Sunday, Lazy Sunday

Today was weighed down by a heavy blanket of fatigue and laziness, laced with just the smallest bit of agitation. Lost between its folds were productivity, vibrancy and accomplishment and soon I saw the end of the day arrive with an entirely excessive promptness for which I did not appreciate. How quickly a Sunday goes by when it is filled with football games, sporadic naps and Meet Joe Black. While Anthony Hopkins’ character is pondering on how his 65 years have gone by ‘in a wink,’ I am avidly agreeing as I eye the clock to my left. The window behind me reveals a darkened sky, Christmas lights illuminating the street, and people returning from making their last minute Christmas purchases. I am still on the couch—ignoring it all. I feel like I’m in one of those time lapse videos—the clouds race across the sky, the sun rises and sets, the tall grasses dance with the wind. But there is always that one object that doesn’t move or shudder to which all other activity is measured by—a skyscraper or tree trunk, for example. That is me today. I am just a big tree trunk. Cedar. Strong in my willpower not to be moved.

I wonder if these ‘wasted days’—the ones which seem to last a total of about four hours and which find us dazed and disheveled at their end—are the days we most regret when we get to about, well, Anthony Hopkins’ age. Not that I think we are all going to be wishing we would have been more productive on our days off. We won’t be cursing ourselves for not having mowed the lawn on that one Sunday in September, or brushing back the tears for having missed out on an opportunity to work out at the gym a few years back. But will we regret not living optimally everyday? And how would you define living optimally anyway? I could argue that having the occasional lazy Sunday is a fine addition to a life lived. Needed even. An opportunity to overdose on relaxation and contentment has got to be therapeutic for any human being living in this fast-paced world of high expectations. It may even delay ‘the end’ a few years. Instead of sifting through files of memories and regrets (overlapping as they continually increase) at eighty, you are sifting through them at eighty-five. And with any luck those extra years will have trimmed down that regret file some.

I could also argue that these lackluster days can still retain some semblance of worth when spent with other lazy souls who lack motivation and zeal and whom you happen to love. They are not lazy people in general, but they are joining you in your current state of tree ‘trunkenness’. This morning Ty and I had breakfast with two close friends. We all shuffled over to White’s (a breakfast joint in Salem) around 11am. No make-up, un-showered, dehydrated, and lacking sleep would fit our description. I was half expecting the waitress to tell us that they had no room and to check the stable around the corner. It being Christmas and all. But they took us in (probably because we had a cute one year old with us) and we spent the dying hours of the morning chomping on food and drinking coffee. Lazy—yes, but wasted? No. Ty and I drove home shortly after. Well, Ty drove—I dozed in the passenger seat. The rest of the day saw us couch ridden with the aforementioned football and Mr. Black. Yes, we could have been working off breakfast at the gym or debating the possible outcome of next years election, but there is something to be said for just leaning up against someone you love for hours on end with no need to move or even talk.

I think that when I’m nearing the end of my life, I will think fondly on days like today. I am coming to this conclusion, mind you, through a fog of sedation heavily cultivated by the very activity which I am now ruling. Thus, I may be a tad shy of objective. Regardless, I do not believe this day was a waste. It was merely a pause from the normal breakneck speed that we all have come to view as normal and that we all must strive to match and surpass Monday through Friday.

It was a good day, and despite my grumblings about how fast a Sunday can evaporate, I still have a couple hours left. Just enough time to pop some popcorn, curl up with Ty and watch TV reruns. Meanwhile the weekend will slip away, escaping for another five days, its exit set to the tune of a Seinfeld laugh track.

Ode to Books

I settle into the brown, leather chair, setting my tea down carefully by my feet. I know it will probably get spilled there—as soon as the words I read engage my mind enough to forget its existence. I leave it there anyway, not desiring the hassle of having to reach over the side of the chair to enjoy the hot liquid. I am one who tucks myself deep into a chair like this. The give of the leather and the elevated arms at the sides do well in creating a cove-like retreat perfect for entering another world.

I choose carefully who I let take me into the worlds that reside within a bookstore. If you’re not careful you may be left victimized by patronizing ideas and unrealistic storylines—soon finding yourself dodging and weaving through scores of shallow plot lines and one dimensional characters. The aisles of the bookstore are the trenches, but on the shelves themselves? No man’s land. Watch out for shrapnel.
It is amazing that some of these books entrap any sane person’s interest much less sell enough to settle down comfortably on a sturdy Borders bookshelf. To this effect a bookstore may at times be a bit exhaustive. The trial and error of starting a new book has often seen me rise from my adored chair in order to surrender the latest try back to the sea of colored spines from whence it came. But if at first you don’t succeed…

And then comes the moment when you choose the RIGHT book.

Finally I breathe a sigh of satisfaction and anxious delight. I have only just entered this new world and already I know that I can trust the author to let me enjoy it. To let me drink in the unique, vivid descriptions, the unabashed humor, the relatable reality of it all. It is a story which, I am finding, refuses to insult the intelligence of its audience as well as the intelligence of its characters. At last I can rest within the pages of competence, trusting the author will erase themselves from the pages, allowing only the story to remain.
And then I drift away, riding on waves of rich content and characters of no mold.

My tea spills.

