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November 30, 2005
history
I had a click this morning. Not that it's probably a terribly useful realization, but...
Sara is visiting her parents and talks about the stuff she does there that she doesn't do at home, and she asked also what her readers do. I wrote a response which filled me with sad longing.
I remember loving visiting my dad's parents. The expectations there were different than on my mom's side of the family. My grandparents seemed very fond of me, but they didn't expect me to just hang out, speaking when spoken to. I absolutely loved going through their stuff.
Part of it was the exoticness of it. I maybe saw them once a year, and at most, for a couple hours. They lived in the country (even when they lived in town)—they had hunting dogs which lived in kennels, because dogs don't come in the house. Their house was full of old things that they loved.
I remember being fascinated by the perfume that my grandma kept on her bedroom dresser—it had some name that would seem very cheesy now, but it was exotic and wonderful. I loved poking around in the garage at all the tools and bibs and bobs of my grandpa's domain. And then there was the basement!
The basement had lost of stuff. Old magazines, photos, a guest bed, and old trunks. I loved this stuff. It was clear that they had come on a journey: from France to Quebec, from Quebec to Michigan. Everything seemed imbued with meaning.
It's only recently that I've realized that some of my mom's stuff is also imbued with meaning. Her style is very middle-america clean and clear and spare. It probably helps that she is one person in a house that is almost twice the size of mine, and with much much more storage, that she doesn't have a job, and that she feels compelled to clean.
Anyways, I wonder if that explains some of my clutter, as stuff reflecting me and my darling. Not that everything is imbued with meaning—I just have a clutter problem. Yeah, okay. So that's that.
The other thing that came out of my thinking about Sara's post is that I don't agitate very hard for what I'd like to do when I'm at Mom's. It's easier, though not more enjoyable, certainly, to go with her flow. What I'd like to do: more exercise (ice skating, walking, cycling [could we rent bikes?]), more riding around in the car around town and through the little towns nearby, more history. Like, wouldn't it be interesting to see significant place's in Mom's life? I know, well, several of them.
I tried to get her mother talking about her past before she died. I thought she wouldn't like it, but of course she did. To my great sadness, I didn't take notes or tape our conversations, and now that knowledge is lost.
Suddenly, it is quite clear to me that I want and need to make those kinds of connections to the past and present, to root me, and that I haven't done that with family. Since I really only have Mom left, I should snap to it. I feel frustrated with my relationship with Mom, I love her, but I don't feel like it's a real relationship. But it occurs to me that I am not being genuine with her.
This is hard. I was taught to keep my mouth shut and I tend to, with the grand and huge exception of here. And even here is heavily censored.
...
You know the movie Office Space? I love the premise of it, of a guy hyponotized and thereafter, he has to tell the truth. Well, okay, the premise is a little off from that (but not a lot, really). But I wonder what my life was like if I had less control over my tongue?
...
Monday I was so good. Yesterday, I was all about the rain. Today I still ache—gosh, who knew I had all those stomach muscles, and that they could get so pissed off. I'm gonna try to sneak in some exercise, though I feel like everything in my life is conspiring against it.
the flight of birds
Bicycling is the nearest approximation I know to the flight of birds. The airplane simply carries a man on its back like an obedient Pegasus; it gives him no wings of his own.
—Louis J. Helle, Jr., Spring in Washington
November 29, 2005
Nobody Bikes in L.A....But they'd be a lot happier if they did.
Instead of the major thoroughfares I use when driving, I cycled quiet back streets—the kind that infuriate me in a car because of all the stop signs and the impossibility of crossing major streets without a signal. I found my commute so easy that I soon started looking for other short trips I could make on the bike—picking up a few groceries, going to the gym, returning library books—then longer ones. I plotted new stealth routes no driver would ever take. (Tip: The satellite photos on Google Earth are much better for doing this than a road map, because you can see exactly what the streets look like.)
slate.com/id/2130978/
can neurosis power xmas lights?
Not surprisingly, I hurt today. I'm very aware of my belly and waist, and of my glutes, and my hipflexors. And my nose, which I biffed (but good) getting the bicycle out of the truck last night.
I'm not quite feeling so hysterical today. I did some reading (ah, internet, you cruel mistress!), and while I am very special for being female and middleaged and having Barrett's disease, the chances of it turning cancerous are close to nil. Like, less than 1%. And, the symptom that has really been eating me (so to speak) has been a hoarse chronic cough after heartburn episodes... which I guess goes hand in hand with the disease.
So while I think it's a good idea to fly right and eat right and try not to chip any more large sections out of my esophagus, some of this I just have to let go of.
Still, I gotta wonder: if I wasn't so stressed out, would I have hearburn/reflux/GERD/Barrett's and high blood pressure? And do I, with my special neurotic wiring, ever have any hopes of not being stressed out?
...
But enough of my downer. I admit this is not an original idea, I heard about it from another scooterist.
But: battery powered christmas lights! Think of the possibilities! Festooning your bike, making it almost like it has the Down Low Glow. Okay, so it's not really as cool as the Down Low Glow, but it is cheaper and readily available at a big box store (not-so) near you. And scooters! Damn! That'd be way better than putting bunny ears on your helmet (not that there's anything wrong with that).
