Sunday.

I cannot wait until Sunday. I love The Lumineers and am so excited to see them play one of my favorite Seattle venues.

I dig their new album, but Dead Sea remains my favorite song. It just gives me all the feels.

Finally.

This.

After 11 long years Jonathan Safran Foer is back with a new novel.

September 6, 2016

On Selfishness.

I’ve been beating the “NO KIDS” drum pretty hard for a while now, but lately I’ve been dating a man who actively wants to be a father and have a family – and for the first time in a long time I’m questioning my motivations toward wanting a childless life. Not necessarily because I want to be the mother of his children, we’ve only been seeing each other a month, but because he’s made some decent arguments about why having children is important – and he’s made them through casual conversation, having no idea how hard and long I’ve been beating said drum.

Up until now, I’ve believed my distaste for motherhood to stem from my ability to be gut-level-honest about how selfish I am and admit how little the idea of taking care of a small person appeals to me. I like my space, privacy, alone time, and freedom to make questionable financial/personal decisions. A little person would effectively obliterate all of those, and I’m worried I would create a new life and fully resent it by the time it was old enough to even talk back. I  know that having a child is a life-long commitment, and while some exhausting aspects of child rearing go away (teething, tantrums, wiping hands, noses, butts) they only give way to the actual hard stuff – the hard stuff that accompanies parenting teenagers, and eventually parenting adults. I’m not so unaware that I think the first three years are the hardest years of parenting. It’s the whole system that makes me nervous.

But talking to him recently has illuminated something about my fear/distaste of motherhood that I had not realized. It’s not that I’m just so loathe to endure the hardships of parenting, it’s that somewhere along the way I started thinking that I’d be facing all the challenges alone. 

Where the hell did that idea come from? 

Maybe it started when I was a child. Until I was ten, my dad was in the Army and did a significant amount of travel. No one would ever look at our family during that time and have the audacity to call my mom a single parent (and even if that’s how they saw it, she was a homemaker, not out in the workforce in a way that would merit a label of “single mother” like we consider it by today’s standard), but my mother had to do plenty of parenting without help when my dad wasn’t around. So maybe that’s when it started.

Or maybe it’s been watching my best friend in Seattle navigate the challenges of actual single motherhood. While she is now in a relationship and has a partner to raise her daughter with, that wasn’t always the case, and she is beautifully honest in telling folks like it is and not sweeping the challenges of parenting under the rug. So maybe that’s it.

Or, maybe it’s because of this: a number of the men I’ve dated are educated, urban, attempting to be upwardly mobile, and unbelievably selfish. Even more selfish than me, and not an iota as self aware. They were unable to give me, a full grown woman who loved them, the care a partner requires, so how on earth would I think they could provide a child, a being needing infinitely more than me, the proper treatment?

As is inherent to my gender, when I’ve failed to receive what I need from a partner, I’ve made do without or found it within myself or friends… or haven’t been able to find it and suffered. I now believe that this pattern of being disappointed by significant others’ ability to provide adequate love and emotional support has lead me to assume that were I to enter into the journey of child rearing, I would be doing so with the responsibility of providing enough care and support to cover for both of us. There are times I’m so bone tired from just holding myself together that I know, I know, I would fail if I were also to be responsible for one more chore, let alone the physical, emotional, spiritual upkeep of a child. I hate failing myself, and I just don’t think I could take failing a kid.

But what if I didn’t have to do it all alone? What if the weight of providing emotionally/physically/financially for both myself and a little person did not solely rest on my shoulders? What if I had an actual partner and a relationship where we had such an excess of love and support for one another that we could share it with a child?

When I take a step back and look at what I’ve just said I can do nothing but shake my head. How is the revelation of sharing and mutual care such a big one for me?

Because I think I might have been doing it wrong. All of it. My romantic relationships in general and specific. That’s why. And I realize that this issue of having children touches far more of my relationships than it would seem on the surface.

I’ve been consistently searching out men who either 1) don’t want a family or 2) are really unenthusiastic about the idea. I did so out of the belief that I needed to find someone just like me, with my current attitude toward families. The surest sign of crazy is repeating the same action over and over and expecting different results, and maybe my process is off. If I continue to search out men who actively don’t want children, who never want the responsibility of emotionally caring and supporting another life, why am I surprised when they continually fail to provide care and encouragement for me? Aren’t they being honest about their priorities (namely, themselves) right up front when saying they don’t want kids? And am I subconsciously stoking and honing my own selfishness by not wanting children, thereby becoming a person unable to give adequate love as well? Instead of patting myself on the back for being so in-touch with how selfish I am, I should probably look at it for what it is. A quality that is hardly a quality. It is a cruel weakness. A weakness I hate in others, so why would I tolerate it in myself?

Sigh. The older I get the less I know.

While I don’t necessarily know if this realization has fully changed my thoughts on having children, it’s at least started a conversation I’m interested in having with myself – and anyone else that would care to talk it out.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shame on you, Oklahoma.

For the last few months, logging on to facebook has been nothing but an exercise in patience and trying to prevent my eyes from getting stuck due to all the rolling.

I am a politically minded person. I care about politics and will discuss them in organically occurring situations. I will not, however, take to the airwaves of social media and blast every meandering thought that crosses my mind about the (il)legitimacy of one candidate or another. Because what’s the point? Whose mind has ever been changed by one particularly hard hitting meme created only to irk the people with a differing opinion?  Facebook has always been a breeding ground for stupidity and petty banter, but it’s reaching new lows these days as are the people on it. From both camps. I’ve pretty well cleansed my friends list of people who hold ideologies I find ignorant and cruel so I actually miss most of the conservative, right wing propaganda – but if it’s anything like the verbal and visual diarrhea coming from the Left (and I have to assume it’s worse given the views they’re starting with) I might have to give up facebook entirely until the election is over.

That being said, for the time being I still log in every day and my fb feed is where I get the majority of my news. I follow CNN, Al-Jazeera, the Daily Show, John Oliver, and Fox News (in the spirit of keeping one eye on the enemy, ya know) and some of the non-election news I’m reading is infinitely more alarming than the fact Hillary only leads Trump by 3 points.

Case in point: Oklahoma. The most dangerous state to be a woman in right now. Last Thursday, Oklahoma lawmakers voted 33-12 to ban abortion in their state as well as make it a felony for doctors to perform one.  

