The Ends of the Earth

I fell off, it's true.

It may have been the 12 straight episodes of Deadwood DVDs, or the complete freedom of no classes, no job, no worries. Or too many hours on the phone with Florida. This week I have been remembering Bruno and not in the mood to write anything. Last week I was reeling from how tough the Astronomy class was turning out to be.

Today I sat on the porch after school, soaked up the sunshine, and read textbooks, all the while realizing that there's been such a shift in the whole picture. A change of season brings these bubbles floating to the surface of my mind, along with wanting to do some mental spring cleaning as well.

No, going back to school has not yet become day-to-day la-de-da no big deal. It is still a huge big deal, although the walking along the park blocks marveling that I'm there is ebbing. I'm busting my ass some days just race walking to get there on time, taking the flights of stairs without gasping, not wanting to sit in a sweat through a class. I snarked off at one of my professors last week and am still cringing when I meet his eye in class, sitting silent through animated discussions like a mushroom, not contributing, now enduring every minute of a class in my major that I had been really looking forward to doing well in. Shit.

But getting thoroughly saturated in this new endeavor has definitely shut the door on any lingering vestiges of my old retail manager's life and mental space. One of my old employees is in my astronomy class and we got caught up afterwards yesterday, and it was really the first time the whole B-store episode felt done done done and dead to me, really fully behind me and in the past. Can I be allowed the slack to take a bit long to move beyond a ten+ year period of my life and identity? Stockholm Syndrome, I think it's called, otherwise known as drinking the Kool-Aid, Corporate Culture. I did go into it kicking and screaming, as I recall. But then you find yourself accepting that first promotion and going salary instead of hourly---your soul is signed over and you bitch about it every moment until you get out. The relief is overwhelming.

Of course, I'm looking for work now, and going over all of this in my head again, how do I go about this again, doing the work part without signing over the soul part? What do I know now, to do better this time? They don't need my soul, they just need me to show up and do a good job while I'm there. Whatever it is, a campus office type spot would be perfect.

Last spring about this time I had just put Betty on a plane after 12 days and was recovering by spending intense time in the garden. After getting all the dandelions, I put in the tomato starts and some herbs, weedcloth and mulch, marigolds, nasturtiums and lobelias. This spring I'm lagging behind, spending more time enjoying the season, watching Peg shoveling woodchips, cheering her on. "Isn't it beer-thirty yet?" I hollar out. "Can't slow down yet, I'm on a roll," she throws over her shoulder on her way to another load. I go back inside for another beer, I'm getting exhausted just watching her. Gotta start those pea and bean plants, I'm thinking, there's enough sun now. Zzzzzzzzzzzz

Porch Season Exhibition Day

By noon, the icy fog had burned off on the east side of the river, and the air warmed from 28 to 55 degrees, because the sun broke through and won the day.

What's a Wicked Woman on the Porch to do? HIT THE DECK!

No shorts and tank tops yet, but I turned the gold chair south into the sunshine, and cracked open the Sunday New York Times, a POM peach tea, and some Fred Meyers sushi, whereupon the bontemps de soleil laissez roulez. (bad neworleanese for let the sunny good times roll)

All the dogs and their owners were out, gradually sporting shorts and t-shirts as Oregonians tend to do when it's over 49 degrees, the neighbor on the corner was doing some pre-spring gardening. The daffodil shoots are showing already, and the birch catkins are out. I love love love this 6 month spring thing here.

Of course, there will be snow, when the Pineapple Express hooks up with the arctic blast coming down the Gorge, and we get hit with some February Freezing Sleet. But that melts so fast, it doesn't really make for a full season of Winter. Under the snow will be crocuses and hyacinths coming up already. Gentle, easy river valley winters are wonderful.