The Scare

Last Friday I ordered a margarita from Mazatlan. Strawberry with a side of guilt. I was in the middle of my first pregnancy scare and had decided that ignorance could aid in excusing my behavior for the evening. Jokes from my coworkers, of course were made; “Are you sure that will be good for the baby?” “You really ought to get a Shirley Temple.” I’ve never had a Shirley Temple, but it sounds boring. Anyway I don’t like visualizing a little girl with bouncy ringlets and a short dress tap dancing up and down stairs when I order a drink. But that’s just me. So I had the margarita and hoped for no long term side effects.
Earlier that week I had left work due to nausea and fatigue. I did not contemplate being pregnant, but I was a minority in that regard. The next morning I arrived at work a couple hours late because, again, nausea had wrapped itself around my head, collapsing me into a weakened, frazzled mess. This did not go unnoticed by my coworkers and soon I was fending off constant heckling from all angles.
The thought of being pregnant had now muscled its way into my head and had staked out a nice little spot for itself. Right in between cautious excitement and paralyzing fear. Ty too was interested in this new development which had his wife drinking PeptoBismal like it was her daily nightcap. Barbie-pink miracle liquid, by the way. He sent me a text on the first day of nausea, asking me if I was experiencing any breast tenderness and sensitivity. I said no, but if he would like to check when I got home, he could.
On the third day, which was a Thursday, the morning yielded no nausea or fatigue—I was back—or so I thought. That evening, as I was scrolling through various blogs and forums, the nausea returned. This time I could not blame it on the MAX or lack of food. I was sitting down, I had just eaten and everything was as it should be. Having the internet literally at my fingertips, I did a search for ‘how to know when you are pregnant.’ Intending to find some reinforcement for my hopeful theory of not being pregnant, I began scanning the websites. My results were to this effect: Morning sickness can actually occur any time of the day—even the evening. Morning sickness (nausea, vomiting) usually occurs within the first one to two weeks of pregnancy. Great. This prompted a quick removal of laptop from lap and an escape into the living room where nothing but twinkling Christmas lights threatened my status quo.
Its not that being pregnant would be such an awful thing, I am looking forward to having a mini-Ty running around, but it is a pretty mind blowing thought when it’s not expected. And probably even when it is expected. So I sat there, tucked deep into the couch in a sort of psychosis, staring at the lights and probably rocking myself like a crazy person, thinking about how exactly I felt about this little hiccup. Big hiccup.
Ty came in and we talked a bit. He offered to buy be a pregnancy test, but I declined. I have issues with pregnancy tests. It has something to do with experiencing three minutes of the most heart pounding stress you can imagine while waiting for a cheap plastic stick to tell you if your life it going to change forever—with a 'Made in China' postscript. I feel that I should have to summit a large, craggy mountain and talk to an old man with a long beard for that information. It seems more dignified that way. So I decided to endure a week of stress rather than the three minutes. Aunt Flow would have to suffice in lieu of the Mr. Mountaintop.
And that she did—Tuesday morning all of my fears and apprehensions were swept away and life was back to normal. I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited for Day 28. The excitement quickly dissipated however with the onset of some minor cramps and the realization that I wasn’t going to get any action all week.
The Scare is now over and I seem to have moved on to a new chapter of womanhood. I feel more experienced, wiser and not to mention way more punctual with the birth control. I wonder where the other Scare Survivors are. Do they hang out? Do they have meetings? Should I be attending? Their meetings would probably entail a bunch of women drinking and yelling, "Look everyone, I'm DRINKING! And that’s okay!" And then afterwards they would all stumble over to the AA meeting down the street.

I think I’ll stick with my occasional margarita. Hold the guilt.

All Wet

Well the floodgates have opened. The picture of Oregon’s truest self is now beating on our windows and dripping down our gutters. Medium used: watercolor.
Roads are beginning to grow sporadic puddles. The kind where you actually hope there is an unsuspecting pedestrian appropriately placed as you drive by. The bird’s eye view of downtown Portland now appears as a sea of black mini-domes and plastic points scurrying and sorting through the sidewalks and streets. One would assume two massive funerals were taking place at opposite ends of the city and everyone was late. Umbrellas are being left in the lobbies of buildings everywhere, only to be retrieved later by the sheepish, dripping owner. And the proud owners of ‘vintage houses’ are nervously checking their basements every half hour, letting a sigh of relief escape their lips each time the basement remains dry.
It seems Oregon is not alone in this recent onslaught of precipitation. Almost every football game on Sunday featured a muddy field and streaming water. Football announcers and players were all complaining about ‘conditions on the field,’ and the officials were devotedly swapping out wet footballs with ‘dry’ footballs at the beginning of every play. Dry footballs that they had been holding under drenched towels during game play.
Yes it is wet. My hope is that the temperature will decrease enough for all of this falling water to transform into snow. I don’t hate rain, but you can’t make a rain angel or a rain man. You can’t throw rainballs and sled down a rainslope. Rain is simply not as fun as snow. Enough with the rain. Let it snow. Then it will be time for a new blog.

Directions to Borders

I live within walking distance from a bookstore. Or rather, I live walking distance from my home. Ty and I often find ourselves making that short jaunt over to Borders, our local bookstore of choice. We happily trounce on dried up old leaves, waiting for that gratifying crunch to swat at the crisp air. Sometimes we’ll kick a rock back and forth as we walk, trying to lengthen the distance and keep the precision each time. This usually goes on until one of us tries to really launch it and it catapults off the beaten trail, skittering away from our desire of retrieval.
Then comes the adventure of crossing Walker road, one of the main arteries of SW Beaverton. Cars of all shapes and sizes siphon through this two lane stretch, but between them all, Ty and I scamper across. This is a small risk we take to lounge in a backdrop of books. And we take it without question.
We traverse the bowling ally parking lot next; veering left and then left again. Borders soon greets us with its oversized lettering and open windows that reveal plush espresso-brown chairs and wooden tables. Coffee is brewing, its steam rising above countless rows of paperbacks and hardcover books. Ah, home again.

