I used to keep my blog on Myspace.
Thanks to my dearest most special friend Bob who has finally moved over to the dark side of Facebook, I can finally delete my Myspace page. I've moved some miscellaneous past blogs from there to my new home on Blogspot. These are just strange, personal musings from the last two years. This blog is not updated on a regular basis, I write when I get the urge. I may post three blogs in a day, or nothing for three months. Whatever. If you'd like a regulary scheduled blog, try my weak attempt at reviewing cheap wines:
http://recessionwine.blogspot.com/
Wine of the night? Syncline 2006 Cuvee Elena. Because I can.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Dear Maine- Fuck You
Just a bit of a letter I wrote the other day. Eh.
I've been composing an essay in my head the last few days, it's about
all the things I hate about Maine.
1. Those cute accents you were talking about? They're cute for about
five minutes. I'm sick of "Lobstah" "Chowdah" and "Beeah". I'm tired
of being called "Sarer". Why the Hell would you drop an "r" in a
perfectly good word like "Park", just to add it on to "Pizza". Hence,
a sentence here would sound like; "Pahk the Cah and we'll pick up a
Petezer". WTF is that.
2. The sun sets at 3:30 PM. I know that in the winter we have fewer
hours of daylight up here in North America, I accept this. But 3:30?
My kids are getting out of school and I'm popping open a bottle of
wine. You can not do this when you have children, or a job, because
you end up passing out around 7:45.
3. It's cold here David. Not just "a little chilly" or "boy is it
brisk today" but bone-chilling, teeth-chattering,
my-toes-are-frostbitten cold. If one more person says to me "Oooh! if
you think this is cold, just wait until February" I'll shoot them in
the eye. I am so sick and tired of people laughing at me because I'm
cold. It's 15 degrees out here sparky, of course I'm cold. I will also
be cold when it's -15. It's dark and fucking cold. I have this
gorgeous parka and every time I wear it someone greets me with "Nice
coat! What are you going to wear when it gets cold? Hee Haw!" I feel
like saying "You, after I skin you alive! Hee Haw!"
4. I've had one zillion people say to me, "You have to be tough to
live in Maine". Exsqueeze me? Tough? No, you have to be stupid to live
in Maine. Really fucking stupid. There are a million places on earth
that are more beautiful than Maine. You have to be tough to live in
Newark, you just have to be an idiot to live in Maine. There are no
jobs, the housing is expensive, the taxes are out of control, it's
cold, dark and people talk funny (please refer to points 1-3) The
"mountains" are in fact, hills, there are too many trees, and the
rivers are too shallow to do anything with. There are mosquitoes,
black flies that literally eat your skin, and don't get me started on
Moose. I hate these families who say with such pride that they have
been here for 200+ years. So? Too stupid and lazy to pack up and go
somewhere decent? Yeah! Sit out side of your camp and get eaten by
flies whydontcha!
5. "Camps" What the fuck is that? They are houses, not camps. I hate
it when people say "My family has had a camp on Lake Mooselookmeguntic
for one zillion years". Fuck you, fuck your camp. Who really cares.
6. My job. My job is dull. It's boring and not the least bit
challenging. My manager has made it her life's work to try and
humiliate me as much as she can in front of customers, my co-workers
and my boss to try and make herself look less than the ignorant
hillbilly she is. You see, she's from Maine. This is the only job she
has ever had. She likes to think she hasn't wasted her entire life
working in a retail store in Northwestern Maine, so anything I say she
replies with "Oh really! Well I put up the display window and yadda
yadda yadda.." Oh just shut up. She has horrible dandruff, bad breath
and would it kill her to take a shower or put on a clean shirt once in
awhile? When she speaks spit gathers on the sides of her mouth.
Luckily everyone knows she's nuts so they just roll their eyes but I'm
telling you, she'll be the first one I shoot in the eye.
7. You can't buy a decent bottle of wine up here. Nuff said. I've been
surviving on Rene Junot "table red" that I can buy in Magnum at the
local IGA for 9.99. Just to put this in perspective, I can buy the
same bottle in New Jersey for 4.99. So, I'm drinking a $5.00 Magnum of
Rene Junot as my "Good Wine".
8. I'm still living on Tim's floor. This I will go into at a later
date as I am too depressed to even write this little story out. I do
have a house, it will be ready the last week of December. So say a
prayer for your old pal Sara that I can keep myself from shooting
someone in the eye or drinking myself to an early death via Rene Junot
in the next three weeks.
I've been composing an essay in my head the last few days, it's about
all the things I hate about Maine.
1. Those cute accents you were talking about? They're cute for about
five minutes. I'm sick of "Lobstah" "Chowdah" and "Beeah". I'm tired
of being called "Sarer". Why the Hell would you drop an "r" in a
perfectly good word like "Park", just to add it on to "Pizza". Hence,
a sentence here would sound like; "Pahk the Cah and we'll pick up a
Petezer". WTF is that.
2. The sun sets at 3:30 PM. I know that in the winter we have fewer
hours of daylight up here in North America, I accept this. But 3:30?
My kids are getting out of school and I'm popping open a bottle of
wine. You can not do this when you have children, or a job, because
you end up passing out around 7:45.
3. It's cold here David. Not just "a little chilly" or "boy is it
brisk today" but bone-chilling, teeth-chattering,
my-toes-are-frostbitten cold. If one more person says to me "Oooh! if
you think this is cold, just wait until February" I'll shoot them in
the eye. I am so sick and tired of people laughing at me because I'm
cold. It's 15 degrees out here sparky, of course I'm cold. I will also
be cold when it's -15. It's dark and fucking cold. I have this
gorgeous parka and every time I wear it someone greets me with "Nice
coat! What are you going to wear when it gets cold? Hee Haw!" I feel
like saying "You, after I skin you alive! Hee Haw!"
4. I've had one zillion people say to me, "You have to be tough to
live in Maine". Exsqueeze me? Tough? No, you have to be stupid to live
in Maine. Really fucking stupid. There are a million places on earth
that are more beautiful than Maine. You have to be tough to live in
Newark, you just have to be an idiot to live in Maine. There are no
jobs, the housing is expensive, the taxes are out of control, it's
cold, dark and people talk funny (please refer to points 1-3) The
"mountains" are in fact, hills, there are too many trees, and the
rivers are too shallow to do anything with. There are mosquitoes,
black flies that literally eat your skin, and don't get me started on
Moose. I hate these families who say with such pride that they have
been here for 200+ years. So? Too stupid and lazy to pack up and go
somewhere decent? Yeah! Sit out side of your camp and get eaten by
flies whydontcha!
5. "Camps" What the fuck is that? They are houses, not camps. I hate
it when people say "My family has had a camp on Lake Mooselookmeguntic
for one zillion years". Fuck you, fuck your camp. Who really cares.
6. My job. My job is dull. It's boring and not the least bit
challenging. My manager has made it her life's work to try and
humiliate me as much as she can in front of customers, my co-workers
and my boss to try and make herself look less than the ignorant
hillbilly she is. You see, she's from Maine. This is the only job she
has ever had. She likes to think she hasn't wasted her entire life
working in a retail store in Northwestern Maine, so anything I say she
replies with "Oh really! Well I put up the display window and yadda
yadda yadda.." Oh just shut up. She has horrible dandruff, bad breath
and would it kill her to take a shower or put on a clean shirt once in
awhile? When she speaks spit gathers on the sides of her mouth.
Luckily everyone knows she's nuts so they just roll their eyes but I'm
telling you, she'll be the first one I shoot in the eye.
7. You can't buy a decent bottle of wine up here. Nuff said. I've been
surviving on Rene Junot "table red" that I can buy in Magnum at the
local IGA for 9.99. Just to put this in perspective, I can buy the
same bottle in New Jersey for 4.99. So, I'm drinking a $5.00 Magnum of
Rene Junot as my "Good Wine".
8. I'm still living on Tim's floor. This I will go into at a later
date as I am too depressed to even write this little story out. I do
have a house, it will be ready the last week of December. So say a
prayer for your old pal Sara that I can keep myself from shooting
someone in the eye or drinking myself to an early death via Rene Junot
in the next three weeks.
Glad You Asked
So on occasion I like to peruse the online personals at "The Onion". Bob knows this, he's seen me do it at work. Gives me the eye roll, but smiles and knows, hey, it's just what I do. One night, after about 4 tequilas, I decide to post my own personal ad. Don't do this. Only freaks do this. The next morning, nursing a hangover I check my inbox and lo and behold, I have 14 messages from potential suitors. All are completely awful except for one. An "environmental scientist" from a town about 80 miles from me. He asks a simple question:
"What sort of work environment does Rangely provide for a wine expert?"