Portlanders: Sunlan Lighting on Mississippi carries them! (and she's open til 5:30 today!)
November 28, 2005
mortality
Well, I went to the gym today, just to tell my body what's what. Here's a taste of what's coming, dearheart. You might as well just get used to it.
You might be wondering what scared me straight. I mean, really. Or not. I got a wakeup call this weekend.
By and large, the weekend was very good. Thanksgiving was full of food and hanging out and total relaxation, Friday and Saturday full of doing work-work in my jammies while the animals came up begging for attention, and yesterday, a trip to the mall, because I had forgotten how much I hated that.
At some point, I started thinking about my homework for mister career dude, which is seeing myself at work in 5 years. So what would that look like? What would I be doing? Who would I be working with? Hell if I know. I have a hard time seeing til the end of next week.
Part of this is just a sense of futility. Why bother looking for a new job when it'll just be more of the same, and probably a paycut? I'll still be stressed out; I'll still be self-medicating with food or drink or exercise. I think about one cow-orker who quit a few years back because he couldn't stand it any longer... and ended up back here. That could be me. On a treadmill.
I get caught in this sort of thinking and I might as well just get out the ice cream. It's hopeless.
So I start reading some blogs, cuz that'll make me feel better, right? And I read about someone who has one of the same stress illnesses that I have, and he developed cancer and died. Horribly.
Now I'm an awful hypochondriac as well as quite the drama queen, I'll give you. But I have the precursor to the cancer that this guy died from—I got diagnosed with it a couple years back.
A lot of the time, I am rather blase about whether I continue to exist in some form on the earth, but I admit, I hate the thought of pain. Dying is fine as long as there isn't pain involved (isn't this the story of my life?!) So what would it take for me to love my life, and guard it?
I don't have an answer to that. But pain, damn.
So, baby steps. I rode my bike to work today, made myself go slow (which is to say: really, really slow). I made myself stop for every stop sign. Yeah, so what if a car isn't there to see me stop? So what that it takes a huge burst of energy to come away from a stop? So what? It's not like I'm getting too much exercise. It's not like I'm too butch. Get over it and do it. It's not painful, it's just unpleasant.
And the ride in was great. It's seriously cold today, and the office, and the Sweetie, are all abuzz with hopeful talk of snow. There were patches of ice on the roads. I got downtown, and I felt cold, and sweaty, and alive.
I went to pilates at lunch, and felt like I had lost my fool mind. What was I thinking? So I did some of that, did some x-country ski machine, some treadmill, some weights. And when I got my burrito at lunch, I did not get the super hot sauce that I'm addicted to.
This is small stuff, I know. But I gotta start somewhere, and some time.
November 27, 2005
trapped
Last night, I dreamt I was supposed to shoot at a particular boat/vessel/thingee, and I did so, and then, I got captured by the people of this boat/vessel/thingee. In typical vj-raised-catholic fashion, no voices were raised, and everyone seemed friendly--sorta. And I was totally afraid. We go inside into a bar, and I am implanted with something, and told I will be a carrier of the next pandemic. Not only that, but I'm supposed to move some giant tables.
We part ways and I manage to move one table but not the next. I go investigate the other table, which is really giant, and hard-wired to the ground. I get back to the room, this weird funky motel room, and soon afterwards, the whole group of nasty people come in, threatening and being nasty. They all have weird unpleasant awful weapons, but some of them (the people) are very nice.
At some point I get outside, and I think, I can run away. So I start running, but just as quickly I realize that there is no way I am going to get away, and that trying is only going to make the situation worse. Much worse.
Feeling trapped is such a theme for me. I make no move because I'm afraid that any movement will only make it worse. How irrational is that?
November 23, 2005
20 (ish) things
from Tszuj
20 Songs (I love off my ip0d, quickly... okay, so I can't count)
- Dil Di Doya - Paban Daas Baul and Sam Mills
- Hey Suess! - 3Ds
- Fotografia - Juanes with Nelly Furtado
- Stacked Crooked - New Pornographers
- Pablo and Andrea - Yo La Tengo
- Young Gifted and Black! - Bob and Marcia
- Divine Hammer - the Breeders
- Sera Entre Tu y Yo - Paulina Rubio
- Forgotten Favorite - Velocity Girl
- Baby I can't Please You - Sam Phillips
- Hoover Dam - Sugar
- Cody, Cody - Flying Burrito Brothers
- 49 Percent - Royksopp
- Signal in the Sky (Let's Go!) - Apples in Stereo
- Gira - Vanessinha & Alessandra
- My Love's Strong - Graham Parker
- 22 No - F_ck
- Casino Queen - Wilco
- Little Baby - Donna Regina
- Braided Hair - Speech & Neneh Cherry
- 99 Problems - Jay-Z + DJ Dangermouse
- These are the Fables - New Pornographers
- Matador - Los Fabulosos Cadillacs
- Jesus - Page France
- Sickness - the Decemberists (covering the Donner Party)
- Like, I Use to Like - Barr
- Broken Ship - Immaculate Machines
- Birthday Cake - Cibo Matto
- The Question is How Fast - Superchunk
- Here we kum - Molotov
- Chariot - Page France
- I Don't Want to Know - the Donnas
- Take My Time - Junior Senior
- Spiralling Shape - They Might Be Giants
20 Questions
- What's for breakfast?