On the Subject of Christmas

Ah, Christmas time is here again. The white and green of Starbucks cups everywhere are now dripping blood red. It seems they have once again fallen prey to the crazy Christmas Slasher who, every year, takes these cups as its first victim in a massive plan to douse every American city red. Soon shopping bags, store fronts, clothes and iPods will all bear the scarlet mark and our own mothers and fathers will start to cover themselves in countless variations of knitted sweaters and fleece scarves—all in, yes you have it—red.

Christmas trees will follow ubiquitous suite as they spring from grounds of dirt, tile, marble and linoleum, rousing from their summertime slumber to light up the lobbies of downtown buildings and ranch style living rooms. Lights and bulbs adorn their branches, swinging from limb to limb as if tracing the trail of a secret Christmas tree monkey. A monkey which probably dwells beneath the branches eating popcorn and candy canes from its new habitat’s generous boughs. He will get an unpleasant surprise come New Years. These trees become so prevalent this time of year that I am sure even the greatest of skeptics begin to believe that trees actually grow that way. Tied up in lights with only the grout of tile with which to draw nourishment.

Along with this background there are other seasonal truisms such as church carolers (I like the ones in the mall, but I never know what to do with the ones that come to my door—I feel like they’re watching me just like I’m watching them and I always feel the need to put on some kind of performance), also, countless Santas speckling the outside corners of malls, ringing their bell for a contribution, pushy insistent shoppers, Christmas TV specials (Charlie Brown ranks number one on my list) and Midnight Mass. Okay, that’s not necessarily a comprehensive list, but you get the idea, right. It’s a circus out there.

Underlying all of this is the Jesus’ birth, of course—a very key point which is sometimes forgotten in all the madness of gift giving and getting. Unless, of course you happen to catch Linus giving account on his cartoon stage, a blanket as his pulpit. I don’t get too wound up anymore on this issue. After all, I don’t really know anything about St. Patrick but I still wear green and drink up when that day rolls around. I suppose if Christ’s birth is important to you, well than you won’t forget will you? And if you aren’t forgetting, then it’s still just as sacred to you—and that’s about all you can control anyway. That and maybe putting a massive nativity scene in your front yard.

So let’s get on with it then. Christmas has its flaws—you only have to look at far as that ‘Christmas in the Northwest’ song to be convinced of that. Despite it all though, I happen to love this time of year. I love the lights, the trees, the music, the fires and hot chai, and yes, even those red Starbucks cups.

It’s just so damn cozy.

Madness I Say

Black Friday. Whose idea was it to stuff people with turkey on Thursday, and raise them at 4:00 in the morning on Friday? It seems that the Americans fortunate enough to have Friday off should be making good use of that gift by sleeping in and letting all of the food consumed the day prior, shuffle off to its appropriate body part. Nine or ten o’clock should see them finally getting out of bed, walking the distance to the couch and watching college football for at least another hour.

Rising at an ungodly hour such as 4am is really just an insult to all the poor souls who have begrudgingly trenched off to work—donning their work clothes so that all others may sleep and laze around, basking in the excitement of a four day weekend. It is clear to all of these Back Friday workers that the people who are crowding the gates at every Fred Meyers and Macys do not know how to properly honor a day off. I'll give you a hint, its starts with not banging on the doors of every six hour sale, while a wine hangover still lingers from the festivities of the night before.

Personally, I am afraid to dwell within that shopping pack. I could just imagine my horror as I am running through aisle, madly searching for any amazing deal that might not be a complete waste of money. It would be one of those experiences that are so overwhelming; your body just stops and refuses to move. You simply look around, totally at a loss of how to proceed or what world you are living in. Hundreds of crazed soccer moms would be shoving past me, reaching, grabbing, snatching, ready to knife someone for that one last perfect gift that little Tommy just has to have. A twilight zone set it Target. The crowds and sickening materialism would probably become so suffocating that I would, in an amazing show of strength, lift my shopping cart over my head and heave it right in the heart of the crowd. Then I would stomp off and go find those hills that Julie Andrews twirled around on in Sound of Music. Or anywhere that had that kind of space.

What did I do today? I slept in until eight thirty, shuffled out of bed to the distance of the couch and watched Good Morning America while chomping on a bowl of Corn Bran. I did not give one thought to the deals I was missing or the American tradition I was ignoring. This is how a day off should start.

By the time ten o’clock came around many shoppers had already been zipping through the aisles for almost four hours so Ty and I decided to brave it to Best Buy. Mainly, I just followed Ty around, keeping close so as not to lose him. I could just imagine the crowd ripping our hands apart, carrying Ty off to computer parts and pushing me toward kitchen appliances as we futilely tried to fight their crazed Christmas momentum. This did not happen; buts its possibility still makes me shudder. I consider us very lucky.