Whether it is through being harassed and objectified on the street, paid and recognized less for doing equal (if not more) work, or being blamed for our own sexual assaults, women are consistently treated as humans less worthy of respect than men all over our country. Roe v. Wade was one of the first true victories in giving women the legal power we deserve over our bodies and futures and it is fully protected by the Constitution – a document that the people who push for bills like this usually claim to revere. It blows my mind how lawmakers in this state fail to realize the hypocrisy of screaming about their almighty Second Amendment Rights (the fruits of which actually result in the deaths of children,) yet blatantly pass a bill that violates the Fourteenth. I don’t care how you feel about abortion, it is legal  and this is a clear cut case of attempting to violate women’s constitutional rights.   

Thankfully, Governor Mary Fallin vetoed the bill, although lord knows if the veto will stick or if she will have the same good sense to veto a more articulately worded proposal – given it was the lack of the bill’s clarity, not its assault on women’s rights, that prompted the veto.

Regardless of the outcome of this first attempt, Republican lawmakers in Oklahoma have stated they will not be deterred by vetoes, and women can expect to see more bills of this nature until their Christian agenda is legally enforced. (As a quick aside, how many of these same Christian lawmakers would lose their damn minds if Muslim lawmakers tried to get a faith based bill passed? Every. Single. One. The hypocrisy is infuriating.)

As a silver lining, at least they’re giving the women of Oklahoma fair warning, I suppose? It’s not common in nature to find predators who alert their prey beforehand, so at least there’s that.

To end on a happier note, Obama did a kick ass thing that didn’t get nearly the attention it deserved. For all the haters out there that complain about his fiscal irresponsibility, I would like to point out that he just saved Americans 10 million dollars annually on cutting  worthless abstinence only sex education programs that have proven ineffectual since their inception 25 years ago. (Well, a net savings of 6 million, in that 4 million is being allocated towards actual sex education programs which inform students about birth control as well as abstinence and have been proven to work.) Watching President Obama navigate his last year with a give-no-fucks attitude has been amazing, and I’m glad he’s still got eight months left.

As it stands.

As previously mentioned, a lot has happened in the five years since I blogged regularly. While I will take time to reflect and break down the most significant changes in future posts, for now I will offer a snapshot into what my life looks like now.

It should be noted that this is more for myself than anyone else. I am neck deep in the last 3 weeks of school and pre-graduation stress. I’ve got 97 balls in the air and just as many unchecked boxes, so taking a moment to take stock of what I do know about myself and my life is probably worth the half hour it’ll take for my third cup of coffee to kickstart my brain so I can spend the next 8 hours doing homework.

As it stands, I am 31 and trying very hard to adult. I live alone in a comfortably decorated studio apartment in Queen Anne and want nothing more than to get to a place in my life where I can justify getting a dog. Seeing as I can’t keep an air plant alive and consistently pay my bills 2 weeks late… it might be a while.

I drink too much coffee and spend too much money on yoga pants. I eat a lot of kale and greek yogurt and listen to podcasts on my way to spin classes and sometimes wonder if I could be any more white. I like Taylor Swift and want nothing more than to call my friends “my squad” without feeling ridiculous.

Speaking of my squad, I am regularly overwhelmed by how much I love my friends. My ladies are intelligent, strong, fiercely sexy and caring, and my boys are smart, hilarious, kind, and handsome. When I think of the support they offered me (last year in particular) as I dealt with overwork, heartbreak, and rediscovering myself, I am overcome with such profound gratitude that the trials I suffered almost seemed worth it, if only to discover how loved I am by such amazing people.

Relationship wise I am back out in the world of singletons, which is exhausting. If there is any exercise more tedious, stressful, and heartburn inducing than navigating the modern dating world, I’ve yet to stumble across it. That being said, I’ve recently started seeing someone pretty dreamy, so while the jury is still out, for now at least there’s a slight reprieve.

I am graduating from UW in three weeks with my B.A. in Integrated Social Sciences and can’t wait to finally be done. First, I am going to sleep for three days straight. Second, I am going to party so hard with my friends that I might have to sleep another three days before I can be a person. Third, I will wake up, put on my big girl pants, and begin the process of trying to exit the service industry and change the world. Or at least my community. A little. Hopefully.

So there it is. My life as it stands now. If I can manage to hold on for a few more weeks, then things should start to get interesting. We’ll see.

Um. Where was I? 2013?

Although I did not remember writing it until I logged in tonight, three years ago I had returned to this blog with the full intention of taking it back up. Below is the post I wrote to try and fill in the gaps two years had created.

So little, yet so very much, has changed even since that post (let alone since 2011.) I will write a subsequent post to follow this one that will fill in the gap between then and now, but for now here’s a snapshot of my life the last time I believed I should take up blogging again. (Minor editorial notes from present day have been added..)

Date: sometime in the autumn of 2013? October, I’m guessing.

So, it’s been a minute.

Or two years.

Whatever.

Times goes by way too fast, and it seems to be speeding up with every season. I had my 29th birthday two weeks ago and when someone asked me how old I was turning, I replied, “Twenty-eight!” without missing a beat. It took me five minutes to remember I’d been 28 for a whole 368 days and not registered a moment of it. (Conversely, I’m now in a place where I believe myself to be 32 although that birthday is still four months in the future.) 

Quite a few things have happened since August of 2011 but I’ll try not to labor too many of them.

Burning Man was incredible and life changing. I love/hated every moment of it. I’ll probably never go again, although I desperately want to.

On January 1st, 2012 I ended a relationship with a really wonderful person whom I still dearly miss. (Holds true, four years later.) In March of 2012 I began dating an equally wonderful and profoundly different person whom I can’t imagine my life without. We’re still together and I’m relearning what it means to be with the same person every day for more than my previous practice of 3 nights – 6 months. It’s an adventure, but so far, a grand one. I revel in us learning more about each other and ourselves, and enjoy a love that seems to get stronger, not weaker, through the growing understanding of our respective faults and differences. We. are. lucky. (Jesus, hindsight is a helluva thing. Looking back, I was mistaken. We were not lucky. I was simply unaware of what long term love looks like and that what we had was profoundly lacking. That was a tough lesson which finally came to a close in May 2015.)  