Coffee and a chocolate chip cookie. I usually have eggs and real or fake sausage instead of the cookie, but I was lazy this AM. - Do you read a newspaper daily?
If the Oregonian is in the coffee shop, I'll read it. Otherwise, no. - What do you do when you can't sleep?
Read. - Say a word that sums up your mood.
Happy feet! Oh, that's two. Excited. - Do you remember your dreams?
Generally. - Name something from your dream last night.
I don't remember last nights dream. - Name a food that describes you.
Pizza: spicy, crispy & cheesy! - Today you are wearing:
walking shoes (Brooks), camel-colored jeans, a black leather belt, and a grey wool hoodie over a pink printed t-shirt over a black long underwear top (it's always freezing at work. And home.). - What's in your pockets?
A hankerchief - Did you sing in the shower today?
I usually do, but not today. - What's the last song you heard?
Dil Di Doya by Paban Daas Baul and Sam Mills off of Global Transmissions - Looking forward to the holidays?
I'm looking forward to cooking and having some time that I don't have to come into the office (and I love the winter ales), but I really dislike xmas (especially the commercialization and pressure) - Where do you want to be this instant?
On my bike, riding around my neighborhood. Or knitting. - What's for lunch?
Probably a sausage from Good Dog, Bad Dog. - What's something you would like to do soon?
Start a new, better, job. - Reading anything now? What is it?
Mostly magazines. Metropolis, ReadyMade, Dwell, Fast Company. Oh, and Jess Hutch's Unusual Toys for You to Knit and Enjoy. But I'm hoping to read some of The experts' guide to 100 things everyone should know how to do, Devil in the details : scenes from an obsessive girlhood, and Ambient Findability this weekend. - What's for dinner?
Hopefully pizza at Apizza Scholls! - A favorite part of the day is:
Riding my bike. A couple miles into a long walk. Snuggling with Sweetie. Falling into my work and losing track of time. Getting home from work and being greeted by Sweetie, the dog and all the cats. - Are you happy?
Right now, yes. - Will your friends do this meme?
Please let me know if you do.
And now we are two
Well, Thanksgiving is getting smaller and smaller.
Last year, we had no Thanksgiving dinner party, and it made me quite sad. I love having people over, I love cooking for a houseful. So this year, I was hoping to have a houseful... and then I learned that another friend had snagged all of our friends. Except Mela. That's okay. Mela and I and Sweetie can hang out and cook.
And now Mela has the flu. Poor thing, she sounds awful. We'll make her a care package tomorrow, but I am so bummed.
...
Anyways, tomorrow will be fun. We'll cook, we'll hang out. I'll be bringing a huge pile of work home, but I'm hoping to have some time to knit and read as well. And maybe if this wonderful weather holds, I can get in a walk or two.
I rode home last night, natch. I had expected it would have been warmer than it had been in the morning, so I wore one less layer. But it was windy, and it was plenty cold. Damn, I am so slow, and the ride was taxing. But I slept well last night.
This morning's ride was beautiful. Cold, sunny, not too much wind. Even when I'm annoyed on the bike, I am so happy. I'm so glad to be doing this again!
November 22, 2005
37 degrees!
And I was actually a little too warm!
I could have used some wool around my head, face, and neck. I wore a buff as a balaclava, and even though it is bright pink, people looked at my like I had just robbed a convenience store.
Wait a second, back up, let's look at what I was wearing. Yellow BMX Bridgepedal helmet (read: seriously goofy), check. Pink buff as balaclava, check. Yellow wind jacket, check. Respectable black wool skirt, check. Respectable clogboots, check. On bright pink bike, check. And people were looking at me like I was armed and dangerous. Oh, the power!
On my torso, I wore a drifit t, a thermal running top, my wool v-neck, and then the yellowjacket. I think I coulda done okay with one layer less.
I wore my dorky is0toner driving gloves: they were okay. And the great thing about those: they match nothing that I own. This bothers me much more than it should.
On my legs, I wore long underwear, the wool skirt, smartw8l socks, and the clogboots. Perfectly toasty.
It was a nice ride. Cold, but insanely sunny. I could really tell I haven't been on the bike in a while—I was very happy to leave it in second gear for the vast majority of the ride. I was leisurely, which meant I got in about a minute later than usual. There were quite a few runners, but not so many bicyclists out.
I know I need to get more exercise. My stress levels have been so high, and I'm hoping this will make a dent. I tell you, I do feel fairly relaxed this morning. And, while my clothes still fit, we are coming into the season of overeating and overdrinking, and I'd like my clothes to continue to fit. Or fit looser. And, we're just a couple months out of prime job hunting—it would be nice to look athleticly zaftig rather than just zaftig.
November 21, 2005
fiasco
Sometimes I just wonder if I am bringing my own black cloud with me, and that I am the force that is ruining things. Sometimes.
While there were parts of the weekend that were fun, let's just say the the majority of it was a fiasco. And not my fault! The things I wanted and needed to get done, like buying out all the dairy products in the tri-county area, and doing a huge amount of work-work, were not to be.