Metropolitan Area Express 101

This morning, like all mornings, I was carried to work on the MAX. It swept me up at the Millikan way stop and deposited me right onto 5th avenue, in downtown Portland. In the interim of that journey I was sandwiched between various white and blue collar workers all making the inevitable trek with me.
There is never an open seat when I enter, too many people going to the same central work zone at the same time. That’s okay though because I have learned a few survival tips which have helped me snag a seat here and there and which have also kept me away from the areas on the MAX where people are squished together like grapes coming off a vineyard. (And yes, there is lots of ‘whine’ as a result).
They pardon each others familiarity, but I would rather just avoid it.
The trick is to never stay in front of those sliding doors. It is these doors which open to unveil a mass of people eager to cram themselves into any space available. That includes yours—and any personal bubble you may have too. Soon your airy, spacious spot is overrun with lots and lots of bodies.
It only took me a few weeks to realize that in order to avoid the morning onslaught one must venture past these doors and into the narrow corridors which stretch through each light-rail car. There is so little standing room here that many prefer not to stand there at all. This is why it is a great place to stake your spot.
If you do find yourself caught in front of a door, try to secure yourself to a wall. Put your back against it—not just a hand. That is the best way to retain your territory. If you plaster yourself to that wall, you have something to lean on, and you don’t have people crowding you from all angles. This is the best way to survive the doors of the MAX.
If you want to snag a seat, the corridors are again a good place simply because there is not as much competition. Some people are so eager to sit that they will coyly study their seated neighbors, eyeing the one who seems to be rustling about in preparation of an exit. Don’t be fool enough to think they won’t run you over to sit their tush down. I’ve seen it happen and it’s not pretty.
Another tip, which is not that reliable, but which is sometimes fruitful—Mexican passengers. For a while I was noticing that they where predominantly leaving at the Beaverton Transit stop, which is only two stops after my arrival. I tried to stand next to these fine people. Sometimes I was right and they did leave as expected, at which time I would silently compliment myself on my cleverness. Sometimes, however, my instincts failed me and they sat comfortably all the way downtown. No self compliments for those occurrences. As I said, it is not a reliable system and I have since given up on seeking them out. Besides, it seems a bit exploitive doesn’t it? I must admit, though, that I do the same thing with transients on the way home. If there are no seats, I stand by them. I know there is no way they are going to Beaverton! This tends to be more reliable that the prior I mentioned. Even though it is a bit broad brushed.
Some random bits—the tunnel is the best place to check your reflection and fix any stray hairs etc. The black cloak during this portion of the ride creates a nice reflection effect. The tunnel is also where the possibility of nausea is the highest (at least for me). So be careful not to get too crazy swinging to your tunes and tossing your hair about.
One last thing. It is true that the MAX takes me begrudgingly to the Man, who then puts me to work, pats my head and sends me back nine hours later, but all in all the system is not bad. I must give up props. It saves me gas, I can people-watch and listen to good music all at the same time, and with any luck, I can sit my ass down before my competition. If I achieve that, I have already won my first battle of the day before the clock even strikes 9:00am.

The Tour

My house consists of three bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen, and living room. They are all connected by a river of hardwood and an occasional flurry of Italian tile. It is not a large home. I wouldn’t even say it is in the midland territory. It is small. I love it. When I step into the house it wraps me up with its close quarters and when Ty is there, we are wrapped up together.
There is a glow that permeates through the place. I think it comes from the shine of the hardwoods and the sun which escapes the outdoors to rest on our walls and furniture. It is picturesque, and I am still smitten. Familiarity has not bred contempt but rather an increased appreciation of every angle and every dot of color that paint our home. I do not write this to brag or give airs. I imagine everyone must feel this sense about the place they live. The place where the world need not enter, nor its contentions. In a home, the world is merely the colors that trace and fill each window. A picture. The world is a dream and in your home, you live.

My living room is where I love to linger. A brick fireplace climbs one of its walls giving natural warmth that requires no additions. It is simple, yet striking. Sometimes a fire will dance in this cave of red brick, like a scene from a children’s Christmas book. All that is missing are the stockings. I lose myself in that dance.
On the mantle of the fireplace are five small votives. (I have determined that if I ever wanted to ‘off’ five people, I would snuff out each candle, one by one, as each person fell, thereby adding to the foreboding doom that would no doubt be hanging thickly. The effect would be better than china dolls I suspect). Cozied up to the fireplace is a white built-in bookshelf where ideas, references and dreams are stored. Chesterton, Lewis, Tolkein, and Steinbeck are all among the inhabitants of its shelves. Oh the debates they must have!
The furniture in the living room consists of a loveseat, couch and TV—all circling each other as one amiable set with a red-and-sage-toned rug planted right in the middle of it all. Two cushioned leather cubes are posted at each corner of the rug, offering support for weary feet and tired legs.
Behind the loveseat there is a large picture window which flushes the room with light in various sizes of rectangular shards. I love that window. It serves my voyeuristic tendencies, allowing me to pear out into the world through the white plantation slits, while remaining relatively immune from the gazes of others. A man walking his two dogs—he comes this way often. Two women jogging together and chatting—a feat I do not understand. The neighbor pulling into his driveway in the white mini-van—always opening the doors of that van, even when the family isn’t going anywhere… Does it smell or something?
The bathroom is next. It is a small room with half of its space monopolized by the bathtub lounging in the back. There is a mini-window above the tub which I adore. On its ledge rest two aqua blue candles that are just transparent enough to allow the sunlight to illuminate their wax. The sink is pedestal—classy but hardly practical and the walls are painted a fresh tropical green. The only painting project to have yet been attempted. It is a breath of fresh air—and if not, well there is some scented air freshener on top of the toilet!
In our bedroom there is a big, white bed. It is a cloud. It feels like a cloud. I am always late to work.
Next to the bedroom is our office, where I am currently residing. There is one book shelf which holds magazines, cds, and the like. Ty is here too and has presently planted himself in front of our desktop computer. He has great big headphones covering his ears and seems intent on killing everyone on the screen. I tell myself that he is saving the world, but who really knows. Whatever he is trying to accomplish, I wish him all the best. I am sitting on an Ikea Poang chair with my feet propped up on the accompanying ottoman. This spot is second only to the living room. Unless it’s a Saturday morning, in which case, our bed races to the top every time.
The third bedroom is our closet. It usually is covered with clothes by midweek and stays that way until Saturday when all the clothes get picked up so we can go through the fun of tossing them back on the ground all over again.
Now to the place with the food. The best part about our kitchen is the row of four windows that open up to the backyard. Light is never lacking in this little cooking nook. Our counters consist of big, grey tile slabs that nicely offset the swatches of red that are sprinkled through the décor. Our appliances are stainless steel, which adds a restaurant quality to the overall look, and Italian tile covers the floor. It is a cozy kitchen—many chickens have met their final end here. Not that we slaughtered them, but we ate them—which seems final enough.
And that is my home, if mere words can contain it. You see, I’m pretty sure words can describe a house, but a home—that is another thing entirely. I still seem to have fallen short in articulating what that fascination and wonder is all about when I step through my front door and feel light—when I get distracted by the arrangement and color of books on a bookshelf and the shadows of dancing tree branches that bring our bedroom wall alive in the morning.
I don’t really feel I need to explain it, enough people probably know it more thoroughly than I do.
It is new to me though.
I am still swimming in its wonder.