The social retard I am..I reply thusly. (Names have been changed to protect..er, me)
Not a whole Hell of a lot there buddy. I suppose it does sound a little strange. I will clarify with a very brief synopsis on how a wine appraiser ended up in Rangeley.
Long story. How do I make this brief. OK. My former husband and I split up in New Jersey. Now, how we ended up in New Jersey is a whole other bunch of bananas that isn't relevant to this story so would you please be patient and let me finish? Fine. We're in New Jersey. I'm a happy little clam at my job, he's fine and dandy teaching in the suburbs. However, said former couple share children together, and mom (that's me), mom's not happy about them growing up in New Jersey. How many times can I say "New Jersey" in this missive? I suppose I'm trying to make a point. They're in New Jersey damnit. So I (I'm going to quit speaking in the third person now), I throw this idea out that perhaps..just maybe..the kids might be happier growing up somewhere...say..not in New Jersey (thinking I could move to Mendoza and work at a winery a friend is starting up) and guess what? The ex agrees! Yes! "You know I was thinking the same thing!" he exclaims. "So that's why I've decided to accept a teaching position in Rangeley Maine!" Wait..wait wait wait, slow down there tiger. Maine? Where is this "Maine" you speak of? I quickly get out the atlas. The map, not your dog. "Maine..Maine..What the..that's like..the wrong way". "Tut tut" he says, well, really it was more of a sound like "Fft". "It will be great! Mountains! Lakes! Fresh air! Stars!" they kids look at me hopefully. "Maine?" I say weakly. "Yes" they all say in unison. With hunched shoulders I drag myself into the office the next day."What's up buttercup?" My boss asks me. He didn't really say that, it just makes me laugh thinking of my boss saying anything close to that. He probably didn't even acknowledge I was in the same room. Anyhoo. Wow, this is getting long. So yeah, I quit my job, my boss said something that sounded like, "Why don't you just work from home up there and come down once or twice a month". I say "sounded like" because his nick name is "mumbles" and it could just have easily been "I don't like your work so go home and you can get unemployment in a month". I'm taking it as the former and working from home in Maine. The paychecks keep coming so until someone notices I'm not there I'll just keep doing it.
Glad you asked, huh.
He didn't write back.
"What sort of work environment does Rangely provide for a wine expert?"
The social retard I am..I reply thusly. (Names have been changed to protect..er, me)
Not a whole Hell of a lot there buddy. I suppose it does sound a little strange. I will clarify with a very brief synopsis on how a wine appraiser ended up in Rangeley.
Long story. How do I make this brief. OK. My former husband and I split up in New Jersey. Now, how we ended up in New Jersey is a whole other bunch of bananas that isn't relevant to this story so would you please be patient and let me finish? Fine. We're in New Jersey. I'm a happy little clam at my job, he's fine and dandy teaching in the suburbs. However, said former couple share children together, and mom (that's me), mom's not happy about them growing up in New Jersey. How many times can I say "New Jersey" in this missive? I suppose I'm trying to make a point. They're in New Jersey damnit. So I (I'm going to quit speaking in the third person now), I throw this idea out that perhaps..just maybe..the kids might be happier growing up somewhere...say..not in New Jersey (thinking I could move to Mendoza and work at a winery a friend is starting up) and guess what? The ex agrees! Yes! "You know I was thinking the same thing!" he exclaims. "So that's why I've decided to accept a teaching position in Rangeley Maine!" Wait..wait wait wait, slow down there tiger. Maine? Where is this "Maine" you speak of? I quickly get out the atlas. The map, not your dog. "Maine..Maine..What the..that's like..the wrong way". "Tut tut" he says, well, really it was more of a sound like "Fft". "It will be great! Mountains! Lakes! Fresh air! Stars!" they kids look at me hopefully. "Maine?" I say weakly. "Yes" they all say in unison. With hunched shoulders I drag myself into the office the next day."What's up buttercup?" My boss asks me. He didn't really say that, it just makes me laugh thinking of my boss saying anything close to that. He probably didn't even acknowledge I was in the same room. Anyhoo. Wow, this is getting long. So yeah, I quit my job, my boss said something that sounded like, "Why don't you just work from home up there and come down once or twice a month". I say "sounded like" because his nick name is "mumbles" and it could just have easily been "I don't like your work so go home and you can get unemployment in a month". I'm taking it as the former and working from home in Maine. The paychecks keep coming so until someone notices I'm not there I'll just keep doing it.
Glad you asked, huh.
He didn't write back.
Airatarian
My mother doesn't eat.
I mean, she eats, ok? Everyone eats. But she doesn't really eat food.
Yesterday morning it was coffee and I made her try a HobNob. She didn't really like it and ate a graham cracker. I think that was breakfast.
Then as I was leaving to go to the mall she called after me, "Here! take some lunch with you!" and ran down the driveway with a banana.
Now, she's never eaten dinner as long as I have known her. I guess that would be all my life. She was a working mother and would leave notes like, "Dinner is in the fridge" where my siblings and I would find three apples and a bag of cheese curds.
I spoke with my sister yesterday about mom and her ability to live, not just live but thrive on just coffee, fruit, cheese and wine.
"It's freaky" my sister said "It's like she's an...airatarian" .
I mean, she eats, ok? Everyone eats. But she doesn't really eat food.
Yesterday morning it was coffee and I made her try a HobNob. She didn't really like it and ate a graham cracker. I think that was breakfast.
Then as I was leaving to go to the mall she called after me, "Here! take some lunch with you!" and ran down the driveway with a banana.
Now, she's never eaten dinner as long as I have known her. I guess that would be all my life. She was a working mother and would leave notes like, "Dinner is in the fridge" where my siblings and I would find three apples and a bag of cheese curds.
I spoke with my sister yesterday about mom and her ability to live, not just live but thrive on just coffee, fruit, cheese and wine.
"It's freaky" my sister said "It's like she's an...airatarian" .
Peacocks
My parent's next door neighbor dropped by last night and mentioned there had been some break-ins last year. Is break-ins hyphenated? I think so. Who cares.
So yes, my mother said to me this morning that she thinks she should get an outside dog, just for protection.
"It would be hard fro me to leave it outside though, just standing there in the cold why the rest of us were inside. That's cruel".
I agreed.
"What you need mom, like a guard...."
"Peacock! Yes! What a great idea"
I wasn't going to say peacock. I'm not sure what I was going to say, but it wasn't "guard peacock".
So yes, my mother said to me this morning that she thinks she should get an outside dog, just for protection.
"It would be hard fro me to leave it outside though, just standing there in the cold why the rest of us were inside. That's cruel".
I agreed.
"What you need mom, like a guard...."
"Peacock! Yes! What a great idea"
I wasn't going to say peacock. I'm not sure what I was going to say, but it wasn't "guard peacock".
It's all Greek to me
There was a marble serving plate on the counter at work yesterday, so I spun it and asked my colleague what she saw. She smiled and looked at me blankly like she always does when I ask her something and she either does not understand, or can't hear me.
"Chocolat" I said, "I guess you haven't seen it".
"I've seen it" she said "It's the French one with words on the bottom".
"No, no subtitles, it's in English".
"Right, the one about how life used to be in Italy".
"Well no, it takes place in France".
"'Like Water for Chocolate'" she frowned, "I didn't like it".
"Yeah..that's a Mexican film".
"Whatever".
"Chocolat" I said, "I guess you haven't seen it".
"I've seen it" she said "It's the French one with words on the bottom".
"No, no subtitles, it's in English".
"Right, the one about how life used to be in Italy".
"Well no, it takes place in France".
"'Like Water for Chocolate'" she frowned, "I didn't like it".
"Yeah..that's a Mexican film".
"Whatever".
Clumsy Anacronym
I've got to quit making fun of my manager. Really, I can't keep doing this.
Today she and a co-worker of mine were folding sweaters. "You can't describe a sweater as 'clumsy'" she said "clumsy isn't an adjective, it's an adverb".
Knowing I did not want to get involved in this conversation, I tried to leave the room.
"Sara!" She shouts. "Clumsy is an adverb, right? It can't be an adjective".
"Er well...I suppose it could be an adjective, if you were describing a noun...like..um, a person. The person was clumsy".