The weekend was very cold. One thing I learned is that I need some more cold weather scooter gear.
Wearing a buff under my helmet as a balaclava helped keep my head and face warm, but not as well as wool would have. My groovy reflective silver scooter scarf: not terribly warm. My scooter hoodie is very warm, if I remember to zip the pit vents. But cold air still pours up the sleeves. And my dorky is0toner driving gloves are okay for short distances, not okay for longer ones. My legs: frozen. Even with wearing long underwear under jeans. Though my feet were warm in smartw8l socks and short clogboots.
After a long fiascolike ride through the wilds of Clark County, Washington, I was really happy to go into the new neighborhood yarn store and imagine all the warm woolen things I could make. The error of my ways has been revealed. Yeah, all those funky fuzzy shiny non-wools are fun, but wool, damn: it stretches, it warms, and some of them even don't itch. It's the original sports fabric.
I'd love to figure out the psychology of stores that you love to visit. I mean, of course, it's got to have items you like looking at. But, why are some yarn shops so appealing, and some others, with the same stock, so underwhelming? All I know is that I really liked this new yarn store. The owner was friendly and enthusiastic, the stock was beautiful, and there were chairs and a couch just begging to be sat upon. The place was the opposite of spare, but even full of people, I didn't feel claustrophobic.
...
I had planned that I'd ride the bicycle in today. Then, I went outside and saw that there wasn't even a block's visibility, and there was ice on the ground. I still need to figure out what to wear as well so I'm not freezing the whole way.
November 18, 2005
more psychobabble
The last couple days have been a whirlwind. I met with El Career Guy yesterday and talked mostly about selling myself, and then in therapy we talked about why I'm always trying to get people to like me and not asking myself if I like the person, situation, job, etc. Interesting stuff. I feel like I'm on the edge of a volcano, and that I'm about to come on to something huge. Though I know that realizations don't usually work that way.
And so I'm just kinda bracing myself for change, feeling a little afraid that I'm going to have to slog through some uck to get to something good. But in some ways, I'm already in the swamp, trying to avoid wrestling with the alligators.
In spite of my apprehension, everything is apparently great. Last night Sweetie and I indulged in my new favorite thing (Hot Lips pepperoni pizza with habanero salsa), and then went to a lecture at PSU from Gordon Price. Long ago, and far away, I read Alan Thein Durning's This Place on Earth: Home and the Practice of Permanence, which talked about Gordon Price's Vancouver, BC—a place where urban planning has created a very exciting city with a declining dependence on the automobile. His lecture did not disappoint.
And one of the goals of late has been actually getting myself moving in the morning. Well, not moving moving, but at least moving. This morning, I did a little housework, and got myself into work early. Hurrah!
November 17, 2005
Nice day for a... knit wedding
There is just something so wistful and joyous here. A knitted wedding. With knitted just- about- everything. Though strangely enough, they are in Britain, and they're drinking Rolling Rock?! Anyways, check out this adorable shrug... That and a little knitted domo-kun, and I might be all set.
November 16, 2005
I know it's wrong to want to steal your neighbor's dog
A photo from Bad Rap, a Bay Area pit bull rescue group. This is not Zoe, nor have I ever seen her in a jacket or sweater. Which I know she'd enjoy, dammit!
So I walk out the back door, with Echo, my cup of coffee and a scoop of cat food for Daphne. Daphne pops out of her little house made from a milkcrate lined with towels and a plastic garbage bag sitting over a hot water bottle, and so even though it's 35 degrees, she's all warm. And even though she seems warm and happy and robust outside, I think again about how I'd like to have her be an indoor cat. And how I'd have to make sure that all fabric, all towels, all clothes would be inaccessible to her, so she couldn't eat them. Is that even possible?
I imagine a house with no fabric. That would mean no towels on the kitchen table, and no clothes on the chair. No quilt on the couch that the dog can't figure out how to get under. No curtains. No open laundry basket. I want to pare down my life but this seems to be a bit much.
While I'm having this reverie, Echo is running around the backyard through the wet grass, and Daphne alternates eating cat food, and coming up for some attention. And there is this high pitched whining, crying really, coming from over there. From the butterfly bush.
So I go over, and huddled under the butterfly bush is Zoe, the pitbull from next door (background here and here). She's so ugly she's adorable, and she is so upset. I try to convince her to come over and see me, but she won't or maybe she can't. Poor thing.
Ever since Zoe got lost, my neighbors have kept her on a line which stretches from our fence to Theresa's, the neighbor on the other side. Surprise, surprise, Zoe doesn't like being kept on a line, so she destroys anything she can get in contact with: dog beds, bits of styrofoam, etc. And, she's dug a hole under our fence. It seems she likes to hang out under the butterfly bush... maybe just because that's as far as the line will let her go.
So I walk through the gate and to the neighbor's side of the fence. Zoe's line is wrapped several time around the fence post, so, no wonder that she can't get loose. She is wiggling frantically with monster pitbull force, so happy to see me, as I try to unbolt her from the line while holding onto her collar, pull the tangled line out of my yard and from around my fence post, and reattach her. She rewards me by jumping up on me several times, marking me with her muddy paws. Thanks Zoe.
I walk away and she begins crying again.