The extremely low sun position does make for a short spell in the full sunshine, and the shadows are still in chilly January mode, but the first pre-season Porch Day was successful. I'm hoping it carries over into tomorrow a bit, because I'm taking my camera to campus for some winter in the park shots, and to start the Moss Project. (teaser)

Love That 'Completion' Thing

Going to ship off tomorrow morning to arrive in time for Betty's birthday next week.
The fastest I have ever completed a knitting project, it fits, I only had to rip out part of one sleeve, and this shot shows the blues and purples the most accurately.

I LOVE NORO YARN!!!

The t-shirt style took 8 and a half skeins of the 10 I got, so there's enough for me to make a little trophy piece of this yarn that I love so much. Maybe short fingerless gloves. With a thin leather palm for driving. Girl Genius works overtime even when unemployed. (Why am I writing in the imperative?)

Beginning week 3 of Groovy Rhubarb at the House of Vintage, and I am the only used LP vendor anywhere near the mid-Hawthorne shopping areas. This week it was all tourists branching out from the Waterfront Village areas (from the rain) and doing the vintage shopping trip, German tourists more than from anywhere else. Anything with a rose motif was hot, and I sold a lovely teapot set, big ticket item, ding ding! Since the urgent gift knitting is done, I am now launching full tilt into the crafting of the merchandise for the Etsy site, scrounging for more items for the booth, and desperately trying to finish organizing my work room. The coolest thing in the whole world was liberating some cardboard shelf trays from the recycling bin of the hippie grocery store on Hawthorne, which I painted a lovely French Blue, and now they all match, look like something from an organizing store, and suit my need for visual consistency in tools for stashing materials. And I truly dig dig dig French Blue, which is white and blue kids' tempera paint mixed together. Really. Basically free. I bought those quart bottles of tempera paint at Jerry's Art-a-Rama in Deerfield Beach at least 10 years ago. (shut up)

Along the lines of the 'Completion Thing', the Rose Festival is over, so I'm going to segue into Mock Oranges for the gallery this week. If possible, it's almost a jasmine-orange blossom blend, and 300% intoxicating. And it's been a cool spring the last few weeks, so everything is still in bloom instead of bolting and withering too fast. With glowing skies until 10pm and later for the next month or so, the perfume settles back onto the porch in the evenings, and it feels like being in a Maxfield Parrish painting. Or so it feels to me.

Congratulations to Linsey for completing her apprenticeship in horse gambling, slapping down and taking names, so she can get on with the tattoo artist apprenticeship. Or was it the Reading to Gifted Toddlers charity summer? Cruise Director for the Naughty Secretaries' Wham-Bam Whirlwind Tour of Patagonian Nite Clubs? Something publishing? Her blog kills! Read her brilliance while she guest blogs about crappy bookstores.

Peg did the gravity tests on the WWOTP IPA #2 and we are clear for take-off. The Summer Slug-a-Chug party is this Saturday, when the suspecting public will be sampling the new batch, lining up for more, and stopping the presses to make our brewery famous. It was suggested that the new finished basement space would make a perfect pub. Not by me, but I do agree. Since it would be down a small flight of concrete stairs, I'm thinking "The Fall On Inn". Or maybe "Den of Iniquity". I'll stop now.

Fait Accompli !!

Zee Szveaterrrr----she is done!

(pause for Colbert Report-style ovation)

Now we await the reaction from the recipient after she receives it, and I'm just not going to stress about that. Waaaaay too much to do for that.

And the WWOTP IPA---I came downstairs yesterday morning to find a rather large mason jar on the hall table, golden with the hoppy nectar, ready to be savored. Peg worked her alchemical magic and did the bottling mid-week, and another home brewed batch of Wicked Women on the Porch Imperial Pale Ale is about to be consumed. Not quite this early in the morning, I'm only on my first cup of coffee, but definitely towards sundown.

And The Goon Squad was here almost the entire day yesterday, and it smelled like they were priming something, and are almost done with the basement renovation. No ovation for them.