"Yeah but, it's really an adverb, right?"
Well, if you were to say, "He stumbled along, clumsily" You'd be in adverb territory.
"What about a sweater. Can a sweater be clumsy?".
I suppose it could be.
"Hee Haw! Right!" she snorts. "You need to have a long talk with your ex-husband, because you are WRONG baby! So wrong.."
Yes, tonight I will consult my ex-husband who teaches High School English about Adverbs. Maybe I'll call my English professor father and brother as well for a second and third opinion because , GASP-I don't know the English language.
Earlier that day she was decribing her daughter coming up with some anaconyms. "You know, like Happy for Sad, or Hot and Cold.."
I think she's FUBAR.
Today she and a co-worker of mine were folding sweaters. "You can't describe a sweater as 'clumsy'" she said "clumsy isn't an adjective, it's an adverb".
Knowing I did not want to get involved in this conversation, I tried to leave the room.
"Sara!" She shouts. "Clumsy is an adverb, right? It can't be an adjective".
"Er well...I suppose it could be an adjective, if you were describing a noun...like..um, a person. The person was clumsy".
"Yeah but, it's really an adverb, right?"
Well, if you were to say, "He stumbled along, clumsily" You'd be in adverb territory.
"What about a sweater. Can a sweater be clumsy?".
I suppose it could be.
"Hee Haw! Right!" she snorts. "You need to have a long talk with your ex-husband, because you are WRONG baby! So wrong.."
Yes, tonight I will consult my ex-husband who teaches High School English about Adverbs. Maybe I'll call my English professor father and brother as well for a second and third opinion because , GASP-I don't know the English language.
Earlier that day she was decribing her daughter coming up with some anaconyms. "You know, like Happy for Sad, or Hot and Cold.."
I think she's FUBAR.
Jeroboam of 1947 Pommery
What have you been drinking?
I have six boxes of empty wine bottles in my basement. They aren't mine, they belong to my former employer. My ex-husband moved them up from New Jersey.A few months ago I wanted to rent a u-haul and empty out our storage. My ex-husband volunteered to fly down, pack everything up and drive it back. I know you're thinking "How nice of him", but it was because he was paranoid that I would take something that belonged to him. You know like an old high school notebook or his collection of concert ticket stubs from the 70's and 80's. Anyhoo. I had some boxes that I had been storing at the warehouse at work, so I asked if he'd pick those up on the way back as well.
"How will I know what boxes are yours?" he asked
"They'll say SARA on them, in big, red letters."
Years ago when I was married to my first husband, I used to throw my clothes in a big garbage bag and toss them on the U-haul. One move my ex-husband saw the big garbage bag on the u-haul, and threw it in a dumpster somewhere in Texas. Now my family will always tie a ribbon on anything packed in a garbage bag, and I will always mark anything packed in a box with my name on it. REALLY REALLY BIG.
So it worked. I did end up with all my boxes. Plus six boxes of empty wine bottles. These aren't ordinary wine bottles either. They are the empties from the 'Top 100 wines of the Century' dinner my boss puts on every year. If you are interested in attending, you can for the mere $17,500.
So now, if they don't want the bottles back, I'll need to take them down to the recycling center in town where I'll unload a month's worth of the Rangeley "Highlander", milk jugs from the IGA, and a Jeroboam of 1947 Pommery.
What's up with your hair?
My youngest child Isobel called me into the living room this evening to show me something on television she found interesting.
First off, let me state that she is seven. She has never known a world where you couldn't pause live TV. This has nothing to do with the story really, it just makes me laugh when she wants me to see something on television and states "Hold on, let me rewind it".
So Isobel was showing me a Mom and her daughter, standing in a hallway.
"Do you like her outfit mom?" she asks, pointing to the TV mother.
"Sure, it's cute".
She starts the commercial up again, the TV daughter looking at her TV mother and telling her how young she looks.
Isobel turned to me with a concerned look and said:
"Mom, you have such a pretty face, I just wish you dressed better".
Yeah yeah..let me slip into a cute, little Spring dress to shovel the foot of wet snow that fell last night, after that I'll throw on some strappy sandals to wear to the IGA.
Oh, now this has nothing to do with anything, but the snow reminded me. DO NOT knock the foot of snow off your car using an old, metal snow shovel. If you do this you run the risk of cracking your windshield, which I happened to do this morning. A broom would be better.
First off, let me state that she is seven. She has never known a world where you couldn't pause live TV. This has nothing to do with the story really, it just makes me laugh when she wants me to see something on television and states "Hold on, let me rewind it".
So Isobel was showing me a Mom and her daughter, standing in a hallway.
"Do you like her outfit mom?" she asks, pointing to the TV mother.
"Sure, it's cute".
She starts the commercial up again, the TV daughter looking at her TV mother and telling her how young she looks.
Isobel turned to me with a concerned look and said:
"Mom, you have such a pretty face, I just wish you dressed better".
Yeah yeah..let me slip into a cute, little Spring dress to shovel the foot of wet snow that fell last night, after that I'll throw on some strappy sandals to wear to the IGA.
Oh, now this has nothing to do with anything, but the snow reminded me. DO NOT knock the foot of snow off your car using an old, metal snow shovel. If you do this you run the risk of cracking your windshield, which I happened to do this morning. A broom would be better.
A Grouchy German is a Sour Kraut!
So we're now into day nine of our cross-country to the Northwest extravaganza and so far it's been wonderful. Wonderful up until yesterday.
We drove over to Bellevue Square to browse the Apple store. Ok, I don't want comments like: "why didn't you just go to the one by the University? It's closer". I know it is, I like Bellevue. No comments David.
We're hungry so we stroll into the Cheesecake Factory for lunch. I chose the Cheesecake Factory because I find it's everything both right and wrong about the United States all rolled into one. The shear, creative genius of this obscene menu and the absolute gluttony of it. Plus they have beer.
While chowing down on Cuban sandwiches, we're discussing his job situation in Germany and his plans to start looking elsewhere. I casually say "How about Seattle?" Where he looks me right in the eye and says:
"I'm too old to move here".
I'm not quite sure of what happened next as everything seemed to slow down and get very quiet around me. I do remember saying half laughing and half choking "You're too...old?".
We ate our sandwiches, he continued talking about his work as I struggled to breathe. Damnit. He did it in one of my favorite malls too. Asshole.
Three years we've been doing this. Three fucking years. New Jersey was too ugly, Boston was to cold, Maine was too remote. Now, had he just said "Seattle is too rainy" or "I don't like their recycling program" I probably would have fell for it, again, and continued this bizarre long-distance whatever it is we have for another three years. But, "I'm too old to move to Seattle"??? It's a jackass way to say "I don't want to live with you. Ever."
We drove home in silence. He tousled my hair and asked me why I was so quiet, if something was wrong, I seemed sad. A mature person would have taken that opportunity to discuss what was he just said, however, we're talking about me here. So, I smiled and said I was just tired.
Friday I'll put him on a plane back to Munich. I'll give myself the weekend to drink too much wine, cry a lot and eat Ben and Jerry's. Then Monday morning I'll start over again.This Gang of Chickens
My father bought six Arcana chickens last week on a whim.
My parents don't live on a farm, they don't even live in a rural area. They live in a suburban neighborhood outside of Seattle, and now they own chickens.
The chickens live in a shed in the backyard. They seem pretty content in the garden eating whatever it is they find living in the grass and admiring themselves in the hubcaps of my parent's caravan. However, once in a while they escape. Or, as my seven year old daughter pronounces it, "es copey".
As I was driving back from the grocery store the other day, I saw them outside the yard. They walked on the sidewalk like a gang of short people with feathers. They looked as if they should be wearing little red bandannas. So far they have always managed to make it back home, and will stand outside the gate until one of us lets them in.
Last night they tried to make it home but somehow ended up in the wrong yard, a fully fenced one in which they could not find their way out. My father called in the house instructing me to help him with the chickens. I came out and he asked where my coat was, as if wearing a coat was standard uniform for chicken catching. I told him it was 70 degrees, I didn't need a coat. "Your funeral" he said pointing to the blackberry bushes that lined the fence between our yard and the neighbors.
My dad, armed with a coat, hat and broom, broke into the neighbor's yard. I was instructed to guard the hole at the end of the fence. He would flush them out with a broom, I was to grab them and throw them over the fence into our yard.