DOom Do dO DOom

I have become quite familiar with the feeling of dread. It churns my stomach to a point where I am sure all intestinal function must have been ground to bits. My hands go slightly numb, but the ache in my stomach merits this as only secondary.
Job interviews, unpracticed speeches, and the first sentence of a book I may never finish, all evoke this notorious biological clause. It comes on with great intensity; I’m pushed to the brink of nausea and saved just in time by logic and optimism with no moments to spare. My very own Indiana and Jones. The battle is not over then though—dread can lay unnoticed in my psyche for days on end and then, with one single thought or worry, it blindsides me with a wrenching, paralyzing fear. Fear of failure. Cliché but true. Perhaps the curious vigor with which this feeling charges is fueled by the repression which I have consistently and contentedly lavished upon it—I do not tend to linger on negative thoughts, but they have to go somewhere.*
Lately my dread has been derived from, as mentioned previously, the Job Interview. I find a strange mix of hope and doom residing in my mind due to the anticipation of this event. Hope for what could be and doom for what inevitably will be. It is a mental tennis match, with each player slicing low shots which barely sail over the net and leave me teetering on the edge of sanity—or insanity if you please. I long for a day when fickle emotions and self esteem hiccups no longer wreak havoc on my visions for what I can accomplish and who I can become.
I wish I could end this blog with a witty ‘Game, Set, Match,’ conclusion but alas, life is not that simple.
And so I say deuce.



*In my mind I envision all these thoughts as tiny gnomes all suited up in red leather armor, pounding their long spears in rhythmic fashion, mechanically chanting some séance-esque tune—readying themselves for their next onslaught of overpowering dread. Their ranks ever increasing.

Spectating

What a wonderful, rare thing to be aware that you are existing in a moment that is wonderful. To not have to look back at that moment with yearning nostalgia, but to actually be able to appreciate its grandness as you soak it in with contented pleasure, letting it wash over you and linger. It is spiritual in the way a spiritual thing should be. Effortlessly peaceful.
I was tucked deep inside my couch when this moment came, gazing at the outside world through a picture window and white plantation blinds. Everything had been done. Ty and I had raked, mowed, vacuumed and swept. The stage was set. The rays of the fall sun were the spotlight, framing the moment with a glow which mirrored my own mood. I felt light. The couch was floating.
My legs and feet were covered with a blanket and I had a cup of coffee in my hands. I drank the warm liquid slowly. There was no rush, only time to savor. Ty was sitting opposite me with his attention toward the outdoors, both of us mesmerized by the sun that shone through the Big Maple’s remaining leaves, illuminating them in golden brilliance. It was the leaves’ one last etch into the beauty of the neighborhood sky before they swirled down to earth. Applause seemed appropriate.
Rectangular strips of sun painted themselves onto our rug and I kept gazing out the window—like a cat on the windowsill, overseeing fall’s great production. Across the street there was a tire swing gently dancing with the November breeze and a father and daughter out raking leaves. A baby was strapped to the father’s chest, making the act of raking an entertaining struggle for both. The daughter, who looked about six, soon took over, but fared no better as the rake was bigger than she was. It was an overwhelmingly charming scene, such that our 1950s neighborhood is given to showcasing.
I read a whole book right there in that spot, sipping my coffee and occasionally looking out at the world outside. Across the street, the father and daughter had retreated into their home, yard half raked and leaves still falling. The sun had gone down as I read. Curtains had closed. Time had not stood still as it had felt. The world kept moving.
I felt outside of it.

The Murder

I think I’m in the middle of a sugar rush. Energy is surging through my veins, despite the fatigue that is dragging at my ankles. Looking over to the weathered side table on my right there are four disheveled candy wrappers. All different varieties and all mine. It is a dangerous game to buy a bag of Halloween candy for only a handful of visitors. The treat is the trick. How does one avoid a bagful of chocolate all wrapped up in eye-grabbing bright colors and convenient bite-size portions?
….
My pulse is racing. The chocolate is watching me, taunting me with its packaging and promises. I feel my desperation rising—I must act now. Before I can think I grab the bag of Halloween candy and launch it across the room, feeling only the urgent need to get away. The candy scatters over the rug—accusing me even from across the room. Only one thing to do now. I don’t dare pick up the baiting chocolate, opting instead to roll up the rug with the evil inside. I cram the rug in the trunk of a silver BMW and rev through a dark foggy night, down toward the pier. What pier? The Pier. When I arrive, there is no one watching except for the eerie, glowing eye of a distant street light. The fog is floating above the waters, and the windy cold stings my eyes as I exit the car to do must be done. I wrap my trench coat tightly around me, and quickly check my surroundings for signs of passing strangers. I am alone. I open the trunk and look inside, half expecting the Enemy to have escaped. That would be the end for me—no way was I resisting its temptations twice. It was now or never. I grab the rug and swing it over my shoulder, not letting my mind wander to the ramifications of what I was about to do. At the edge of the pier I let the rug roll off my shoulders into the hungry, black waters. My breath catches in my throat as the rug hesitates for a moment before slowly disappearing beneath the waters. I stay until the last bit of tassel dips beneath the rolling waves. Shaking, I return to the car, sweat dripping from my pale skin. I sit with my head against the steering wheel for just a moment before igniting the engine and racing off into the night.