Why do my neighbors have a dog? Why? I'm guessing because they moved into this "rough" neighborhood and maybe had some stuff stolen, and so they thought they needed protection. So they have this dog that never gets any exercise, and let's face facts, pit bulls are a handful if they don't get enough energy exercise, and they keep it outside on a line. A dog with no real fur. That dog was out all night.
Sweetie has volunteered to help them build a dog house. We've both talked to them about the fact that it's not cool to leave a dog on a line without supervision, etc, etc. I'm tempted to call animal control, but I don't know if it's illegal to leave a dog outside at night. I'm guessing that probably it's fairly low on their priorities...
...
A cow-orker asked me yesterday how my training for Freescale was coming. Yeah. Huh, huh. I gotta get walking again. And then last night, we're sitting in our favorite new neighborhood place, laptops open, and I read this from another bike commuter:
Experience suggests I'll put on about 2 lb a month from not riding (losing muscle and gaining fat for a double whammy), and that's not a safe choice either.
And this from a guy. (And I mention gender only because men have an easier time maintaining weight than women). Yikes.
November 15, 2005
seeing Ira Glass
On Sunday night, i got really lucky. Mela took me to a lecture at Reed College, only open to the Reedie community: Ira Glass, of This American Life, with his talk Lies, Sissies, and Fiascoes: Notes on Making a New Kind of Radio.
I was excited about it. I was expecting to enjoy it. I was willing to tolerate uncomfortable chairs and being too close to the people sitting next to me. But there was part of me that was feeling a little blase about it.
I'm assuming you're familiar with This American Life, though perhaps I shouldn't make that assumption. It's an hour long show that runs on public radio stations which is concerned with first-person storytelling. The stories or reporting may be about anything at all, but they tend to have an immediacy that is rare to find in professional media. They are professional, they know how to use their mics and recorders, but the amazing thing is that they just let people talk. And so you immediately empathize with the woman in New Orleans who ran home to get a pack of cigarettes, and ended up stuck at the Superdome.
But the energy in the auditorium, uncomfortable chairs or not, was palpable. The college kids are so very young, so very cute, so very serious in that Reedie way, so wacky. And even those of us with mortgages and day jobs were a bit, um, starstruck.
A student introduced him. "He's my hero! He's revolutionary!", she gushed, each phrase ending with an emphatic exclamation point. And then the lights went down. Like, completely down. Like, pitch black.
I'm sitting there with my goofy scooter glove/wrister warmer that I'm knitting, and thinking, hell, how am I supposed to knit in complete darkness? And the voice, the voice pours into the room, so familiar, so intimate.
I'd like to tell you what he talked about, but I honestly don't remember. I was captivated from the first minute to the last, but I got home, and Sweetie asked about it, and I'm like, ummm? What did he talk about?
He swears a lot, which I like. He talks like my friends. He speaks really in this immediate way, like he's talking to his friends. Us. Like he really likes us. I remember he asked if any of us were familiar with the topic sentence, and a bunch of us raise our hands, and then he asks, in the same tone, how many of us were stoned, and then, "you are under my power: you must answer my questions!", afterwards, collapsing into giggles.
And so we really liked him.
He talked about how doing a radio show, telling a story, is like giving a good sermon. He talked about the mechanics of what makes a good story, or a good sermon, work. Loving creative work is why you should be doing creative work. Loving creative work means you have great taste... but in anything, just starting out, you're going to suck, and your sucking is going to break your heart. Nobody tells you about that gap between where your work is now, and your exquisite good taste, and no one tells you that you just have keep slogging on, trusting that at some point you won't suck.
I think the thing which is most impressive about his talk was that it had to be scripted. It had to be sculpted and worked on and worked over, and yet, he spoke naturally, relaxedly, as if he were just forming the ideas then. Like he was your friend who just wouldn't shut up—but unlike the friend who won't shut up, you're hanging on every word. He seemed genuine with his emotion, with his wonder, laughter, passion.
He spoke til 10pm. Two hours. Well past my bedtime. And I spent a lot of Monday thinking about it. And this morning too.
I did a bit of web surfing as I was thinking about and trying to write this. How do I capture this in my clumsy way?
Here is a bit from a recent interview (August):
Brian Montopoli: I don't think that puts me in a vanguard, though. I think all the vanguard people all have cleaning ladies. Anyway, and feel free to just blow this question off if you want, but ...
Ira Glass: Wouldn't it be weird if you were to ask me a question that is so offensive that I would actually like hang up? I would totally do like a Robert Novak on you and be like, "I'm sorry, I don't talk about that anymore." (laughing) I would love that.
BM: Sadly, I don't think my question is anywhere near offensive enough for that. I did this fellowship at NPR a few years back, and when I was doing it, I told people that I liked "This American Life." And what everyone said to me was, "Oh, you know, Ira Glass took that show to NPR and they blew him off, and so he took it to PRI." And then I would get conflicting reports about what actually happened. And I was hoping just once and for all, there could be the definitive account of, like, whether you were blown off by NPR, and then angrily, in a huff, took your show to PRI, or what exactly happened.
IG: I'm sorry, I don't talk about that.
(Glass hangs up. Thirty seconds later, he calls back.)