Unfortunately, I’m still in the challenging, mind numbing industry of serving people alcohol and pretending I’m doing them a service. It is not so slowly killing what’s left of my Christ-ridden soul. At the moment I’m in the throes of making a major life decision about what I’m going to spend the next four years throwing all my spare time and non-existent educational funds into with the hopes of getting to a place where I never serve another cocktail again. (What I ultimately decided upon will serve as the bulk of a future post.) I thought I’d be doing a lot of things by the time I was 30 – but working in a bar was never one of them. Even a nationally acclaimed bar. It’s not that it’s not a great job, place to work, or good career –  It is. It takes hard work, long hours, and dedication to get to where we’ve gotten, but it doesn’t bring me the joy I want in a job. At the end of the day I still come home, more times than not, exhausted to the bone, covered in alcohol, and wanting to drink til I fall asleep. This is my life because I’ve chosen it. I’ve no one to blame but myself. It’s taken me these 11 years to learn that saying, “I haven’t made a career decision” was, in fact, making a career decision. (Un)fortunately I know that the service industry is not a choice I can make for another 11 years.

However, my work, albeit stressful, has provided me with the means to live in a lovely, ideally situated Seattle apartment and coming home is a true joy. (Still in the same space. Still love it.) No crazy homeless dudes on my doorstep. No loud neighbors. Just 500 square feet of beautiful wood floors, dark wood molding, and a place to call my own. Quite a change from my downtown digs that were the settings from my previous posts.

But the hardest, although most enlightening event of the past couple years occurred on March 8 of this year. While locking up a job in Madrona, I tripped down the stairs and broke my ankle. Profoundly broke it. I fractured my Calcaneus, chipped it in two places, and tore 3 ligaments. Thankfully no surgery was needed, but since I work on my feet and wasn’t able to take any time off, I was stuck in a walking cast until the beginning of October and still need to wear a hefty ankle brace for the pain that has become a regular part of my day. For months I was unable to wear regular shoes, work a 3 hour (let alone 10 hour) shift without excruciating pain, sleep a full night, or exercise like normal. Even with my incredibly supportive co-workers and boyfriend, I was constantly fighting the encompassing shadow of depression that latched to me every morning I strapped on that god-forsaken boot. As anyone that has suffered from depression knows that when I say “fight,” I mean it. Trying to be thankful and happy for my life and body when a part of it is causing extreme duress takes determination. Being asked “What happened to your foot?” a million times a day by curious patrons who don’t really give a shit, and then having to laugh with them at my own clumsiness an infinite number of times to show my good nature and humor like a trained dog didn’t make it any easier either.

But as with most hard things in a person’s life, it passed. I don’t inherently believe that “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger,” but I know that it did in this case.

The memories of the boot are quickly fading, but my appreciation for waking up with less pain (some days no pain at all,) putting on two matching shoes (flats for at least a year,) and sleeping through the night has not. I have a new found acceptance and respect for my body I did not have before, as well as an honest compassion for people I see or meet with permanent physical limitations. I have an unprecedented motivation to work out simply because I can, and love the difference it makes physically, emotionally, and mentally. I can’t say I’d have found the motivation to better the body I’d been given without part of it being taken away from me for a while first. Pretty soon I’ll be able to hike and do yoga again and maybe, just maybe, start running again by Christmas.(This, sadly, did not happen. My ankle, though healed completely now, took well into 2014 to completely heal.) 

Anyways.

Two years (or five) flies by. Too quickly. But I’m back to blogging for the time being…

Cheers!

Burning Man update

I’m going!

I count one of my biggest shortcomings as a person to be my ability to talk myself out of doing something I really need to do, and I am so thankful that this year I was surrounded by friends that kept encouraging and helping me in my plans to burn. Putting a check in this box on my Life To Do list makes other big trips I want to do not seem so out of my grasp.  

As if my life hadn’t already been filled with happiness lately, I thought I’d explode when my Rites of Passage ticket arrived in the mail.

I can honestly say, I can’t remember any event in my adult life that I have ever looked forward to more. My joy at being able to go was made even greater by my dear friend Rex deciding on a whim to buy a ticket and burn with me. Rex and I were both raised in conservative religious households, and while her escape from faith is far more recent than mine, we share the kind of wound that I believe the playa will do wonders for. For me, religion was the denial of all my own desires in the hopes my blind commitment to rule following would win me some mercy for having commited the filthy crime of being born in sin. Burning Man, and it’s message of radical self reliance and love for the beauty humans are and can create, is one more way to celebrate breaking free from the chains of self loathing and denial I lived with for so long. To be able to share this with her will make it even sweeter.

We’re in the frantic stage of getting last minute things together now, (anyone have an extra bike they’d allow to be playa-fied? 🙂 ) and its been wonderful how many of our friends have offered supplies to make our trip less costly and more comfy.

The next three weeks of my life are going to be consumed with work so that I’m not dead broke when I get home – but the extra shifts and ridiculous hours seem far less daunting since I know what they’re leading up to, and their monotony is being broken by all the fun of preparation and random burner events happening this month. 

Thanks for all the encouraging messages and comments on my previous post 🙂  Seeya on the playa!

 

 

Annnnd, we’re back.

So, it’s been awhile.

Since February my life has been consumed with trying to balance three jobs, a social life, a love life, and my sanity. It’s been…real.

Finally, after six months of overwork, I’ve locked down my schedule between the bars so that I have two set consecutive days off each week. I barely know what to do with myself. During those months of two (occasionally 3) weeks on for each one day off, I tried to remind myself how blessed I was to be drowning in work while so many in the country are pounding the pavement for months on end searching for employment. It didn’t always make it easier, but sometimes it helped to take the edge off… well, that, and a  questionable amount of Jameson. (Sorry, body. I promise I’ll start taking better care of you now.)

Working that much would have been more than enough to keep me overtired, but work on top of trying to fit friends and dating into the mix just about did me in – and more than that, left zero time for the writing that I usually depend on to keep me grounded.

But it’s all paid off and I finally have time and desire to write and blog again. I’m professionally in the place I want to be, and after a hearty round of first dates and one short unsuccessful attempt at something monogamous (god, you’d think I’d know myself better than that by now!) am currently in a lovely state of exhaustion from the happiness of living in the moment and dating someone stellar.

I’m back with stories to tell. Check back soon.

Navigation

Nothing put fear of addiction in me quite like Requiem for a Dream, directed by Darren Aronofsky.

I was 22 the first time I saw it, and the soundtrack and imagery haunted me for weeks. I had heard plenty of stories about how an addiction to heroin or meth had the power to snuff out the former football star, or ravage a innocent adolescent, but actually watching the destruction of a life for two hours chilled me.