The chickens, however, were not the least bit intimidated by the broom, but excited to see my dad out side of the yard and went running to him. I could not see my father over the blackberry bramble, but could see chickens being tossed, one by one over the fence.
Our neighbor came over to our house about a half hour later. She had just returned home after seeing "Disturbia", glanced out her window to see a strange man wearing a wide brimmed hat and carrying a broom, throwing chickens over a fence, and had a major panic attack.
People ask me why we move so much, this is why.
My parents don't live on a farm, they don't even live in a rural area. They live in a suburban neighborhood outside of Seattle, and now they own chickens.
The chickens live in a shed in the backyard. They seem pretty content in the garden eating whatever it is they find living in the grass and admiring themselves in the hubcaps of my parent's caravan. However, once in a while they escape. Or, as my seven year old daughter pronounces it, "es copey".
As I was driving back from the grocery store the other day, I saw them outside the yard. They walked on the sidewalk like a gang of short people with feathers. They looked as if they should be wearing little red bandannas. So far they have always managed to make it back home, and will stand outside the gate until one of us lets them in.
Last night they tried to make it home but somehow ended up in the wrong yard, a fully fenced one in which they could not find their way out. My father called in the house instructing me to help him with the chickens. I came out and he asked where my coat was, as if wearing a coat was standard uniform for chicken catching. I told him it was 70 degrees, I didn't need a coat. "Your funeral" he said pointing to the blackberry bushes that lined the fence between our yard and the neighbors.
My dad, armed with a coat, hat and broom, broke into the neighbor's yard. I was instructed to guard the hole at the end of the fence. He would flush them out with a broom, I was to grab them and throw them over the fence into our yard.
The chickens, however, were not the least bit intimidated by the broom, but excited to see my dad out side of the yard and went running to him. I could not see my father over the blackberry bramble, but could see chickens being tossed, one by one over the fence.
Our neighbor came over to our house about a half hour later. She had just returned home after seeing "Disturbia", glanced out her window to see a strange man wearing a wide brimmed hat and carrying a broom, throwing chickens over a fence, and had a major panic attack.
People ask me why we move so much, this is why.
A Rebel Without Pause
There are two rules I follow when I post something online. Do not post after drinking, and do not post anything controversial.
This evening I'm breaking the rules. Both of them. For Bob, the wine of the night is a 2005 Michel Schlumberger 'La Brume' Dry Creek Valley Chardonnay, paired with wild salmon and asparagus. This was one of the wines I got in exchange for the empty top 100's. Excellent!
Back to our regularly scheduled blog.
I belong to an online pregnancy group. Wait, not a pregnancy group. I *did* belong to an online pregnancy group, when I was pregnant. Which isn't now. It was eight years ago. Now were a group of women with seven year olds. I love the women on this pregnancy group and somehow we have managed to stay together for eight years. These women are truly people I consider friends.
OK. So today this interesting quiz was posted, and we all posted our results:
pewresearch.org/newsiq/
What concerned me were the scores that were posted. The average score was 60% correct. The lowest being 15%, the highest 96%.
Where are we getting our information from? Does anyone watch the evening news/read newspapers/news magazines anymore? Are we, as a country, that out of touch? We have thousands of young men and women, only a few years older than my son, in Iraq fighting in my country's name, and there are people out there who can't be bothered to know how many have died? How many our leader is sending over there?? We've got our sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives stuck in the middle of a chaotic (or as my former manager would say, 'chow tic') un-winable civil war and we're too fucking busy to know how many of them HAVE BEEN KILLED!
I'm pissed. I'm fucking pissed watching this country being led of a cliff and I can't understand why were not all in the fucking street protesting. Actually I can, because according to this little test the majority of us can't be bothered to read a fucking newspaper. Oh wait, our president doesn't read newspapers either.Being unpredictable and unstable is just part of my mystique
"Can you hold four ducks at one time?"
That's the question my father asked me yesterday as we were getting the new duckling pen set up in the back yard.
"Here! Try it!" he said, handing me a pile of ducks.
Things I'm learning about myself:
I can hold three ducks at one time. Four is one duck too many.
I've also accepted the fact that I am a flake.
Since the Markus left we've been e-mailing back and forth, analyzing just exactly went wrong. Well, he's analyzing because he is an Electronic Engineer who happens to be German and a Virgo, so he just can't help it. I know exactly what went wrong and what needs to happen to fix it.
So today he says this to me:
"Yes I have to deal with it. I am talking about your non deterministic behaviour."
Hmm. I think. It's not quite English. So I asked my farmer father.
"What do you think non deterministic behavior means?"
"He's calling you a flaky woman" my father replies.
Hmm. Well. That's not going to change. So yes. He has to deal with it. I'm not going to try and change my basic nature just to make it easier for someone else. I tried that before, it can end up disastrous. Please refer to "My ex-husband is an idiot". (I'm not talking about you David, the other ex-husband. You seemed quite entertained by it all). I'm unstable, and flighty, and quick to change direction. I'm also adventurous, game for a laugh, adaptable and sometimes forget to eat. So yeah, I can take a few wrong turns and end up living with my parents, chickens and four ducklings. I think it's part of my charm.
I'm taking "non deterministic behavior" as a compliment.
I'm also getting a root canal today. 
Don't Eat That
Right now we're getting ready to move. Not right NOW, now I'm typing with a parrot on my shoulder (last and final name, pantoufle), which by the way said his first word today, which was "hello", sounding nothing like the sweet kind of sing-songy parrot voice that I had imagined him using, but more like a Mexican bandito. I think that may be the longest sentence ever written.
Anyhoo.
I'm really not a big fan of moving, ironic, I know. Once I went through every move I'd ever done and it took me 45 minutes to go through the list. Seriously. I don't like moving and yet here I am again, this time not even quite sure where I'm going. I'll need to have that nailed down by Friday I suppose.
Anyhoo.
So we're packing, and one of the first rules of moving is do not buy anything that will need to be packed up and moved, before you move. This includes food. So the first two weeks are fine, lots of chips and crackers and cheese. Big containers of dip from Costco. There's a bottle of Scotch that needs to be worked on, not really enough to justify moving it, but too much to dump. That sort of thing. By the last week though, it gets rough.
Right now it's some artichoke tapanade, a can of beans, some relish. Lingonberry jam, a can of Fresca, some salt and a freezer full of Boca Burgers. Now, I'm allergic to soy so that limits my choices a bit.
So. Here I sit, chowing down on my jar of relish, thinking I'm getting really tired of all this...not being stable. My goal is to make it nine months with out moving, which is one month longer than I've made it the past three years. Place your bets, ladies and germs.
Coffee Ready?
My oldest son Ian, is leaving in two weeks to live in Santa Fe with his biological father, step-mother and two year old sister.
When I found out I was pregnant I was 18 years old, and had been dating his father for an entire three weeks. When I told him I was pregnant his response to me was, "Couldn't you have waited until the Simpsons were over??". He was 25. He promptly asked when I was having an abortion, and I told him I wasn't, just because I at that age I did the opposite of whatever was suggested. I suppose some things never change.
I had Ian on October 6th, 1991. I was 19 and had never held a baby in my life. I was single, and now solely responsible for this amazing little creature that changed my life forever. When he was two months old an older gentleman stopped me on the street, looked me dead in the eye and told me to enjoy every minute, because it goes by so fast. That day feels like yesterday. It really does go by that fast.
I married Tim because Ian chose him. We were getting our passport pictures taken by Tim, and after it was done Ian walked up to him and hugged him. He was two, and had never hugged anyone else but me in his little life. I took it as a sign. We saw him through sleepless nights, potty training, pre-school, kindergarten, birthday parties, dying pets, nightmares, chicken pox, road trips, pokemon cards, moving, Jr. High, best friends, losing grandparents, bad grades, holidays, pre-teen angst, High School, first dances, first girlfriends, broken hearts, good grades, first jobs, driver's ed, second girlfriends, paintball tournaments, teenage angst, teenage rebellion and all the joy, confusion, terror, long nights, silent treatments that comes with raising a child.
His father missed all of it.
Last year we got a call out of the blue from his biological dad. He had married a wonderful woman, and had a child. He wanted Ian to visit. Tim and I took a deep breath and put him on a plane to Santa Fe. Ian discovered a whole family he had never known before, and the sweet kid that he is, fell in love with them. Last week, with tears in his eyes my baby asked if it would be ok with us if he moved in with his newly discovered family. What am I supposed to say? Am I supposed to point out that this was the same man who asked when I was getting an abortion? That he never wanted to be a father? That he wanted nothing to do with him for 15 years? No. I smiled and said of course it was ok, that it was a wonderful idea that he leave and get to know the other biological half of who he was. Of course it's ok.