BM: I can't believe you actually hung up.
IG: See, that felt good. I want to do that every interview, now.
BM: It would change your reputation, that's for sure. I just thought it was like a fake clicking noise, but it was actually a real click. I'm blown away.
IG: I guess it sort of takes some of the spice out of it that I called you back.
BM: Yeah, it does ...
November 14, 2005
struggle and progress
If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet depreciate agitation are men who want crops without ploughing up the ground; they want rain without thunder and lightning. They want the ocean without the awful roar of its many waters ... Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.
— Frederick Douglass
What would you fight for?
I am reminded that I am naturally competitive in some areas, such as athletics and driving. That doesn't necessarily mean that I'm good at it, but I am in there wholeheartedly. It's important, dammit! In actual interactions with human beings, however, I'm very fragile, or at least I think I am. Is it reasonable to think I can toughen my skin at this stage in the game?
What's worth fighting for? I think that's the key. In some parts of my life, I feel like I'm not attached to myself, I'm looking down from far away, and I, the I that is so far away, wants things, but feels powerless to change things.
...
It was chilly, overcast, and grey as we got into the truck to go to the Hair of the Dog annual sale. Perfect weather. Couldn't ask for better. As we're driving through the maze of mud and gravel streets that make up that part of the SE Industrial railyards, I am so very excited. We are going to Hair of the Dog! We're only maybe 15 minutes late, and we're already in a motorized line of men trying to figure out where to abandon their trucks.
I see Nita right off. Couldn't be easier. Female, not in a truck. And, of course, there's a cyclist, probably in his fifties, with a bike trailer.
We walk though the industrial garage door into the party. There is a line around the fermentation tanks, everyone talking and laughing, clutching little juice glasses with a smidge (or much less) of Hair of the Dog's wonderful beers. There are a surprising lot of little kids, who are all well-behaved.
We fell in line, got tasters of different ales, met folks, ran into others, bought beer and talked about buying more. I gushed to one of the brewers about how much I loved his beer. And I admit, I was glad to go to breakfast at a dive around the corner, to get some carbs into my system.
Next stop, to one of Sweetie's cow-orkers who home-brews. Home-brewing to me suggests a weekend project, small in scope, one style at a time. D. has a garage that is entirely full of brewing equipment, and a spare fridge with 4 different taps: a hard cider, a pale ale, a porter, and an imperial stout. Tasty and impressive!
Then we head up to Woodstock Wine and Deli for the Celebration vertical tasting. Sheesh, such a lot of beer and it's not even 2 in the afternoon! Sierra Nevada Brewery created the original American winter ale. Now, us westcoasters complain about the rain, but are so excited for all the new and old favorite winter ales. The proprietor had kegs from 2001 forward, hence the vertical aspect. Incredible. I liked the 2003 best—the hopes had mellowed, but it hadn't yet moved towards barleywinedom as earlier years were.
The Sierra Nevada owner/brewer was sitting behind us, and he opened an older bottle and started pouring tasters for his table. I guess we were a bit obvious, because then he poured one for us too. 1993. Incredible. We passed it around, smelling it, sipping it, feeling our eyes roll back into our heads... Sweetie didn't miss a beat. He ran out to the truck and got Mr. Grossman a couple of Doggie Claws that we had bought at the Hair of the Dog sale.
November 10, 2005
that's a heck of a note
My crud continues. But I really felt like I needed to go into work this morning, and I did feel a bit better than yesterday. So I called in late, and went in. The walk to the busstop was very tiring, but the bus ride was long, and so once I got off the bus, I was ready to make the walk to the office. I stopped and got a cup of coffee and the coffeehouse girl asked me how I was and had I been sick in her broken english. So sweet. And then I went up stairs. And was sent back home.
I guess it makes sense. I'm still feverish, 6 days in. So I'm probably still contagious. But I was and am so anxious for human contact. I've spent 300 days, or so it seems, just me and the animals at home, with occasional appearances by Sweetie. He's taken good care of me, for sure.
And I want to accomplish something. Anything.
November 8, 2005
Michael de Jong and his bike promotion
Still feeling crummy. Wondering when I will ever get more exercise than slowly walking up the stairs or across the house to the washroom. So very far away!
Still, I am thinking of movement. Check out this great article from the New York Times: Proselytizer for Pedaling Acts on His Words.
But Mr. de Jong does more than take absurdly long cycling trips across large continents. Since 1995, when he gave up driving after a devastating car accident, he has used his custom-built folding bicycle to get to and from airports in 30 cities around the world, including New Delhi, London, Lagos and Rio de Janeiro. Once he finds the most sensible route, he posts it on the Internet for others to follow. In most cases, he said, biking from the airport to a city center is faster than traveling by car or taking public transportation.
I couldn't find any evidence of his bike routes to airports online. Sheesh.
November 7, 2005
brewin' and chillin'
I was glad to call it a day on Friday. I caught up with Sweetie, had a nice meal, and generally started to let go of the pain of the day.
Saturday was Teach a Friend Home Brewing Day. If you were here in Portland and didn't hear about it, well, no surprise there as there appeared to be zilch for advertising. Sweetie heard about it on the BrewCrew mailing list, and so it was that we were sitting in his truck at 8:20 in front of Steinbart's, with no signs of life anywhere around us.