I walked away from the film singing its praises and declaring that if I ever had teenagers that showed the slightest penchant for bad decision making, Requiem would be the first thing I would show them as a reality check.

While checking out Huffington Post this morning, I stumbled across this article about the battle against meth in Colorado, and the controversial PSA commercials directed by none other than Mr. Darren Aronofsky.

After living downtown and walking through Pioneer Square daily, looking addicts in the face, seeing their gnawed at fingers, cracking lips, and open sores – blood drying black against swallow skin  – no PSA, however graphic or “controversial”, could keep me from supporting a campaign to scare people about this drug.

Check it out:

Boyfriend.

Sigh. 2.

To the transient population of downtown Seattle: A Ramble.

 I’ve lived down here amongst you for 62 days now. Sixty-two days of waking up, getting ready, walking out the front door to walk to work and finding you there. Always there. Either five steps, or two blocks, or an arm’s length away.

 Sometimes, mercifully, you’re silent. A poorly written scrawl for help on a piece of lonely cardboard. A paper cup, still empty in the chill morning air – not even a few desperate pennies chiming together “Look! I’m here!”

 Usually, I’m not so lucky. Being a firm believer in your humanity, there’s a part of me that cannot bring myself to ignore you – even though I must, for reasons of my own finances, deny all but the most pitiful of your pleas. For as much as I wish I was part of the masses that can pass you every day without a glance in your direction, or even the most simple acknowledgement of your presence – I can’t.

But, please, you’ve got to stop pulling shit like tonight. You are, literally, ruining me…

I had never seen him before.

After two months of walking the same route home from closing the bar, I thought I had a pretty good handle on the doorways to avoid and the blocks on which to keep my head down and pace brisk.

Unlike most people – especially in his condition – he risked the populated doorway and food vendor in front of the Showbox at the Market, materializing out of the crowd and standing in front of me, blocking my path.

My height, perhaps a bit taller, the mucus dripping out of his flared nostrils, attatching itself to the flakes of skin on his chapped upper lip was at my eye level. The stench of decay and neglect overpowered me and I started to shake my head in a preemptive answer to the petition that was stumbling out of a slack jawed mouth.

 “Miss. Msss. You gonna to the hotdog stann? Imasohungry. I ain’t eat alllllday. You look like a barbiedoll. Imasohungry.”

 He was reaching out with his right hand, his left crippled in some way, tucked up in a fist by his ear.

 He had the hands of need. Filthy. Unclipped. Cracked. Twitchy – already fingering the money or drugs he longed for.

 I opened my mouth to say no. There are people here. He won’t hurt me . But as I made noises of protest and tried to walk around him he shuffled with me, keeping pace.

“Please. Help me.” Not a trace of a slur.

I stopped and looked at him – the tears running down his face churning my revulsion into pity, and my trembling hand met his as I pushed money into it.

 I heard clucks of disapproval from two twenty something dudes in Northface jackets to my right.

“THANK YOU! AW THANK YOU! Ima gunna HUG you, miss pretty!” and he lurched forward, arms reaching back to sling around my shoulders.

“Please.No.”  I breathed and ducked beneath his swinging arms like I was dodging a left hook.

I barely made the corner before I was silently cursing myself, him, and the whole goddamned city as I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted salt.

It’s warm night, but I was shaking violently as I fumbled for the keys in my pocket and stepped into my building – a building blissfully secured against the ugliness of want and addiction right outside.

Had I known moving down here would take me from a person who appreciated and fostered my empathetic side and turn me into a person desperately wishing to be one of the thousands of situationally blind who refuse to see the transient population every day, I never would have taken up residence this close to the epicenter of need in Seattle. Just 62 days in, but this is the fourth time I’ve come home in this state and I’m not sure what it’s going to take to make it 303 more.

I crave balance, and I’m figuring it out the hard way (seemingly the only way I figure things out these days) that I’m not going to find it on downtown streets between the high rises of the Haves and the dank alleys of the Have Nots.

One thing you, Mr. tragedy in a homeless man suit, you,  helped me figure out tonight if nothing else though – my stubborn resolve to walk home is fucking ludicrous, and officially on vacation til the sun starts setting later than 9pm.

Sigh. Cab, please.

Sigh.

Seriously.

How have I made it this long without a proper introduction to this band?

LOVE.

Blood Orange

We inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly on the balcony, chatting about his summer of farming and my nights of abandon in Portland. We pondered over people’s desire to control their partner’s lives, and how ludicrous it is they believe that’s what love looks like.

Our stomachs full of french toast with honey, and our blood humming quietly beneath our skin, we set out to enjoy the gift of a Seattle sky absent of clouds.

The Market was our first destination after a brief interlude at a smoke shop for his filters. The cobble stone streets and weathered booths were the most deserted I’d ever seen them.

“That fennel looks amazing,” he said as we passed a vegetable stand, and I smiled that my friend was familiar enough with herbs to appreciate the fragrant bulb I’d barely noticed.

“Mmm..” was all I could manage as my eyes had been caught by the tragic display of shiny fish who’d been swimming in the ocean just a few days prior but now had officially become  “seafood” in the booth in front of me.  A booth that suddenly ushered forth a scruffy looking man, a few years (or perhaps just one year, lived harshly) older than us asking if he could help us with anything.

Suddenly shy, I looked down at my toes hidden in scuffed boots and murmured, “No thank you.”

We kept walking, slowly, without purpose and with only one or two sentences necessary between us to bridge the silence. I didn’t even notice he was no longer beside me until I turned to point out some tulips, the first virgin buds of the season, and he was gone. I felt no sense of alarm, as if his being gone was just a different shade of his presence, and started walking back in the direction from which we’d come.

My attention was grabbed by the bushels of fragrant lavender and when I lifted my face from the feathery stalks he was standing at my side once more, this time with a palm sized fruit of the citrus variety.

“It’s a blood orange,” he informed my furrowed brow.

We continued out of the market back into the sun. Our eyes refocused with soft clicks and we turned towards the twinkling brilliance of the Sound to the west.

Still riding the calm of our smoke on the balcony, we edged towards the cold concrete wall that keeps  tourists and transients from tipping forward and falling down down down onto the viaduct.

His fingers, rough from planting and the type that will never seem spotless even with years of washing, tore through the rind  and hit the soft flesh nestled beneath.

Although carefully done, the ripping and pulling of the dimpled orange skin seemed indecent when surrounded by the peace expanding before us over the water.