Twinkling Bottles

I sat at a bar tonight. Saddled right up and asked for their best Amber. It was strange, I felt as though I was engaging in a sacred act—a right of passage designated for those who handed their ass to the Man all day and whose only request was enough change for a shot and a beer at the end of it all. A drink and a bar-top to let fly the stifled dreams and thoughts which had patiently lain waiting—aching to exert the individuality of the man. There I sat, immersing myself in a tradition set back to the joyous discovery of fermentation and the genius construction of a sturdy barstool. It is here that the low light slows the blood and boosts the confidence of the loyal patrons.

The dark, cherry wood bar was full tonight. Suited men and women chattered and laughed, stopping only long enough to indulge in their beverages and catch the eye of the bartender for another drink. Beside them was a man with long gray hair and a flannel shirt. He was farther along in the drinking process—transfixed by the wall before him. A mosaic of glass bottles and colors glimmering against the dull light of the bar mirrored his still state. The sight mesmerized him. Gone were his thoughts of work and deadlines, arrogant bosses and power hungry coworkers. This bar left no room for those worries.

I sat there drinking in the rosy warmth that swirled around me. The weight of the day slid from my shoulders and I felt light. The weight would return tomorrow, I knew, fresh with new possibilities for compounding problems which would be set to the tune of a morning headache. At that moment though, I was just a girl at a bar staring at the twinkling bottles on the wall. That, my friends, is a place worth revisiting.

The Way I See It

Every morning I am called to journey beyond the confines of my downtown work building and into a world full of cozy warmth, bustling activity, and the smell of coffee. It is a cherished route that I take, one which frees me (if only temporarily) from the office phones that cheerfully pull and tug at my sanity with their persistent jingle jangle. Free also from the cold which has resolutely camped out in my corner of the office and free from the feeling of doom which mounts higher and higher as my begrudged rut becomes ever deeper. I step outside of my working world and I breathe again.

The Coffee Shop.

Despite the calls of multi-syllabled drink orders and the boisterous conversations of suited lawyers and casual city workers, a feeling of peaceful sanctuary washes over me. I relish the thought of a corner table, a steamy Chai, and a good friend. I do not desire work. I desire a lazy afternoon filled with the good conversations that I can never find enough of—set to the tune of big band melody. Slipping into line, I eye the brightly colored mugs which line the wooden shelves—a wink at Mod by the marketing team. I approach the barista, Raney, who is one of my favorites. About a week ago we had been comrades, cutting our hair short with a nose up to anyone who thought less of us for it. A courageous surge of frustration and liberation had recently turned Raney’s hair from short to buzzed. It was a brave move—and she was happy. I was happy for her. I exchange my plastic for her paper and move on to the newspaper rack which stands guarding the happily swinging door. The headlines always prod at my curiosity and I find myself helplessly drawn to the bold black ink. This does nothing but draw a vague picture of Portland the day before, but these days it seems that image is best served blurry. My drink is soon planted before me riding on a string of titles and personal preferences. I take the cup and let its warmth awake my fingers, drinking in the smell of coffee beans one last time before swinging out the busy doors. I have not left my sanctuary—I clutch it tightly in my hand—until the last drop.

People Watching

I moved my fingers gingerly up and down the stem of my wine glass. I was talking to my sister and somehow the texture of the smooth crystal occupied my hands and focused my mind to listen in on her latest stab at moving up the corporate ladder. I personally never thought of a ladder as something in which I desired approaching. The higher you climb, the thinner the air becomes and the closer you get to the gutters. Which then you must proceed to clean out. No thank you. I raised the glass to my lips and let the grapes linger on my palate. Earthy and subtle. As my sister knelt down to engage my five year old niece I allowed my eyes to graze about the people who had come to my brother’s party.
At the corner of the room, holding his post by the dessert table was a middle aged man who looked as though he had made dessert-table-posting a mainstay in his party routine. He had dark brown hair that was cut in one of those buzzed flat top styles, tempting me to approach him just to see if my wine glass could actually be set upon his head. His eyes looked to be brown, but it was difficult to tell since he seemed to be very involved in the food he was so enjoying. When I caught his eye he gave me a smile and raised his wine glass as if we were old friends that shared some sort of understood camaraderie. I returned the wine salute, deciding to indulge him and his strange social habits since he was all alone in the corner and I felt a measure of pity for him.
My eyes continued to scan the room, stopping at two women, one being my sister in law, Tracy, and the other a short, curly haired woman who was excitedly nodding her head in understanding at whatever gossip Tracy was spilling. I smiled to myself at the visual. Tracy is a towering 6’2’’ and the other lady would probably say she was 5’ but my guess was more in the 4’11 range. I thought to myself that both of these women would quite possibly have sore necks after tonight, however the spice of the gossip seemed to be worth the height inconvenience to both. You can always tell when a conversation is about gossip and not simple drab subjects like the day’s activities or the weather. Tracy and her friend illustrated this perfectly. Both of their eyes had increased in size and were lit up with gleeful astonishment and wonder. Tracy—the teller—had her entire upper body leaning forward toward her listener as if to completely encapsulate the lady in anticipation of the dirt which was about to be revealed, clutching her wine glass so as not to spill anything in the excitement. The other lady—the receiver—was switching off between nodding (mouth ajar), taking a quick swig of her wine (without so much as breaking eye contact…and amazingly still nodding a bit), and spouting the occasional, ‘No!’ at which time her hand went to her mouth as though she was unbelievably appalled and yet thoroughly ecstatic at the news she was receiving. The whole room could have risen up in flames around the pair and they would not have even noticed. The universal picture of gossip. I would be lying if I said I had never engaged in such petty conversations. I am a woman after all—and who among us does not enjoy learning about some sort of scandal that is supposed to remain behind closed doors? You walk away from a conversation like that feeling as though you have obtained something which only a trusted few know about—something which you will then impart to another privileged someone who is trustworthy enough to know.
I looked down at my glass. Empty. The wine was beginning to lay siege against my motor skills, but I retrieved the wine bottle perched on the kitchen counter behind me, deciding that one more glass may yield an even more engaging evening. I amused myself with the thought that I was not unlike the dessert table guy, though my indulgence of the night was of a liquid, tannin-filled variety. Maybe there was substance to our camaraderie after all.