When Ian was a baby he would wake up every morning between 5 and 6am. Without fail. I suppose it has to do with the long line of farmers and ranchers he comes from. Being a single mom I had one rule, I would not get up before the automatic coffee maker went off at 7. Every morning between 5 and 6 I would wake up to "Good morning mommy! Coffee ready??" and I would call out to his room, "Not yet baby, 7 o'clock" and he would play patiently in his crib until then. Looking back I should have just gotten up, enjoyed every fleeting second that went by so fast, but as a single mom, I took advantage of the appliance.
He's still up at six, but now he's making the coffee and walking down to get the paper because he has developed the same habit as his mom. We sit in silence in the morning, drinking our coffee and reading the New York Times, sometimes exchanging comments on the stories we read or our plans for the day. But in two weeks it will change. He'll be at the Desert Academy in Santa Fe, taking Chinese and Calculus because it's not offered at Rangeley Regional School and he really wants to take these classes to get into St. Johns College, and Tim and I will be mourning the fact that we lost our kid too soon. It goes by too fast.
God speed little man.
'Stache
Some of the he boys I work with decided to grow mustaches for film festival. I've been having a difficult time looking them in the eye because it's really hard to take anything seriously when you're looking at a handle bar mustache. I feel less like a manager of a restaurant, and more like a director in a 70's porn.
I've been losing..my youth
Each afternoon before the restaurant opens I like to play 80's music on the satellite radio. Seeing as how half the staff are in their thirties, the 80's seem appropriate.
Today 'A-ha' was playing and I mentioned to the hostess I was in an A-ha video in 1985. 'Great' she said.
Which got me thinking, it's probably on youtube.
Now, tucked in my memory my friend Jen and I are in this video and there are clear face shots of both of us for a good 2-3 seconds. In reality Jen is in the video and my eyes, forhead and spikey blond hair are in the video for half a second (between second six and seven to be exact).
Without further adieu, my superstar rock star video debut at 13. Please note that I am the one on the left, with the forhead and spikey blond hair, my friend Jen leaning into me, at second number six.
Drum roll:
Today 'A-ha' was playing and I mentioned to the hostess I was in an A-ha video in 1985. 'Great' she said.
Which got me thinking, it's probably on youtube.
Now, tucked in my memory my friend Jen and I are in this video and there are clear face shots of both of us for a good 2-3 seconds. In reality Jen is in the video and my eyes, forhead and spikey blond hair are in the video for half a second (between second six and seven to be exact).
Without further adieu, my superstar rock star video debut at 13. Please note that I am the one on the left, with the forhead and spikey blond hair, my friend Jen leaning into me, at second number six.
Drum roll:
Tonight, We dine in Hell!!!
Yes, THE Gerard Butler, my number one celebrity look-a-like and I met in person on Friday. It was like looking in a mirror. "Freakishly uncanny resemblance" Gerry said. "If I didn't know that I wasn't looking at you, I'd swear I was looking at me.."
He didn't say anything remotely close to that, but he did let us take a picture with him. Unfortunately it was with my camera phone in a dark restaurant and in fixing the red eye, we now look like hollow souled zombie people. Whatever.
Just one of my many lists
There are a lot of things that bug me.
My colleagues are discovering this, and have asked me to make a list for them to reference. I’m always willing to accommodate.
1. No speaking about eyes, teeth or feet. Ever. I don’t want to see what just landed in your eye.
2. Never touch me with your feet.
3. Don’t touch me period. If I’ve had a bit to drink, you may be able to touch my shoulder or elbow, use your best judgment
4. Don’t say the word ’elbow’ though.
5. Don’t use the word ’Dollop’.
6. Do not talk about things that come out of your butt, or things you put in your butt.
7. If you’re going to use my office to change your clothes, don’t leave your pants on my desk.
8. Warn me before taking off your clothes in the kitchen or in the dining room. I am tired of walking in to the kitchen to discover three grown men without pants. Stop it.
9. If you choose to debate me on any subject, accept that you’re going to lose. Don’t pout. Pouting is for sissies.
10. You are allowed to make up new words. Mispronouncing a word and claiming it’s a new word doesn’t count. Adding ’esque’ to the end of a word does (ASHLEY). If you do invent a new word, make sure it starts with the letter K, I like K, I don’t like the letters P or N. J is acceptable.
11. I am allowed to screw up, you are not. Never, ever tease me about screwing up. I am allowed to tease you.
12. You can use the word ’marshmallow" at any time. However, do not hit each other with the giant bags of marshmallows in the back. Food is not a game.
13. No wrestling. One of you will get hurt and I don’t like blood.
14. Try not to throw up at work (ASHLEY and JUSTIN).
15. The word ’discharge’ is never allowed, especially when combined with ’anal’.
16. Making fun of me is never acceptable. Unless I’m in the mood for playful teasing, then it is. Eventually you will be able to figure out what mood I’m in, unless it changes and you can’t.
17. You are allowed to make fun of Brad.
18. Just because I know a lot about wine, beer, bourbon, scotch, vodka, gin, and tequila does not mean I’m an alcoholic. Some things just come naturally to others.
19. I can’t count, add, subtract, multiply, divide, figure out percentages, or make correct change. This does not make me stupid. Don’t laugh at me. In addition, the laws of physics do not apply to me.
20. Just because you overhear drunk women at your tables exclaim to me that I must have the best job in the world, working with all these good-looking men does not make it a true fact. You missed the more accurate statement on New Year’s Eve (when you were all drunk and hitting each other with squirt guns) when a customer heard me saying "Mike! Get those balloons out of the elevator!" and "Jace! Will you put Tyler down!". She looked at me with concern and pity, simply stating, "I’d hate to be you".
21. I am allowed to change the rules and add to this list at anytime and without warning.
Hope this helps.
11:52 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
 | Does this make me look fat? I was in my office this evening listening to my boys get ready for work. |
Waiter Wisdom
A conversation with an both an old, complicated friend and two of my favorite waiters at work tonight prompted some thoughts on relationships. Jonny and Mike were in the kitchen and asked why in the eight months I've known them I haven't had a relationship, and both concluded I must hate men. They were kidding, I think, no really they were, at least they said they were kidding, but it did get me thinking.
I love men. I love how they look and smell, I love how big their hands are and that they chop wood and ride motorcycles and always use logic to make decisions. They have hair on their arms and goofy smiles when they're happy. They kiss your forhead and pull the blanket over you when you fall asleep without one. They always carry cash. They listen to you talk and remember birthdays and what you wore when you first met. Men are really, really, insanely bitchen and cool, and good men tend to get me into trouble. I have fallen hopelessly in love with good men.
Jonny in all his wisdom concluded that I didn't try hard enough in my two marriages, Mike thought I needed to sacrifice more. I felt for a moment that I should fill them in on a bit of my relationship history the last fourteen years, explain that sometimes it's not that simple, but I rarely share my personal life with them and I'm not about to start. I know all about giving of oneself and could write a book on sacrifice. Maybe, I said, I just haven't found my person.
My parents may have ruined me when it comes to relationships. At the age of eleven my mom married my step-father after knowing each other all of two weeks and each inherited an airport carousel full of baggage. Teen aged kids who hated the new intruder, ex-spouses, selling a business, starting a business, interfering mother-in-laws, more complications than most sane people would ever take on. But, they somehow knew that with all the outside interference that it was right. That after numerous failed relationships they had found their person. Twenty five years and a book full of adventures later, they still manage to not only make it work, but remain utterly, sickenly in love with one another. I watch my siblings and my dearest friends who have found their soul mates and know that when my time comes, that's what I want. I feel when I'm ready again to share my life with someone that's what I need. Maybe what they have will elude me for the rest of my life, but I'll be damned if I'll settle for anything less. Eric Bana excluded of course.
I love men. I love how they look and smell, I love how big their hands are and that they chop wood and ride motorcycles and always use logic to make decisions. They have hair on their arms and goofy smiles when they're happy. They kiss your forhead and pull the blanket over you when you fall asleep without one. They always carry cash. They listen to you talk and remember birthdays and what you wore when you first met. Men are really, really, insanely bitchen and cool, and good men tend to get me into trouble. I have fallen hopelessly in love with good men.