Crystal blue in it’s reflection of the midweek sky,  the view was deliciously cold and glassy. The mountains to the north were snow capped and just kissing the clouds out of reach of their peaks.

I entwined my bare fingers into the knit of my scarf, and turned away from him to stare at the scene.

“Wearesolucky”, I breathed.

“Yeah.”

We faced each other as he bit into the orange. I looked down at the bald fruit in his hand. What had appeared so innocent and plain on the outside harbored an interior so lovely and graphic in its sunset hues of crimson, salmony pink, and marigold I thought it a shame to eat it.

But like all beautiful things, I couldn’t have it that close without a taste. Shame or not.

Love Day

I like to gripe about how Valentine’s is a fabricated holiday, created just to remind singletons of our singleness, couples of their coupley-ness, give habitually thoughtless signficant others a 24 hour window in which to redeem themselves and show they do indeed appreciate and love their partner, and sell lots and lots of cheesy cards and chocolate.

But..

I actually really like February 14th, no matter what form of relationship I’m currently in (or not.) I like the idea of having a day set aside to celebrate how fantastic love is, and I enjoy letting my guard down for a minute to acknowledge, without girlish apology, that I love love.  

It’s amazing and wonderful and scary and soul-crushing – but when you’re in it there’s nothing in the world that can touch the depths of feeling another human can create inside you. Love can take the most timid of people and inspire them to accomplish things above and beyond what anyone, even themselves, believe they are capable of. Love, or the losing of it, can level people once believed invincible.

Even in my own life, the waves of hurt or hatred I’ve felt have not transformed me in the way the relatively simple act of attaining and losing a lover has. Truly loving someone for the first time (…not the “we’ve been dating three months and just haven’t figured out each other’s flaws yet since we’re too busy having sex and telling funny childhood stories and painful adolescent memories” type of infatuation, but actual l.o.v.e.) completely altered the way I look at the world and how I’ve proceeded in every relationship since.

After feeling the heights, depths, and absolute mania that love can produce somewhere between my ears and bouncing helter skelter around my ribcage, I simply don’t see the point in engaging in long term relationships that are never going to elicit those same feelings again. I’ve been told that I’m “incredibly cold,” because of this, and that I’m just “not giving us a chance,” but I know myself well and simply can’t see the point in wasting our time if I know my emotions for a person will be less than I know I’m capable of.     

Anyways, I digress.

Valentine’s Day.

On this, my 26th Valentine’s Day, I’m feeling particularly content since although I’m single, I’m happily dating and not at the point with someone at which cards/plans/expensive dinners, underwear, or presents are expected or even vaguely appropriate, so there’s zero stress. I’ve spent the majority of the day by myself writing and reading, which I desperately needed and enjoyed, and tonight is one of my lovely friend’s birthdays so my evening will not be spent alone with a bottle but out with people enjoying drinks and dancing. All in all – a Hallmark holiday well spent.  

 And for no better reason than I dearly adore both of these things –

One of my favorite Avett Brothers love songs:

Swept Away (forgive the hokey pictures)

and quotes by J.S. Foer:

“From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be mistaken for light–a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey through the darkness to the astronaut’s eyes.

In about one and a half centuries–after the lovers who made the glow will have long been laid permanently on their backs–metropolises will be seen from space. They will glow all year. Smaller cities will also be seen, but with great difficulty. Shtetls will be virtually impossible to spot. Individual couples, invisible.

The glow is born from the sum of thousands of loves: newlyweds and teenagers who spark like lighters out of butane, pairs of men who burn fast and bright, pairs of women who illuminate for hours with soft multiple glows, orgies like rock and flint toys sold at festivals, couples trying unsuccessfully to have children who burn their frustrated image on the continent like the bloom a bright light leaves on the eye after you turn away from it.

Some nights, some places are a little brighter. It’s difficult to stare at New York City on Valentine’s Day, or Dublin on St. Patrick’s. The old walled city of Jerusalem lights up like a candle on each of Chanukah’s eight nights…We’re here, the glow…will say in one and a half centuries. We’re here, and we’re alive.”

 Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all.

Swoon.

I just placed my order for Jonathan Safran Foer’s latest piece of art: Tree of Codes.

There is a wait for it everywhere, but if B& N are right, I should be receiving it by March 1st.

Never in my life have I been so excited for a book – and although this work is an “original,” it’s not even his own words.

I can barely wait.

In search of…on second thought…

I have quite a few triggers.

Words, phrases, and situations that transform me from a basically pleasant even keeled lady- Jekyll into a raging, soap box pounding, yelling and fuming Hyde.  

I’ve covered some of these topics in past rants, but for as often as the following gets to me, I’ve written precious little about it:

” Oh my god, I loved high school! It was the best time of my life! How did you not just love it?!”

 Well, let’s see…I went to a school that taught us the South should have won the war, women shouldn’t have gotten the vote, parents who sent their kids to public school didn’t love them enough to teach them properly, women shouldn’t be in government, the Vietnam War was too “emotionally taxing” to teach a class full of girls about, “fags” should still be burned in the town square, and premarital sex was an expellable offense.

There were plenty of students who loved Logos. My best friend and I were not among them. We did everything in our power to distance ourselves from the insanity surrounding us – the judgmental and close minded worldview spoon-fed to students so young most could no longer taste the poison.

We were treated as dissenters. Deviants. Malcontents. Accused of sleeping around, doing drugs, and the other sins our public school friends “undoubtedly” lured us into.

I cried a lot in high school. Tears of anger more than tears of hurt, but the ones I remember most clearly and still make my face burn are the ones that fell while begging my parents to let me leave and attend Moscow High. It’s an injustice that still stings almost eight years later.

My senior year was slightly more tolerable since I only had to be there four periods a day, but my friend and I’s countdown to graduation was fevered at best and upon leaving the gym after the graduation reception my vow to never set foot in there again has not been broken.

For reasons I won’t mention here, I stayed and lived in town for almost four years after graduation. Moscow is a ridiculously small town made even smaller by attending Christ Church, a huge church community that infests a decent portion of it. Luckily, I was able to slip through the cracks enough after a few years to live reasonably unbothered…except, of course, by Logos.

Although I never responded to their requests for my current address, I always ended up with a quarterly Scholastrix and Knight’s Page (student newspaper) and requests/ invitations from the Alumni Association wanting my money or time – neither of which would I have supplied were it a lone dollar or minute needed to keep the place afloat.