Busy day ahead this morning, so I won't dilly-dally too long here, I have a trip to the House of Vintage right away to restock and re-merchandise. Being a lovely cool morning in the low 50s, it is a sharp contrast to a week ago setting the booth up, when it reached 90 inside the shop by noon, and just went up from there. Rose Festival tourist overflow is winding its way along Hawthorne, and Hawthorne is becoming known for its great hub of thrift shopping, and I have many more treasures to provide those bargain shoppers. And some nice books to sell to Powells. (heh heh heh)

No time to gloat over the bee-utiful Noro sweater---I'm going to take a sunny picture of it later today, and of course, will share it here. Since it's a new yarn from the Japanese Noro company, the nice people at the Yarn Garden said I should bring it by for them to see when I finished the t-shirt style summer weight sweater. Okay, I'll gloat later, too. Gotta go!

Bubble, Bubble, Toil & Trouble

Safely bedded in the dry, dark and friendly basement sits a rather large and active carboy of spirited cloudy mashy brew. Soon to be ale. Yet another batch of Wicked Women on the Porch IPA, with its hoppy, lemony zippiness and satisfying kick in the keester.

And before anyone thinks that home brewed beer is a scary proposition, I had the delight of sampling an Organic IPA at a local area brew-pub last night that bore a suspiciously similar taste to our very own WWOTP IPA. So how did this brew-pub get our secret recipe? This smacks of brew-espionage to me. I see more sampling and batch-tasting in my immediate future, just to determine what goes on here. And the brew-pub had an excellent wheat beer, amber ale, and then I lost track. And quit drinking other people's beer.

How do people suffer through those 24-packs of red-white-blue label cans of factory swill?


Although it appears I was lost in space for three days, I was earnestly working on The Sweater, only one short sleeve to go, taking pics for Etsy, doing some cost analysis of supplies and expenses so far, boxing up more to take to the Groovy Rhubarb space, and writing. Like, as in fiction, sort of like starting a book. A (novel) mystery (maybe?). "I'm scared, Brad, hold me!"
I hate to mention something so early-begun so early, so as to not jinx it, but I am surprised by the concept, and have to drive it a bit to see where it goes for me. And that's all I'm-a gonna say.

Speaking of trouble, Mr. Torso was in the pool with me at the gym yesterday. Sometimes he joins me in the steam room, too, and then we sometimes share the hot tub before he goes and swims hundreds of laps in the fast lane. I know he wears goggles, and wears a close-cropped haircut, but any other description would involve extensive details of his amazing torso, and I would have to admit I have no clue what his face looks like. Am I being too much like a guy here? And is that bad?
So this is where I have to confess to a torso weakness. Not surprisingly, most straight women admit in mixed company to noticing a man's eyes first, but then amongst friends, they talk in lower voices about lower anatomical areas. I notice a guy's eyes first, too, but then...how does he fill out the shirt? That sounds really bad, I know. Even if I'm not wearing glasses or contacts, somehow I have 20-20 vision when it comes to a fabulous torso. How can that be? And, honestly, that's about as far as I notice much. Obviously have not watched enough "Sex in the City" or bad soft-porn. But I did drop an entire large tray of freshly baked bread and other treats upon walking out a busy restaurant door and seeing a spectacular man in front of me stretching with his shirt completely open. As long as I worked there, I could never live that down. And now I share it with you. (I need a moment.......)
So Mr. Torso is a swimmer, and he likes steam and hot tubs, and I can't even tell you a rough estimate of how old he is. Under 35, over 20? And he forgoes that pesky chest waxing ordeal, thank all the greek gods I can think of. So...should I say hi and mention what a great swimmer he is? And not make a Freudian slip with the word lap or stroke or steamy dreamy?

And the whole world knows how I got busted at Fred Meyer's last weekend scoping on this hunky guy in the produce and natural foods department. Dark hair, tied back in a short tail, tan or olive skin, about 6'3", lean, clean but casual, probably between 30 & 35. Meaning, I have no business even looking at this guy. I was going about my usual invisible shopping errands, "Oh, it's just Mrs. Robinson shopping, don't mind me," when--- suddenly---there he appeared, reaching into the cold case right next to me for juice, and my left brain went on break. C-ya!