Twenty minutes later, the first other homebrew enthusiasts arrived, and maybe 15 minutes later, the first of what seemed to be a half-dozen homebrewers who were doing demos.
At that point, it was clear, but chilly. We all laughed about the pouring rain that had been predicted... until it arrived an hour and a half later.
Anyways. We hung out watching several guys extract brewing, one doing an Imperial Red, the other a Classic Bitter. There were also some all grain brew demo as well as mini-mashes, but to be honest, I know so very little about this that I wanted to stick with the starter method. The guy who was making the Red did most of the talking (and I believe is the current BrewCrew president), and he was quite entertaining.
Meanwhile, it was a party atmosphere. Someone was grilling sausages, and there were pretzels and tortilla chips and bean dip and salsa, and people were passing around their homebrews to try. Every single thing we tried was excellent! First, an Oktoberfest, then a Porter, a Belgian Golden...
I was freezing, but I was trying to be a good sport, as I'm interested in this, and Sweetie is super-interested in this. My mind kept returning to the thought that my life would be better if I were wearing more woolens. Layer upon layer of handknits. But once someone complained about being cold, I was all over that. We stopped into Steinbart's (the store) and it was a zoo—everyone and their brother measuring and grinding grains, choosing hops, looking at kits, looking at malt and yeast. So we got out of there quickly.
We hauled our friends to Muddy's for breakfast, and then across the street to the Rebuilding Center, since they hadn't seen it since the new addition was added. My question is: the new addition is open at the top—so aren't they worried about birds? I guess not.
Okay, this is where the story gets really dull. I can't seem to get warm. I laid down for a while, couldn't get warm. So I laid on the couch with the dog and the cats and several of my mom's quilts and tons of layers on, and I still couldn't get warm. Every now and again, I would suddenly be HOT, and I'd have to pile off all my covers and layers and animals, and then immediately, I'd be freezing again.
The whole idea of crossing the room to get a book, or some yarn, or whatever, was way too much for me to even consider. And then Sunday morning, I woke up with an insanely sore neck. Turning my head hurts. The dog inadvertantly biffs me in the nose and I'm in agonizing pain. Etc.
I thought this couldn't get any worse but it actually has. How can my damn neck hurt anymore than it did, really?
Dexter Ave N., in Seattle
Too cool. This is a fundraiser for Bicycle Alliance of Washington which unfortunately has no info on their site about how to legally get a copy of this (BAW: Help me help you! Please!). I found this via Fritz of cyclelicio.us, natch.
November 4, 2005
96 tears
So, another good appointment with the career dude. I learned lots, as usual, though thinking about these things is not always so easy or pleasant. Among other things, the roles I've played in my self-sabotage is painful. And in some of these incidents, I don't know that I can make the corrections to save the situation.
It's easier in a lot of ways to believe I'm a victim, than seeing the ways that I allow problems to happen and continue, and the ways I could change the situation that I find distasteful and difficult. Heaven forfend, my clumsiness could kill the situation. So how is that worse, really, than being in a situation that hurts, fully and totally?
There were positive things that I learned as well. Though the positive isn't making me feel any better.
I liked Jon's comment about his first boss, the mentor. See, once upon a time before there was a lot of water under the bridge, I felt like I was a mentor. I was giving the sort of attention and feedback and room to learn that I had learned best under: scaffolding, if you will. And yet, I wasn't looking at the potential consequences of that. I expected loyalty and gratitude, instead of self-promotion. The former didn't come. I felt as though I was caught in a cage of my own making.
Something about the situation feels familiar. I hate that.
I like respect, but I don't like to toot my own horn. I'm not a self-promoter. I'm all about the team. And yet, what happens when you're in an environment that's all about power and control and recognition? You have to self-promote. It's all about ego here at work. And I didn't see that. Instead, I ended up looking like I was the assistant, and worse yet, not getting to do the fun stuff, the learning stuff.
EDIT: Okay, it's Monday now, and it's really not so black and white, cut and dried. What I guess smarts worst is looking like I'm the assistant. There has been gratitude and loyalty—and also some biting the hand. While I did the best I could, I'm sure I could have handled all of this better. *sigh*
abdicate
Well, I did my homework for the career guy. So hard! I feel like I'm painting myself into a corner. I think about specific expertise, and I think, huh. I can do a bunch of things, but they are all low-level, technical, hands-on things. But the weird thing is that I feel so disconnected. I feel like I'm answering these questions about someone I barely know.
What do I find easy? What articles do I read closely? What is my best accomplishment? What is my reputation? Dear g-d, I live in my skin, but I feel like I might have a better time describing a stranger.
Yesterday, I started thinking about how good I am at keeping people at arms length from me. I am really good at it. Maybe that's my specific expertise! And I really have to work at not doing it. So I become unhappy about my relationships, but hey, it's the way I set them up to work. Hello, self-sabotage! But it appears that I keep myself at arms length as well.
What I don't get is how I can be so enthusiastic about school, and so sure that I'll be capable of learning, and excelling—and how I can feel 180 degrees off from that at work? I don't feel confident or competent. I don't trust that I can do the work.