Fall

There is a full moon tonight. The leaves are dancing along the neighborhood curbs, settling only until the next car glides past. The scattered street lights give a glistening brilliance to the wet pavement, taking help from the moon’s dispersed glow. Stillness lingers in the air after an afternoon of whisking winds—people today had been pushed along the streets and carried along their routes—legs and feet were merely commodities, tools to be dictated by the October wind. Stillness now though—a time for man and nature to square the day and breath again. A moment of life so fragile in its perfection that one screech of tires, one dip in temperature, one gust of wind would reveal the cold inevitability of such a moment—its stubborn fate to die. As the moment lingers however, a perfect fall night is realized.

The sun shone today—the clear sky acted like an open window welcoming crystals of light which rode in on the cold autumn winds. The two are never apart this time of year. The sun always shines on white-breathed people, bundled in their scarves and hats, praising the sun and cursing the bracing cold. Rain, curiously, would warm them, though they would curse that too. It is a grasping after summer which only ends in a fistful of wind and rain—a winter victory fought in the battlefield of fall.

The Great American Job Search

The Great American Job Search. What a depressing venture. I have just spent the last two hours immersed in the ocean of monster.com (appropriately named, I have now concluded) and have come up to the surface completely robbed of any excitement that may have been buzzing previously. I am the opposite of excited. The word doom comes to mind. Doom and an intense feeling of lethargy. What I really feel like doing right now is sitting down with a plate of cookies, and zoning out on syndicate laugh tracts while stuffing my face.
The issue is not so much that there aren’t jobs out there for a college grad. Hell, if you have experience in the field you want to work in—you’re good to go! Grab a job and start stomping up that gold-plated ladder. Oh yeah, and by the way—if you didn’t acquire any experience while you were getting your degree—you’re screwed. Oh unless you want to walk door to door and sell Blazer tickets. Yes, of course we call that marketing—what else would it be?
There’s that reliable rub for you. There’s always a rub, isn’t there?
My only hope in this whole mess is networking. I’ve become sick of everyone constantly talking about how ‘it’s all about networking’. I'm sick of myself saying it! The term is right up there with ‘the early bird gets the worm’ and ‘the grass is always greener on the other side.’ Networking. Let’s just call it what it is—using people. Not that I have a problem with using people—I wish I had a cool enough job to where people would be inclined to use me! The thing is I’ve tried using my contacts to get hooked up with better jobs and it never really pans out. They always end up doing things like somehow finding me the ‘top secret’ website address in which to apply. Good thing, that would have been a tough Google search. Or they excitedly tell me that their HR recruiter welcomes me to apply and if there are any openings down the road, they’ll call me. Well, maybe I have a streak of pessimism in me, but somehow I just don’t see that call being made.
I realize that I am sounding really negative here. My current mood is being smeared all over this blog and I apologize. If I someday land a great job, I vow to write another blog that evokes only joyous feelings of daisy petals and puppy dogs. Or furry blue-eyed kittens, for all the cat people out there. In the meantime, if you happen to know how to get me a job in marketing, PR, advertising, communications, or media buying (see, I’m not that picky)—give me a call. I would like to network.

360 or 180?

Writing a book may not seem all that hard to do, but I am certain that in order to write a truly fascinating book, there is much work to be done. I am certain of this because every author says so—and they probably know what they are talking about. Plus, many writers have committed suicide, which is sad, but more importantly supports my belief that writing is difficult. If they were making bank with their books and also had this great secret that their profession was really easy, do you think they would be depressed?! Well, maybe Hemmingway was a goner no matter what, but the others might have needed that stress of writing a good book and fulfilling everyone’s expectations to push them over the edge.
And now I seem amazingly insensitive.
All I am trying to say is that it won’t be easy. There are a couple of reasons for this. First off, I am not an ‘idea person.’ This is annoying because many times I find myself truly motivated to write, sitting in Ikea comfort with laptop on lap and no ideas. An additional negative to this is that I end up feeling really lame and shallow that I have nothing to write about. I just lived a whole day with countless human interactions and I can’t think of one interesting, observant thing to write about. What am I doing all day, oiling all my moving parts ‘cause I’m a freaking robot?! Okay, just so I’m not completely tramping on my self esteem, I do have ideas…I just don’t remember them when its time to write. It’s like stage fright only with writing. Except for I’m not scared, I’m just uninspired. And I don’t have a bunch of people watching me expectantly. Okay it’s not really like stage fright.
My second self impeding obstacle is that I get lost in the details when I am writing. I will write about a section of the sky for about a half a page if I’m on a role--especially if I happen to be writing poetically—I’m a sucker for that. Sometimes I randomly start writing ‘pretty’ with flowery words and much angst—which honestly, is not really me at all. Occasionally that’s a fun land to visit though. The point is I would really bore someone if let myself go on and on about some cracks in the sidewalk and how there is moss growing in them. We’ve all seen what it looks like—no one wants to read a page about it. The funny thing is I don’t like reading a ton of details when I pick up a book. Sometimes I’ll browse ahead just to see if there is sufficient dialogue to keep my interest—and to make sure there’s some fun sexual tension going on. Shallow, I know—don’t judge me.
The third trap that I could see myself plunging into is what I like to call “Six Steps to 360,” because after six steps you are right back where you started. Okay, I just came up with that—but I like it. This is probably common for many people—allow me to articulate. Step 1: Come up with a Great Plan and become super pumped about it. Step 2: Do a little research, maybe buy some tools necessary for plan. Step 3: Give it a shot. Step 4: Realize that this is not going to be as easy and inspiring as you thought. There is no motivating theme music like in the movies. Step 5: Fizzle out and rationalize why the Great Plan did not work. Step 6: Come up with another Great Plan.
360 degrees—beautiful
I am hoping my current Great Plan will not follow the same said steps.