What the F happens here? I can see it all, my eyes following him as he browses, he looks like a swimmer, or a model, and I'm sure my mouth is hanging open, struck speechless, and I re-position my shopping cart as he circulates around the produce aisles. This sounds so self-deprecating, but pudgy women over 40 really get used to being invisible, or in the way of younger and thinner people needing your space. So I'm sure I was solidly staring at him. Good god. I pretended to look at a shopping list when another woman a tad older than me caught me scoping. She didn't even meet my eye, but she did check him out thoroughly. So, after about 7 or 8 minutes of this, and I know I'm being so silly, he's at the self check-out lane and having trouble with his card but the line to get help is three deep, so he waits, and I move my cart again, and from almost 100 feet away, he turns around and looks directly at me. Remember, no left brain function. I reach for my cell phone, and pretend to answer it. Could I be a bigger dork? (The answer is 'no')
My neighbor Steven giggled at me, and thought it was a good sign that he didn't call security.
It was only a few minutes. I had a ready excuse---"You look just like my son's friend" or, "Sorry, you look just like my sister's baby daddy," or the best--- "Wow, I thought you were the guy I shagged last night at the Bagdad". But, not needed. He was gone. So I put my silent cellphone away and finished my shopping. "No waiting in the 10 DORKS OR LESS line!!"

Always happy to amuse.

Ramblings of a Hop Head

It had to happen.

Two intelligent women. The perfect porch. Summer returns. Long warm sunny evenings. Beer.

Home Brewed World Domination.

Funny that it took me until this revered vint-age to realize what being "hopped-up" really meant. I always felt it ranked down there with smoking pencil shavings or cornsilk behind the utility shed at the back of the school yard, or apple cider left out a wee too long after Thanksgiving. Ye Olde pre-1960s Country Time Highs.

Brewing is an ancient and revered sacrament going way back. I truly suspect that brewing is in fact the "Oldest Profession". Legend has it that in 16th century England and the Colonies, even the Puritans insisted that "Goodwife Prudence" should be an adept brew mistress before being considered as marriageable. That's a lot for a 14 year old girl to add to her already burdened homemaking resume. Even children drank beer, because the dangerous water micro-organisms had been boiled and fermented out of it. 'Small beer', it was called.

Well, we aren't making kid-stuff here. This is "Knock You On Your Ass & Fall Off the Porch" IPA. Suggested menu items would be slabs of roast beef, trenchers of mashed potatoes with gravy, horseradish sauce and slices of thick brown bread, grilled mushrooms and onions, some great tart chutney, and parsnips or something Pilgrimmy like that. For the more shamanic among us, to trip between the worlds as it were, salad rolls and cold Vietnamese noodle dishes would be nice and light. To speed your journey. To the Sky Realms.

The Egyptians paid their work crews in big jugs of soggy slushy chewy barley beer. Look at their little pointy thingys in the desert. Not so bad. And at higher elevations, with no grain crop, they even ferment yak or mare's milk. I think brewing predates prostitution by a long shot.

Personally, I've known dozens of people who may as well have had "WILL WORK FOR BEER" tattooed on their foreheads, they were so unconcerned about any other reason for collecting a paycheck. And in the busy kitchen, it paid to be real friendly with the back-bartender.

So this afternoon, Peg & I are venturing to a Brewer's Emporium to collect some raw materials and soak in the Brew Wisdom floating in the air. I feel a peculiar awe to be a tiny grain in the Great Mash of Venerable Brew Tradition, that as well as needle arts, growing things, cave painting, storytelling, and animal tending, I can participate in another truly ancient and mystical, alchemical art. Making and getting plowed on hoppy barley beer. Better than that pesky Stone Temple Puta thing.