Jonny in all his wisdom concluded that I didn't try hard enough in my two marriages, Mike thought I needed to sacrifice more. I felt for a moment that I should fill them in on a bit of my relationship history the last fourteen years, explain that sometimes it's not that simple, but I rarely share my personal life with them and I'm not about to start. I know all about giving of oneself and could write a book on sacrifice. Maybe, I said, I just haven't found my person.
My parents may have ruined me when it comes to relationships. At the age of eleven my mom married my step-father after knowing each other all of two weeks and each inherited an airport carousel full of baggage. Teen aged kids who hated the new intruder, ex-spouses, selling a business, starting a business, interfering mother-in-laws, more complications than most sane people would ever take on. But, they somehow knew that with all the outside interference that it was right. That after numerous failed relationships they had found their person. Twenty five years and a book full of adventures later, they still manage to not only make it work, but remain utterly, sickenly in love with one another. I watch my siblings and my dearest friends who have found their soul mates and know that when my time comes, that's what I want. I feel when I'm ready again to share my life with someone that's what I need. Maybe what they have will elude me for the rest of my life, but I'll be damned if I'll settle for anything less. Eric Bana excluded of course.
Southern Cross
Southern Cross
Before I start tonight's blog I need to explain something to Michael.I will use your line in this blog, promise promise. But on the ride home from work this evening my mind turned to other things, as it does constantly. So I'll start out with something completely different.
A few weeks ago I was in Maine with Tim and the kids. While driving along in the car the song "Southern Cross" by Crosby Stills and Nash came on the radio, and I began to sing. Tim looked at me quizzically for one reason only (not the fact I was singing, I do that all the time). I knew all the lyrics, which is rare.
"How in the world do you know this song?" He asked.
"When I was eight I heard this on the radio, and fell in love with this song. I kept a tape recorder next to the radio so I could record it the next time I heard it, and then I sat and copied down all the lyrics".
"That's telling" he smiled.
Well, tonight it came on the radio, and I didn't sing. I listened. (Which, by the way Michael ties in to your 'metaphor' theme the other night). The eight year old Sara was much brighter than this current version.
Think about how many times
I have fallen
Spirits are using me
larger voices callin'.
Logic and fear were what drove me to Utah. Logic stating that I would never find the right career for myself in a small remote town in Maine. Fear drove me out when I discovered that if I stayed I would most likely fall in love with Tim again, and if that happened I'd be stuck, trapped in his life. Not my own. After the pain and turmoil of the divorce I could not go back, I'd come too far. So I ran. Far.
When you see the Southern Cross
For the first time
You understand now
Why you came this way
'Cause the truth you might be runnin' from
Is so small.
But it's as big as the promise
The promise of a comin' day.
I've known the feeling of being on the right path. How everything in your life has led you to that exact moment where you just know it's right. That's how I envisioned my move to Utah being. Logic, logic. A good job, staying with your parents and saving money. This makes sense. "Just a year" I told myself. "Then you can move your family out and it will all be ok."
The trouble is, it's not. It feels so wrong. Having to look at the situation with honest eyes and admit that is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I made a mistake. This isn't what I should be doing. But what is right? The brain kicks in, "you're just restless.." It's more than that though. I'm on the wrong path. Spirits are using me, Larger voices calling..this isn't what I'm supposed to be doing. I know this. I know this.
So I'm sailing for tomorrow
My dreams are a dyin'.
And my love is an anchor tied to you
Tied with a silver chain.
I have my ship
And all her flags are a flyin'
I hope, just for a moment I can shut the rattlings of my brain off and stop the logic and fear and it will become clear again. It hasn't been for years. I'm so impatient.
I have been around the world,
Lookin' for that woman/girl,
Who knows love can endure.
And you know it will.
Now back to Michael.
I sat tonight in the kitchen, lamenting over confusing relationships.
"Sounds like you're jealous" Mike said "Maybe you like him".
"I don't have time for this" I answered back.
"There's always time for love" he smiled.
I looked down and noticed I was reading the wedding announcements of the New York Times.
Shit.
Vintages
In wine there are vintages that are outstanding, and there are vintages that are horrid. 1959 was a top notch year. 1972, not so much.
Last night my mother mentioned to me that I have issues with commitment. Really? me? I fully admit that I do. Jobs, men, homes, cities. I'm constantly looking over the fence to see if the grass is greener (usually it is by the way). But, there have been exceptions and I have often committed heart and soul to one person or idea or situation and have ridden it out to the end, sometimes even longer.
I began to think back on past relationships, ones I've been fully committed to, others I was in until something better rolled along (I know I know, this was a long time ago though, mostly). In my thinking I started to realize a common theme. I would be with a perfectly *nice* guy, then dump him for one who was a bit more exciting, one who was cheating on his girlfriend, or had a drinking problem, or had an accent, or a motorcycle. You know, bad boys. These are the men I fully committed myself to, and these are the men who in turn broke my heart.
All these men have one thing in common. They were all born in 1969. Can there be 'off' vintages of people?
I know a lot of people who were born in 1969, men and women. This is a byproduct of moving so much. Exactly two of them are married. One of them is happily married. One of them has children. Rarely are they satisfied with their careers. Only a couple of them own homes. Most of them are still single, like to buy toys and travel. Not that there is anything wrong with that lifestyle. It's a perfectly valid way to live. Expecting them to love you forever? Snort. Wrong vintage for that.
Better off with a nice, subtle, subdued '62 or something.
Last night my mother mentioned to me that I have issues with commitment. Really? me? I fully admit that I do. Jobs, men, homes, cities. I'm constantly looking over the fence to see if the grass is greener (usually it is by the way). But, there have been exceptions and I have often committed heart and soul to one person or idea or situation and have ridden it out to the end, sometimes even longer.
I began to think back on past relationships, ones I've been fully committed to, others I was in until something better rolled along (I know I know, this was a long time ago though, mostly). In my thinking I started to realize a common theme. I would be with a perfectly *nice* guy, then dump him for one who was a bit more exciting, one who was cheating on his girlfriend, or had a drinking problem, or had an accent, or a motorcycle. You know, bad boys. These are the men I fully committed myself to, and these are the men who in turn broke my heart.
All these men have one thing in common. They were all born in 1969. Can there be 'off' vintages of people?
I know a lot of people who were born in 1969, men and women. This is a byproduct of moving so much. Exactly two of them are married. One of them is happily married. One of them has children. Rarely are they satisfied with their careers. Only a couple of them own homes. Most of them are still single, like to buy toys and travel. Not that there is anything wrong with that lifestyle. It's a perfectly valid way to live. Expecting them to love you forever? Snort. Wrong vintage for that.
Better off with a nice, subtle, subdued '62 or something.
Failure to Launch
Morning has always been my favorite part of the day.
While most people would complain about the morning commute in the New York metro area, I loved it. I loved seeing the sun reflect on the Manhattan skyline, how the Hudson River would shimmer, the diffused light as I drove each morning past the Medowlands. I loved mornings in Maine too. Walking Karma down past the lake through the sleepy streets to Scribners General Store for coffee and the paper, and my morning gossip sessions with Frank and Phil.
People who work at night are slightly off center, which is one reason I think I've become so close to the people I work with. We're all a bit nuts. Hours are skewed, days are off kilter. You see neither sunrises or sunsets. By the time you readjust after a day or two off you're right back in it again. I think working nights fucks with you.
Last night after a difficult physical and emotional day, I found myself in bed and asleep by 10:00 pm, which resulted in me waking up at 5:00am. I stirred a bit, back and forth, went over a e-mail argument I had with a friend yesterday, stewed a bit more, and finally said fuck it all, shuffling into the kitchen to make coffee. Then the most amazing thing happened, I watched the sun come up. I watched the Wasatch Mountains change color, pink, purple, blue then a deep, brilliant green. I watched a family of Quail in the yard. The morning was filled with nothing but the sound of birds and I was finally able to settle my brain and just be in the moment. I felt for the first time in months, finally at peace. I love the quiet reflections mornings bring.
I left the East with a fierce determination to make a life for myself. I have found that I have gotten so close to getting everything I've worked so hard for, and sacrificed so much for, only to have it slip through my fingers. The promised promotion and raise I never got, my house in Midway that fell through, relationships that started out with a bang and ended much the same way. It seems that the more I push, the more it eludes me. I was told once by a trusted friend that I didn't fight hard enough for what was rightfully mine. My first reaction to any situation is always "How will this effect so and so..". So, I took his advice and now I fight. You know what? His advice sucked.