 Miraculously after my move to Portland Logos ceased to follow me after the first six months. Knight’s Pages stopped arriving first, then slowly the other shredder fodder petered out as well. Whether they finally got the hint I was uninterested after five years, or my second apartment’s address just didn’t stick in their records, I was off their grid.

Every so often my best friend, who is still on their mailing list somehow, will pass along a particularly inflammatory copy of Knight’s Page or Scholastrix bearing evidence of some new disgusting worldview of the superintendent (i.e. the work of Planned Parenthood is comparable to the Third Reich/Holocaust.) Yesterday, I came home and she had a piece of mail with the Logos emblem on it. Hoo boy, I thought. What’s it going to be this time?

This time, it was Logos Knights’ Alumni Directory 2010-2011.

A smallish booklet made of cream colored card stock and emblazoned with our school mascot opens to a directory of every student who has graduated since the school began.

Every year, the secretary sends out paperwork asking for alum’s information (spouse/children’s names, address, phone number, email, and any extra tidbits of information they’d like to share, for example:

A., Mark & Katy  (’98)                                                 

XXXX Generic Ave,                                                  

 Generic small town, WA                                       

206-555-9028



Abel born 2/17/03, Wesley born 5/20/05, Simon born 1/31/07, Naomi born 8/2/08.  Katy loves being a stay at home mommy and is homeschooling the children through classical conversations.

I remember that in the past when the secretary couldn’t find current addresses etc on students, a short note asking for any info on said students would be asked for along with that year’s directory. As far as I know, no inquiry was ever made about obtaining my information, and as far as I knew, they didn’t care… and I was fine with that. There are precious few people from school that I actually wish to remain in contact with – and they can find me on facebook where I actually have the choice of whether or not I want to communicate with them.

 I flipped a few pages forward.

E’s…F’s….G’s…

And there I was.

Or, wasn’t:

Esther G (’03)

No address. No email. No husband, or kids, or smarmy tidbits about all my blessings (of which there could be many…i.e. Esther is so thankful for the innumerable blessings her choices have wrought – most coming in the form of friends who’ve lead her along a path of self discovery outside the confines of Jesus Christ, and emboldened her to live a life of  making mistakes and learning from them…OR…Esther is blessed to be enjoying her life in the city without the limitations of children thanks to the amazing work of Planned Parenthood’s subsidized birth control program.)   

But, there was none of the above and there never will be – at least to be found between two pages of Knight emblazoned cream cardstock.

And that, children, is what I call victory.

Sweet, sweet victory.

Seriously, folks. This has got to stop.

Besides the obvious and radically discriminating nature of this bill, what the HELL has happened to the separation of church and state?! Are these assholes not even trying to fake playing by “the rules” anymore?

Sickening.

I’ll take one, please.

If I could get a guarantee my children would be as adorable as this little girl, I’d have seven.

When you ask me what I’m looking for…

I devoured the entire novel, but this passage just about undid me.

I adore Jonathan Safran Foer.

From Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close: (The narrator is a nine year old boy named Oskar. He and his friend Mr. Black are visiting Georgia Black – no relation to Mr. Black – for the first time to ask about a key Oskar found.)

     Georgia Black, in Staten Island, had turned her living room into a museum of her husband’s life. She had pictures of him from when he was a kid, and his first pair of shoes, and his old report cards, which weren’t as good as mine, but anyway. ” Y’all’re the first visitors in more than a year,” she said, and she showed us a neat gold medal in a velvet box. ” He was a naval officer, and I loved being a naval wife. Every few years we’d have to travel to some exotic place. I never did get a chance to put down many roots, but it was thrilling. We spent two years in the Philippines. ”  ” Cool, “  I said, and Mr. Black started singing a song in some weird language, which I guess was Philippinish. She showed us her wedding album, one picture at a time, and said, ” Wasn’t I slim and beautiful? ” I told her her, ” You were, ”  Mr. Black said, “And you are.”  She said, ” Aren’t you two the sweetest?”  I said, ” Yeah.”

     “This is the three-wood that he hit his hole in one with. He was real proud of that. For weeks it was all I’d hear about. That’s the airplane ticket from our trip to Maui, Hawaii. I’m not too vain to tell you it was our thirtieth anniversary. Thirty years. We were going to renew our vows. Just like in a romance novel. His carry-on bag was filled with flowers, bless his heart. He wanted to surprise me with them on the plane, but I was looking at the x-ray screen as his bag went through, and don’t you know there was a dark black bouquet. It was like the shadows of flowers. What a lucky girl I am.” She used a cloth to wipe away our fingerprints.

     I started to get heavy boots, for obvious reasons, like where were all of her things? Where were her shoes and her diploma? Where were the shadows of her flowers? I made a decision that I wouldn’t ask her about the key, because I wanted her to believe that we had come to see her museum, and I think Mr. Black had the same idea…..”These are his baby shoes.”

     “Hello, everyone,”  a man said from the door. He was holding two mugs, which steam was coming out of, and his hair was wet. ” Oh, you’re awake!”  Georgia said, taking the mug that said “Georgia,” on it. She gave him a big kiss, and I was like, What in the what the?     ” Here he is,” she said. ” Here who is? ” Mr. Black asked. ” My husband,” she said, almost like he was another exhibit in his life.  The four of us just stood there smiling at one another, and then the man said, ” Well, I suppose you’d like to see my museum now.”  I told him, “We just did. It was really great.” He said,  “No, Oskar, that’s her museum. Mine’s in the other room.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Where I Came From.

It is a curious sensation to feel every ounce of blood in my body pulse from my head to my toes. To feel it pulse in my fingers, back to my chest, up to my head. The phrase, “seeing red” becomes literal, and every thought except suffering the rush ceases instantly.

Nothing, not even love, makes me feel more alive than the pure, uncontrolled, excruciating emotion of hatred.

This article by Doug Wilson made me feel more alive than anything has for a very, very, long time.

I grew up in this man’s church. He taught a Bible study at my house. I was subjected to his teachings for almost eight years. Because I’ve escaped from the mind-numbing confines of Christianity, I can no longer wish Hell on this man. I can only hope the hatred, intolerance, and disgusting ignorance he’s preached as truth for so many years will return to him in more painful ways than I can imagine.

Love for Words

“Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.” – Jonathan Safran Foer

The extent to which I love this author is beginning to concern me.

Last night I had a dream that we met, fell in love, and wrote books together.