I find myself in a corner. The roles that I used to have, that I used to play, have been taken on by others. At work, I have a smart and ambitious assistant. I gave her the interesting work because I felt that was what I should do. Now she does all the interesting work, and I have no idea how. I abdicated my power, and it seems, my ability. The same thing has happened at home. I used to be the master of my house and of my kitchen—now my sweetie makes most of the food and all of the coffee, and I feel a bit like an interloper.
November 3, 2005
I am made of soap
I figured out one way of googlemapping yesterday. Since then, I've been obsessed with how to do it with an xml file that holds all the content. Why can't I leave well enough alone? Why must I tweak?
I don't know if there is a connection between this crankiness and the recent lack of exercise, but umm, I am cranky and I do have a lack of exercise. And I have been hungry like a bear! But I did finally go to J & G and order a waterproof rain jacket. What took me so long??
In the last week, I've been taking the bus a lot. A lot of folks slag my busline, but I think it is generally full of entertainment. The other day, I had a great conversation with someone about newcomers coming to Portland, and you can tell they're newcomers by their body language, as well as how the Bush administration seems determined to bankrupt the country. I love those sorts of conversations with strangers that on one level are just small talk, but on another they are a connection, a bridge. That evening, I was surrounded by teenage boys, and I felt paranoid. Yesterday there was a man wearing a matted women's wig; he gave a frightening 30 second butt-wiggle before settling his behind in a seat. (I really didn't need to see that) And this morning, I took the other, white-bread bus, which is never interesting. But I got a lot of knitting done.
If you've been thinking about knitting a robot, it might have a life of its own.
November 2, 2005
my true self, revealed
You might think of me as VJ or Vicki Jean but really, I am Vicious Juggernaut or Vicious Investigator-Crushing Kitten-Injuring Juggernaut from the Enchanted Arcane Necropolis. I didn't know this was the case, but now I do.
Is there something you need to tell me? :)
http://monster.namedecoder.com/
grumble, grumble, grumble.
Since I did the thinking about beer drinking, I've been doing very little of it. And all of it outside the house. In controlled circumstances. And I think by and large, I've been in pretty good spirits.
Today, I feel futile. Is this due to having drunk beer? Or due to my unhappiness with the whole work thing? Or both? Or not having bicycled in days due to this ridiculous deluge of rain?
Anyways. Got my first comment on altportland! And six people are subscribed to the feed. Dude, I am so excited!
Contrast this with my homework for the Career guy. I filled out my interest inventory yesterday, and was kinda overwhelmed by it. It seemed so important. And there were so many things that I'm interested in. Ack. I tried to look at this like you'd look at a topic search: you want to collect the largest initial sample, and then eliminate false leads, but, it still felt strange.
I still have other homework to do for him. I have to come up with some success stories. Success stories?!? I feel so far away from that. And then he sent along a questionnaire which on general principal scares me to my socks.
The terror I feel doing these things resembles the terror that I've felt in applying for other jobs.
I'm straining to come up with some athletic content here. Must.. get... back... into the fray. So in the small chance that you don't read cyclelicio.us, Fritz has posted a couple of interesting things in the last couple days. Like Arlington's campaign to make alternative transit sexier: Rides in the City (which is set up like a blog but doesn't have a newsfeed/RSS/Atom—which means I hate it!). Or what about disclosing the dangers of automobiles like you do with alcohol, tobacco, and M@Donalds coffee?
Oh. Here's a funny. Sunday, when I was down at Run Like Hell, we were standing in line behind a family wearing black cloaks and giant eyeball headthingees. They looked just like the Residents! Now, I recognize that that is not really a pop culture reference, but hey. So I get the attention of the patriarch, who is wearing his giant eyeball headthingee...
VJ: So, are you guys the Residents?
The Residents guy: We're here for a race.
VJ: Yes, so am I. But I was wondering, are you dressed as the Residents?
The Residents guy: No, we're from Washington.
So the pictures along the side here are pics from after the race: the bavarian couple complete with beer steins, the tooth fairies, the devil, the Residents....
November 1, 2005
Coming Home
Yesterday was Katie's Coming Home Celebration, aka, the funeral. It was held in a neighborhood church which I've always been interested in. The modest church was full, absolutely full, of mourners, and there were quite a few I recognized, either from next door, or from the neighborhood.
I managed, remarkably, to keep it together through the scripture, the reflection on Katie's life, the hellfire and brimstone, the invitation (aka, altar call). One woman close by began sobbing, and everyone around her leaned in to comfort her. And I thought that maybe I wouldn't cry.
Ever since my father's funeral, I cry at funerals. Not that I didn't before, but even in going to funerals to support someone else, I find myself sobbing uncontrollably, and people start asking if I'm okay. That, you know, is not the effect I was going for. But the last funeral I went to was for a cow-orker and friend, and I managed to cry about the appropriate amount.
So I was hopeful that I was not going to go down in Katie's friends' and family's minds as the hysterical neighbor girl. And then the minister gave the benediction and opened the casket for a viewing. I was okay until I had to walk by Katie's daughter, so upset, and Katie's husband, so upset, and I was feeling like my heart was just going to break. Katie was lying in her casket, and she looked so serene, so young.