I had a life back East. It wasn't what I envisioned it to be, but it grew up around me in ways I never would have imagined. People and places that I fought so hard not to love and become attached to worked their way into my soul. I had no idea. Even with the unexpected turmoil it was beautiful existence, and I miss it desperately.
So I sit in this state of limbo. I see my car in the driveway calling me.."Pack up! Let's go! It's time!"
"One hand on the steering wheel one waving out the window..."
So please call my missus
Gotta tell her not to cry
'Cause my goodbye is written
By the moon in the sky
Hey and nobody knows me
I can't fathom my stayin'
Shiver me timbers
'Cause I'm a-sailin' away
While most people would complain about the morning commute in the New York metro area, I loved it. I loved seeing the sun reflect on the Manhattan skyline, how the Hudson River would shimmer, the diffused light as I drove each morning past the Medowlands. I loved mornings in Maine too. Walking Karma down past the lake through the sleepy streets to Scribners General Store for coffee and the paper, and my morning gossip sessions with Frank and Phil.
People who work at night are slightly off center, which is one reason I think I've become so close to the people I work with. We're all a bit nuts. Hours are skewed, days are off kilter. You see neither sunrises or sunsets. By the time you readjust after a day or two off you're right back in it again. I think working nights fucks with you.
Last night after a difficult physical and emotional day, I found myself in bed and asleep by 10:00 pm, which resulted in me waking up at 5:00am. I stirred a bit, back and forth, went over a e-mail argument I had with a friend yesterday, stewed a bit more, and finally said fuck it all, shuffling into the kitchen to make coffee. Then the most amazing thing happened, I watched the sun come up. I watched the Wasatch Mountains change color, pink, purple, blue then a deep, brilliant green. I watched a family of Quail in the yard. The morning was filled with nothing but the sound of birds and I was finally able to settle my brain and just be in the moment. I felt for the first time in months, finally at peace. I love the quiet reflections mornings bring.
I left the East with a fierce determination to make a life for myself. I have found that I have gotten so close to getting everything I've worked so hard for, and sacrificed so much for, only to have it slip through my fingers. The promised promotion and raise I never got, my house in Midway that fell through, relationships that started out with a bang and ended much the same way. It seems that the more I push, the more it eludes me. I was told once by a trusted friend that I didn't fight hard enough for what was rightfully mine. My first reaction to any situation is always "How will this effect so and so..". So, I took his advice and now I fight. You know what? His advice sucked.
I had a life back East. It wasn't what I envisioned it to be, but it grew up around me in ways I never would have imagined. People and places that I fought so hard not to love and become attached to worked their way into my soul. I had no idea. Even with the unexpected turmoil it was beautiful existence, and I miss it desperately.
So I sit in this state of limbo. I see my car in the driveway calling me.."Pack up! Let's go! It's time!"
"One hand on the steering wheel one waving out the window..."
So please call my missus
Gotta tell her not to cry
'Cause my goodbye is written
By the moon in the sky
Hey and nobody knows me
I can't fathom my stayin'
Shiver me timbers
'Cause I'm a-sailin' away
Hello it's meeee!
I get a lot of myspace surveys I rarely answer. In one I recall the question "What song on your playlist do you sing out loud".
Well, pretty much all of them. I love to sing. I don't so much suck but I'm really just not that good. I listen to my ipod to and from work each day, with headphones. Don't judge, I just have a shuffle, I'm a brilliant driver and as a Gemini quite good at multi-tasking.
On the freeway I drive with the windows and sunroof open, once in town I close everything so I can sing in the privacy of my Subaru.
However, this afternoon I forgot to close the windows.
Stopped in Orem at the Intersection of 800 North and State street, I preformed a free concert complete with air drums and fake microphone. It wasn't until I heard the faint yells and whistles from the Jeep full of 20 something men that I realized this. This isn't even the embarrassing part of the story.
This ladies and gents, is what I was singing:It took me two drinks before I had the courage to post this. Not really because of my impromtu Karaoke in the car, but the fact that I actually have Todd Rundgen on my ipod. And yes Ashley, the 70's were really like that.
Well, pretty much all of them. I love to sing. I don't so much suck but I'm really just not that good. I listen to my ipod to and from work each day, with headphones. Don't judge, I just have a shuffle, I'm a brilliant driver and as a Gemini quite good at multi-tasking.
On the freeway I drive with the windows and sunroof open, once in town I close everything so I can sing in the privacy of my Subaru.
However, this afternoon I forgot to close the windows.
Stopped in Orem at the Intersection of 800 North and State street, I preformed a free concert complete with air drums and fake microphone. It wasn't until I heard the faint yells and whistles from the Jeep full of 20 something men that I realized this. This isn't even the embarrassing part of the story.
This ladies and gents, is what I was singing:It took me two drinks before I had the courage to post this. Not really because of my impromtu Karaoke in the car, but the fact that I actually have Todd Rundgen on my ipod. And yes Ashley, the 70's were really like that.
Costco = 7th Circle of Hell
When I lived in Jersey I would do anything in my power to avoid Costco. However, seeing as we were a family of six living on the wages of a Bartender it was a necessity. Do you know how much toilet paper four children go through?
The Costco in Hannover New Jersey was a deserted island of paradise compared to the Costco in Sandy Utah.
Utah has a very high population of people who practice the LDS faith. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm the only person in the entire state who isn't a Mormon. I think one of the commandments in the Book of Mormon is "Have as many children as you possibly can and take them all to Costco at the same time".
If I'm not mistaken another principle of the religion is that if they have 120 children they will become Gods in the afterlife, and their children will become Gods as well. A lot of them practice being Gods right here on earth, right in Costco even.
"Ooooh! Free cheese samples! Let's leave our cart right here in front of this invisible lady and go get some!"
I've never heard so many screaming babies in my life. I passed one woman pushing her hysterical toddler in the cart as she was on her cell phone.
"Oh, he's just tired..yeah it's his nap time".
Here's an idea sparky. Why not shop at Costco, say..after his nap?
Heely's♦ were quite popular on the East Coast about three years ago, but like all fads they quickly faded. Not here in Utah. They seem to have just hit with a vengeance. Going to a large warehouse full of heavy things stacked to the ceiling and full of people? What a perfect opportunity to roller skate!
I went to Costco only because tomorrow is Father's day and seeing as I have two fathers plus the father of my children to buy for buying in bulk seemed a good idea at the time. As I stood in line holding my three books and tomatoes amongst the carts full of soda, white bread, chips and candy, I spied a solitary man holding a clam shell of Organic Salad and a pineapple. Our eyes met. I smiled weakly. He nodded his head slowly as if to say, "I too, walk with your pain".
♦For those with out children "Heely's" are shoes with a wheel implanted in the heel, so you can skate instead of actually having to walk.
The Costco in Hannover New Jersey was a deserted island of paradise compared to the Costco in Sandy Utah.
Utah has a very high population of people who practice the LDS faith. In fact, I'm pretty sure I'm the only person in the entire state who isn't a Mormon. I think one of the commandments in the Book of Mormon is "Have as many children as you possibly can and take them all to Costco at the same time".
If I'm not mistaken another principle of the religion is that if they have 120 children they will become Gods in the afterlife, and their children will become Gods as well. A lot of them practice being Gods right here on earth, right in Costco even.
"Ooooh! Free cheese samples! Let's leave our cart right here in front of this invisible lady and go get some!"
I've never heard so many screaming babies in my life. I passed one woman pushing her hysterical toddler in the cart as she was on her cell phone.
"Oh, he's just tired..yeah it's his nap time".
Here's an idea sparky. Why not shop at Costco, say..after his nap?
Heely's♦ were quite popular on the East Coast about three years ago, but like all fads they quickly faded. Not here in Utah. They seem to have just hit with a vengeance. Going to a large warehouse full of heavy things stacked to the ceiling and full of people? What a perfect opportunity to roller skate!
I went to Costco only because tomorrow is Father's day and seeing as I have two fathers plus the father of my children to buy for buying in bulk seemed a good idea at the time. As I stood in line holding my three books and tomatoes amongst the carts full of soda, white bread, chips and candy, I spied a solitary man holding a clam shell of Organic Salad and a pineapple. Our eyes met. I smiled weakly. He nodded his head slowly as if to say, "I too, walk with your pain".