It is the first dream I can remember in years that left me teary-eyed upon waking up and finding it wasn’t true.

Simple Pleasures.

Overheard~

Q: So…are you religious then?

A: Um. No. Only sheep need a shepherd.

Moves. (1)

What am I doing?

She angled the rear view mirror down to stare into the widest most naive eyes she’d ever seen.

Clawing through her purse she grabbed her lip gloss and shakily applied one last swipe. She exhaled softly and fumbled with the door handle, stepping out into the street.

The night was luke warm, four degrees shy of balmy. A slight breeze caught a wisp of hair and planted it stickily in her freshly tinted pink lips.

She spluttered, running a hand through off-blonde hair, her fingers making it almost to the tips before catching in an over-sprayed curl half way down her shoulder blades.

Good god, you’re a wreck. Pull it together. Stand up straight. Suck in  your stomach. Adjust your bra. Get a mint for Christsakes, you haven’t even crossed the street and you’re flailing. 

She did an about-face and steadied herself on the warm hood of her car as she jammed an Altoid in her mouth and shivered against the sharp bite of peppermint. 

You wanted this. You’ve been wanting this for years…and there it is right across the street, sitting there waiting for you to ring the door bell.

Spinning on her heel she turned back to face the old row of houses the directions had lead her to. Crossing the street in six clicking steps, she headed for a modest brown two story with olive green shudders and a burned out porch light.  Several days worth of old news greeted her at the foot of the steps, and the faint scent of cigarettes masked by Febreze floated through the mesh of the screen door. Someone inside was listening to Free Bird by Lynyrd Skynyrd.  

She knocked – three fast, loud raps. The sound of pounding rubber soles from the second floor startled her, making her gasp for air and remind herself to stop holding her breath.  

Peering through the screen she saw a figure at the top of the stairs. A worn pair of turtle green Converse descended the steps, attached to a pair of long slender legs clad in something short and denim. Stepping back so as to not be caught peering through the door, she ruffled her hair one last time, an eager smile spreading uncontrollably across her face.

Here we go.

 

A Cure for the Common Conception

Adorable! Still no.

Four years of being a nanny cured me of any desire to ever have children of my own.

Aw…you don’t mean that.  

No, really. I really mean it.

And although I’m sure I will write a long diatribe of every specific reason the idea of having my own children gives me nightmares (literally)  someday,  this article covers just about every one of my bullet points more competently and objectively then I ever could. Thanks, Jennifer Senior…and Jeremy for originally posting it.

Burning Man

I had never even heard of  Burning Man until I moved to Portland three years ago.

It instantly piqued my interest and it didn’t take much for friends to convince me this was a festival I needed to experience. The people who attended were people I needed to meet, and the artistic inspiration I could glean from the desert and a week away from the world was something I needed to incorporate into my life.  

Every burner I’ve met talks about how it changes you for the better and how you leave Black Rock City with a fresh perspective on people, art, love, and life for the next 51 weeks until you return. 

And this year was the year I should have gone.

Since I’ve learned about it, this is the first year I could have actually made it happen… but didn’t. I started looking into going to this year’s burn in March, but the logistics seemed overwhelming…and without knowing where Grant and I would be in our relationship, and being generally unmotivated artistically, I lost my chance to ensure a ticket there.

So Burning Man 2010 came and went.

 And I missed it.

 And it was torture for me all week.

Pile the especially difficult week of work on top of gloomy weather, a raging virus that would have been avoided, and a disastrous camping trip – all I could do was long to be elsewhere the past seven days. I’m not typically an envious person, but it just about swallowed me whole knowing I had friends off burning while I was in Seattle.

Point being : I’m putting it out there to the universe and my friends and family ~ I’m going next year. No excuses. As next August approaches, IF  for some reason I start mumbling about not being “able” to go/get off work/financially swing it – just hit me.

Written in a raging haze of regret and smoke:

There’s a pressure in my chest that won’t let me rest, it’s holding my nights hostage and stifling my days. The playa, the burners, the temple, the Man – I know it so well, though I’ve never been. Pictures are useless. Stories are torture. I know that I’d be there if only I’d tried – a little bit harder, searched a little bit longer, just done more to be free from this bland default world…if I had I’d be packing, smiling and laughing, leaving this city to build one that’s true. True to a vision, abandon and passion, its citizens exist hour to hour, song to song. I keep saying “Next year,”  but this time I mean it. It’s Black Rock or nothing. Next year I’ll be there.

What. the. hell.

One of my least favorite parts about online dating is having to sort through the dozens of profiles of potential dates and figure out who is worth risking a night off for.

Creating an alluring dating profile is a tricky business. For me, and for the people I chose to go out with, it’s all about balance. Confident, but not arrogant. Intelligent, but not socially inept. Witty, but doesn’t try too hard. Nice, but not “too  nice.” Artsy,  not freaky. Attractive, but attainable… etc etc etc    

I have a lot of appreciation for someone who can draft an online version of themselves that sounds personal but still leaves you wondering – on the other hand, there’s nothing I love more than finding a profile like this.

While I (or anyone else in their right mind) would never want to go out with this guy, I have to applaud his absolute abandon in creating a personal ad that showcases his serious personal issues with such comedic candor.

Good luck, little Carrot Top look-a-like, and bless any woman who tries to repair the damage your ex did to you!

Dear 8-5ers

Dear friends, lovers, haters, dates, and acquaintances that work 8 to 5 jobs,

    The luxuries of working an 8 to 5 job are fading into distant memory after a mere year of being a server again. I can vaguely recall how nice it was to get up early, work a full day, and then have my evenings and weekends free to do whatever I pleased. It was so convenient to have such a dependable, easy schedule to work with. You’re very lucky to have the job you do (but of course you know that.)

    I realize that my hectic, inconsistent schedule as a server must be very frustrating for you to deal with. My inability to predict my days or evenings off for the next three weeks really throws a wrench in your social planning, and for that I’m sorry. The fact that I sometimes cancel plans last minute due to the fact that I work a job without a dependable salary and no health care and have to pick up a shift on the fly so that I can pay my bills is so rude. I’m fortunate to have solid people, like yourself, interested in me.

    Maybe one day I’ll have a “real job” like you and you can rest assured that if I cancel it’s simply because I’m bored with you already and not because I’m working.

Sincerely yours,

Esther

Police brutality, coming to a neighborhood near you.

Huh. Well it’s vaguely comforting the Seattle Police Department isn’t just beating down minorities.

