cloth bag from Harrods Knightsbridge in perfect condition, perfect waterproof satchel for the next two seasons. So happy.

Dear NYT updated update

Another full disclosure---

I just received a call from the New York Times, Dining section. They want to print my letter, possibly next Wednesday or the Wednesday after.

"It was a bit long," she said diplomatically, "if we edit for style and punctuation--"

"YES! I knew it was a tad long."

"A little, but if you're okay with--"

"Yes, sure, absolutely."

I raced to call my best pal in Denver. "OMG, OMG, OMG!" She's a writer and totally got it. Like when I chatted up Robert Plant, like when she snuggled Sting, we raced to call each other, shrieking like junior high girls. Instantaneous understanding.

Now all I want to do today is write. The genie (or yeti) is out of the bottle (or ice cave). I'll try hard to not be insufferable.

Dear NYT, update

This morning, the story on Portland's Dining and Drinking and cheapness is still the number two most emailed story at the New York Times, after spending all day Wednesday and Thursday being number one.

Maybe because so many people west of New York only subscribe online and are interested in nearby Portland?

Or should we be preparing for the alien take-over?

(I keed, I keed, is joke)

One of my friends told me that I should be looking forward to the rise in wages the New Yorkers would bring, and I told him to calm down and get ready to wear an apron and a name tag. I think we're still friends, but it took me a while to get out of the composter he stuffed me into.

Honestly, all keeding aside, it makes me happy that Portland is seen for how amazing it is, and that we aren't dismissed as some sort of marijuana plantation clearing house. Our historic legacy and unique climate being a magnet is only enhanced by the continuously evolving art, music and literary cultures, and now the food and drink. More than Stumptown Coffee and Voodoo Donuts? Sure, why not get all of it out in the open to be enjoyed, and the local business owners keeping the dollars in the neighborhood?

There might be a blip of culture homesteaders who cash out and migrate here from The City, but we're still too far out here for there to be a huge wave like there was to Southern California, because our weather isn't as seductive, we're still too far from Japan, and even further from Europe than the East Coast. We're liberal, but isolated in the conservative zone. Might as well just go to San Francisco, where prices are more like New York and half of the old college pals are there and looking to sell, skip down to LA all the time, more familiar territory.

Just as truckers hats and flannel were a fad and are now so passe back east, I think the folks on the west coast predictably like having some rougher edges and aren't so easy going that they're all willing to become a servant class to new residents expecting submissive and impeccable service. We don't all need to be famous and we're not all eager to please and live for a big tip and a pat on the head. Have you noticed how many east coast men are over-grooming their eyebrows? What's with that? I don't think that many guys are working at drag clubs at night, I really don't. It's all cool, whatever, but again, a coastal difference. We're still goatee-ing it and no-make-up-ing it out here, because we seem to like to please ourselves first. Very cool with me. That's why I'm here.

Dear New York Times

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/09/26/Portland-Golden Age of Dining and Drinking

Dear Eric Asimov,

We love that you love our city and our amazing restaurants. It's been curious this past year to see the number of articles in your paper on Portland, and satisfying to read that most of them are favorable, and for the most part accurately describe how great it is to live here. But there is one facet of your glowing article and of the other coverage that I need to bring into sharper focus: Real estate is not "cheap" for those of us who live here and are offering the "regional" level of service in these restaurants, working behind the scenes at these farms, in these kitchens, and are the support staff for these rich and successful recent entrepreneurial imports with the European and East Coast pedigree. As delightful as it may seem to see what an "average" home or commercial property sells for here, I need to remind you that the wage compensation matches the market, and no prep cook in Northeast Portland is making what a prep cook in the East Village is making. It takes a two-income couple to buy one of these "cheap" properties here because each of the two incomes is "regional", just as the New York wage and real estate levels are "regional" to New York. And in making a full disclosure, I moved here from South Florida seven years ago and have yet to be able to afford to buy one of these "cheap" Portland properties on my own. So I encourage you to continue visiting and enjoying your time here without sales tax and with "cheap, regional" wining and dining, but don't follow the traffic pattern of all the Californians who have bought here and commute to Los Angeles and San Francisco Monday through Thursday, and are rapidly changing the flow of life here and pricing out the current residents. Who will work for you? Who will teach your kids in school, pull your shots of espresso, and wash the pots of those amazing restaurants? Will we now be earning New York wages, too? See you at Pok-Pok!

Laura (etc etc)

I just sent this to the editor. The article in this morning's paper is splendid. Photographs and a glowing mention of Pok Pok, but it sent shivers up my spine. My love for this city is fierce, and I don't want to feel forced out because I can't buy a half-million dollar bungalow as a single woman.

Am I over-reacting? Not enough coffee yet this morning?

I don't think so. Linsey and I were both struck by how many reviews and travel pieces have been featured in the Times in the last year or so, almost as if some wise-ass PSU alum went to make fame and fortune in The City and writes these bits as homesick treatment. Or their sister and brother-in-law just relocated here and they visit them just a bit too much because it's all so cheap. Because it's obvious they don't actually work or know someone who works here. Their sib & hub are maybe still living off that real estate killing they made on that 500 sq ft apartment they sold in the East Village.

"I smell bitter here" says the virtual Linsey voice in my head.

Okay, right on target, so what? I want to stay, is that so wrong? And I love New York, read the Times each and every day, continue an affair with the Old City for over 30 years, have all Jack Finney's books in hard cover, New York 1880 is like a bible to me. An old map of lower Manhattan is on the wall in the hall.

Just don't ruin this place, is what I'm thinking. Visit and go home with 5 extra pounds, a tired liver and a stack of receipts. See ya next year. Look what a mess a bunch of youse guys made of Florida---isn't that enough?