♦For those with out children "Heely's" are shoes with a wheel implanted in the heel, so you can skate instead of actually having to walk.
Top five reasons I haven’t found a job.
My life has taken some unexpected turns as of late, and I now find myself in a new and strange city, living with a new and even stranger man. Neither one of these situations were even remotely close to being on my radar six weeks ago, but as we all know the universe has a perverse sense of humor. So here I sit, overwhelmed, enraptured and unemployed in Portland Oregon.
Reasons I have not found a job:
1. Craigslist- Craigslist is a wonderful resource for the unemployed, unless you have way too much time on your hands. In which case Craigslist is an unbelievable distraction. I have spent more time reading "Best of Craigslist", "Rants and Raves" and "Men seeking Women" than the actual job postings. In case David is reading this, I'm not actually reading "Men seeking Women" to find a date, I just find the postings immensely entertaining, hence why I have yet to find a job.
2. My insanely unrealistic standards- After working a series of unsatisfactory jobs, my criteria of things I will no longer do has become impossibly limiting. I don't want to manage. I don't want to work with food. I don't want to work with people, especially stupid people. I don't want to commute more than a mile from my house. I don't want to work at night. I don't want to be tied to a desk all day. Basically I'd like a job where I can work with wine, communicating solely by e-mail, able to set my own hours and get paid 68K. That or the queen of a prosperous, peaceful, well educated population. I have yet to find either of these jobs listed on Craigslist.
3. I'm starving- My new boyfriend is a vegetarian, which is fine and great and all that. I am *mostly* a vegetarian. I say mostly because I don't follow a certain set of rules and if I feel like eating meat once in awhile, I'm going to do it. Usually it's just a weakness for fish, fish tacos specifically. However, occasionally at a certain time of the month I have an overwhelming craving for red meat. This has been one of those months. It's gotten to the point where I'm hallucinating and people are looking like this:
4. The convenience of living in a city, specifically "Trader Joe's"- Utah makes it nearly impossible to buy alcohol. You can't just walk down to the market on the corner to buy a beer or a bottle of wine because all alcohol is sold through state run liquor stores, which are usually located in very inconvenient locations. Being the lazy person I am the idea of driving miles from my home to purchase overpriced beer or wine in the middle of the afternoon isn't too appealing. So I tend to stay sober most of the time. It's a different story here. Trader Joe's is located exactly five blocks from my house. Trader Joe's has aisles of interesting inexpensive bottles of wine and beer from all over the world. Looking at my sad tomato sandwich and thinking to myself "Wow, a beer would sure go nice with this, I'll just run around the corner.." has become almost a daily occurrence. Beer + Me = lousy cover letters.
5. The weather- I think the hype about Portland's weather being so piss poor all the time is a lie perpetuated by local Oregonians to keep people from moving here. I've been here a little over a week and each day has been more gorgeous than the last. 75 degrees and sunny? Well! We better take that motorcycle out to the coast before the weather turns! How about we stop at this cute little bar and have a beer? Say, a walk along the river would be just the thing to do on a beautiful evening. Why don't I just put my laptop away... The fact that David is self-employed and able to take off at a moments notice is not helping either. At all.
So. Keep a good thought for your friend Sare. I'm off to peruse the classifieds once more. Right after I finish this beer of course.
Reasons I have not found a job:
1. Craigslist- Craigslist is a wonderful resource for the unemployed, unless you have way too much time on your hands. In which case Craigslist is an unbelievable distraction. I have spent more time reading "Best of Craigslist", "Rants and Raves" and "Men seeking Women" than the actual job postings. In case David is reading this, I'm not actually reading "Men seeking Women" to find a date, I just find the postings immensely entertaining, hence why I have yet to find a job.
2. My insanely unrealistic standards- After working a series of unsatisfactory jobs, my criteria of things I will no longer do has become impossibly limiting. I don't want to manage. I don't want to work with food. I don't want to work with people, especially stupid people. I don't want to commute more than a mile from my house. I don't want to work at night. I don't want to be tied to a desk all day. Basically I'd like a job where I can work with wine, communicating solely by e-mail, able to set my own hours and get paid 68K. That or the queen of a prosperous, peaceful, well educated population. I have yet to find either of these jobs listed on Craigslist.
3. I'm starving- My new boyfriend is a vegetarian, which is fine and great and all that. I am *mostly* a vegetarian. I say mostly because I don't follow a certain set of rules and if I feel like eating meat once in awhile, I'm going to do it. Usually it's just a weakness for fish, fish tacos specifically. However, occasionally at a certain time of the month I have an overwhelming craving for red meat. This has been one of those months. It's gotten to the point where I'm hallucinating and people are looking like this:
4. The convenience of living in a city, specifically "Trader Joe's"- Utah makes it nearly impossible to buy alcohol. You can't just walk down to the market on the corner to buy a beer or a bottle of wine because all alcohol is sold through state run liquor stores, which are usually located in very inconvenient locations. Being the lazy person I am the idea of driving miles from my home to purchase overpriced beer or wine in the middle of the afternoon isn't too appealing. So I tend to stay sober most of the time. It's a different story here. Trader Joe's is located exactly five blocks from my house. Trader Joe's has aisles of interesting inexpensive bottles of wine and beer from all over the world. Looking at my sad tomato sandwich and thinking to myself "Wow, a beer would sure go nice with this, I'll just run around the corner.." has become almost a daily occurrence. Beer + Me = lousy cover letters.
5. The weather- I think the hype about Portland's weather being so piss poor all the time is a lie perpetuated by local Oregonians to keep people from moving here. I've been here a little over a week and each day has been more gorgeous than the last. 75 degrees and sunny? Well! We better take that motorcycle out to the coast before the weather turns! How about we stop at this cute little bar and have a beer? Say, a walk along the river would be just the thing to do on a beautiful evening. Why don't I just put my laptop away... The fact that David is self-employed and able to take off at a moments notice is not helping either. At all.
So. Keep a good thought for your friend Sare. I'm off to peruse the classifieds once more. Right after I finish this beer of course.
Progress?
I very rarely respond to blogs.
I haven't been writing personal blogs lately because I now have to write blogs for a living. Which I'm not complaining about. Who wouldn't want to drink wine and write blogs for a living? Seeing as my professional life and personal life are actually..well, good at the moment I haven't really had that angsty drive that normally fuels my writing.
Anyway. I read a blog tonight that got me thinking, not just thinking but inspired me to write a response. Which of course got so long I didn't post it. The jist of it was a woman who has never felt the desire to commit to a person, which resonated with me. My un-posted response started like this:
"I can not remember a time in my life I wasn't on the move. While my peers were reading "Little House on the Prairie" I was engrossed in the Atlas of the World. My walls were covered in maps. When I was four my parents found me a mile from my house, sitting next to a canal, just sitting and pondering. At eight I got my first bike and the police picked me up in the next town. At twelve I decided that after lunch school really wasn't that interesting and I'd head home. Fifteen was spent stealing my mom's car and riding around the desert of New Mexico. When David and I were married he wouldn't even blink when I threw him in the car to drive to Kingman Arizona, 200 miles from where we were living, "Because they had pie". I could go on and on... I have never once had the desire to settle down. Moving and travelling have been as natural and as instinctive to me as breathing. A former boyfriend once said to me in a disapproving tone that I had a Peter Pan complex. I thought for a moment then said "Who wouldn't want to be Peter Pan?". Some of us are wired differently, which is a good thing. Weather it's human nature or genetics it doesn't matter. We're the ones who get to buy extra passport pages and entertain the Wendy's of the world with stories of grand adventure.
After I wrote the last sentence I had nothing else to say. Me. The woman who has moved 85 times in 36 years had no other advice to another woman who didn't find it in her nature to commit. It was a disconcerting feeling. I'm prone to bouts of depression and the last few days have found me in a strange state. Kira's death and absence from the house, the separation from my children, my mom's health scare, money issues..emotions I keep to myself and would normally handle on my own. It hit me. I wasn't alone, and it wasn't such a bad thing. In fact, I was actually....content. And. Happy. I have never looked for, desired or wanted someone to take care of me, but to come home to someone who understands me and accepts my weirdness was something unexpected, and quite cool. I came home to a clean house, fresh sheets, a hot meal, glass of wine and a sweet, caring man who wanted nothing more than to take care of me. I then realized that this is probably the greatest adventure I've ever been on.
/end emotional shit.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