Waiting for the Caffeine to Die

I really should stop having caffeine so late. I should be in bed right now, sleeping away, seizing all the shut eye that I possible can. Instead however, I am keyboard babbling while watching SNL digital shorts on YouTube. Not that it’s a bad alternative, I am being entertained (which is my favorite way to be) however come Thursday morning this caffeine that is surging through my bloodstream will have dissipated into nothing more than little sleepies in my eye. Gone when I need it the most. Oh the joy of making bad decisions…

How I Rage

Computers problems are my kryptonite. I can be going along, leaping tall buildings in a single bound and flying stiff armed through the sky, when BAM—some inexplicable computer malfunction blasts me out of the proverbial arms of Lois Lane. The mature, calm me retreats to the inner chamber of my psyche—you know, the unreachable, subconscious spot where most likely the wisdom of levitation and solution to world hunger lie. This is where the mature me goes in moments of computer trauma. Who emerges in my stead? Well, that’s me too…only I’m about three years old. I try to contain this version of myself at first, breathing deeply and saying “okay, okay” a lot. But even as I try to quell the anger brewing in me, I can feel my temperature rising—a biological time bomb that can detonate at any time. And suddenly its percolation time. Three year old me starts heaping obscenities at the computer, throwing whatever pen or pencil may be in my hand, pounding whatever key on the keyboard seems to be playing the most important role in my torment at the time, and of course, always ending my tantrum with a pleading “What the #@*?” (I really don’t think I knew all those words when I was three. Perhaps quasi-three year old is the more accurate description). It’s really quite embarrassing when someone is in the room, watching my entire tirade. I always feel like an idiot when they calmly come over and try to solve my problem like a real grownup adult. And then I have to of course apologize for my irrational behavior… ‘yes I know yelling at it won’t help, of course I’ll buy you a new pen, no I don’t kiss my mother with this mouth—actually I don’t normally kiss my mom on the mouth, we’re more cheek people…”
Okay, well now I’m going to try to post this blog which may be a task since the internet for some unexplainable reason has chosen to be spotty. I guess that’s okay since that particular computer challenge gave birth to this blog. The birthing process is over, however and its time for these words to fly into the void so—this better work. If doesn’t I’m think I’m just going to go down for a nap.

Venting.

Okay, I have to get something off my chest….and I don’t mean that as a pun—although its not a bad one as far as puns go (I’ve never been all that impressed with puns as a joke genre…especially since most of them seem to pop out in the middle of a conversation, stop the whole flow of intelligent thought and tickle the funny bone of whatever fifty year old is in the room. Seriously though, why do all of our parents love puns?). Boobs. Men love them, which comes in handy for me since I have an imposing pair of Ds. That’s right, D for Delicious and D for Dumb. I have found that they can be both. They are delicious for Ty…for reasons which will remain confidential, but which are also quite obvious—and yes they can be delicious for me in that I can feel pretty spicy sometimes, strutting around in a tight t-shirt, ready to take on the world. Lara Croft watch out. The other side of all this, however, lies with the other D (no, I’m not talking about Boob 1 and Boob 2). Dumb. Dumb because if I ever want to run, I feel like I have to cradle each one in a ‘hand hammock’ so that they won’t suddenly sink to the ground and cause me to trip. Dumb because creepy men think that my genetic makeup was designed for their viewing pleasure. Dumb because I should be able to wear a small (a word every woman likes wearing) but instead I have to wear a medium. Dumb because they aren’t even the same size (if you boobs are going to be big, at least agree on how big)!
I dream of a B cup.

This post was brought to you by my Period. A lovely time of month which robs me of sex with Ty, thongs, and any thought of feeling sexy.
Oh yeah, did I mention it make my boobs bigger. See above for why this maddens me.

Rain Remnants

I’ve always found the sound of rain a comforting constant around here. Here would be Portland, Oregon, by the way. I’m not sure exactly why, but the grey, wet sky serves almost as a blanket that brings everything which it absolves a little closer, making me feel tucked in to whatever dry room I happen to find myself. Right now, however, the rain has stopped and in its stead is a steady drip that has penetrated my psyche. Its like that Chinese water torture stuff only diluted a bit. Can you dilute a water torture? Maybe I mean that I feel as though I want to go outside and rip the gutter off our house.
Hmmm. An unlikely development. The steady drip has now decided to play a little game—mess with me even more by becoming irregular in its ‘drip rhythm.’ Great. Now I can’t think of anything other than when the next drop of water will fall. Drip. Drip. Nooottthing. Drip-drip-drip. Drip. This damn water is making me anxious.