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...