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.