Once again, this was for a jaywalking incident in Queen Anne. Are you kidding me? The street looks practically residential. Was the cop just bored?

I really wish the whole incident had been caught on film so we could see just how aggressively the kid was resisting arrest, but regardless, the situation still reeks of a disgustingly excessive use of force.   

The official statement from the Seattle Police Dept. is worth reading if for amusement’s sake only. God forbid you ever find yourself being “guided to the ground” by a group of them.

I’m interested to see how the lawsuit pans out. I’m curious why it took a year to get press, and also what kind of disability Wilson has. Autism? Mental retardation? I think it would have behooved the family to be more specific so fewer people were left questioning his innocence…especially since he seemed really coherent for what was caught on tape.

Either way, looking both way before you cross the street carries more weight in Seattle than normal cities. Don’t just look for oncoming cars – the cop across the intersection could do you just as much damage.

Morning

The chilly morning air crept into her room, quietly sneaking under the quilt through the gap his feet created at the foot of the bed. Rolling over with a fluid tug on the blanket to create a cocoon of fabric around her body, she was jolted awake by the scent and warmth of the stranger beside her.  

Disoriented, she raised bare shoulders into the cold and rested on one elbow. Something scratched her skin and she reached down to discover tiny grains of sand on the soft pale sheets.

What happened?

.amber drinks dark frames light eyes sweet smoke sunset beach hands skin quick exhales soft sighs.

Oh. That’s right.

Inhaling deep she slid down trading the pillow for his shoulder, and fell back asleep with a smile.

An Open Letter

Dear Idiots of Seattle,

I’ve sure been running into you a lot lately, huh? I just wanted to send you a shout about some things I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.

Sounders fans: Gee, I know that soccer is great…or at least I hear it is, but I wouldn’t know because by the time I’m through serving you douchebags the last thing I want to do is sit down and find out what you’re so excited about. While we’re at it, the Elysian Fields is not a  beer garden, your buddy’s house, your living room, or the stadium. Please stop screaming “Seeeaaatttllee…..Sooooounnnnders” at ear splitting decibels at my table. It’s fucking obnoxious. Almost as obnoxious as when you come in 20 minutes before the game as I’m trying to split 23 different checks for 14 tables and physically stop me to ask  if I “can just help you real quick cuz you’re in a hurry and need to slam some beers and eat real quick before the game. ” You make me want to do unspeakable things to your food and beverage. If it looks like the servers are all miserable and you start getting the feeling we hate you – it’s because we do. We really hate you.

Pedestrians: Thanks for not adding to the hole in the ozone by driving a car like myself. That being said, learn how to cross a street. I know there’s some big pretty buildings to look at downtown – don’t stop in the middle of the cross walk to stare at them. In the same vein, get your face out of your effing phone and stop texting for the obligatory 30 seconds it takes you to crawl across the street.  I swear the next one of you I see doing that is going to get a love tap from my bumper.

Dudes of the online dating community: If you feel the need to describe yourself as good-looking, attractive, or  sexy and post pictures of yourself that belie those adjectives – no one is fooled.  Also, if you describe yourself as intelligent yet fail to spellcheck your profile, I can’t take you seriously. And just because it is such a perfect example of what you should never ever say if you want to get a date, let alone laid, before you die – don’t be like this guy. 

So if y’all could take a minute to think these things over and ponder the points that are referring to you so that we can work through these issues and live together peacefully, that’d be great.  Thanks.

Sincerely,

Esther

Saying Goodbye

I don’t miss much about Christianity.

I don’t miss the hypocrisy, the encouragement to base your treatment of others on what you perceive the eternal impact of their current actions to be, the never-ending questions, the denial of basic human desires: sex, self esteem, adventure, abandon.

I don’t miss going to church, standing around afterwards and gossiping about your fellow saints in the name of “righteous concern.”

I can’t imagine fitting all that I am inside the box that religion forced me to survive in. I could barely breathe when I believed Christ was the only source of oxygen… now that I’m free to fill my lungs with the vastness of the World’s truths, how could I waste a moment longing to be constricted again?

I can’t.

I don’t.

I’ve put away my old beliefs. Behold, I am new.

I say these things. I believe these things.

I am content with the choices I’ve made and the people I’ve left who look for life in an empty tomb and wait for their Salvation and validation to descend from the clouds.

And then days like Wednesday happen ~

The building was brick, as many of god’s houses seem to be. The air conditioning and muted organ music hummed quietly in the background, a perfect harmony to the somber, “I’m sorry’s” and “the last time I saw him” ‘s.

My only thoughts were for my father, who to this point had seemed so strong in the face of losing his own. I didn’t know when or if he would finally break now that the last goodbyes were to be publically and officially pronounced, but I had a foreign sense of urgency to make sure he knew I was there.

Ignoring every impulse I’d fought so hard to hone – I entered the sanctuary and found him at the head of the aisles. My need was satisfied, he knew and appreciated I was there, and was still holding it together.  Only when this mission, the only I’d had on my mind, was completed did I stop and assess what was actually about to happen.

I was in a church. I was about to take part in a Lutheran memorial  service for my grandfather who died believing I was a lost soul. Surrounded by people who still hold the confines of a 1,520 page novel to be worth living and dying for, I grasped for my mother – my only known ally in sight.

Although marginally sad, I  brought no tissues believing I had no tears to shed. Five minutes into the service renegade tears were streaming down my face, uncontrollable, regardless of what safe mental topic I tried to fight them with.

I was mourning with the rest of the congregation – but not the loss of a grandfather, father, husband, friend. Mine was the grief of a child with no hope. The gaping chest wound that had been slowly healing from the moment  Truth  ripped Faith from my chest four years ago was being torn open fresh with each verse of  “comfort” scripture, and every note of the familiar hymns. When the pastor read the ancient passage, “And God shall wipe every tear from their eyes,” it took every ounce of self-control not to sob.

Living  a life free of Christ brings me a daily peace I never would have imagined possible while still locked in its grip four years ago…but peace at the end of a life?  Mine or anyone else’s?  Hope is nowhere to be found. A life free of Christ means goodbyes are final. Goodbyes are forever. There is no mystical realm in which we’ll meet again, the only tears tears of joy. There is no place where pain, fear, imperfections, sadness, and illness are absent.

I knew I should be paying closer attention to the service, but as the salty wetness seeped through the front of my dress, my mind raced with memories – painful memories – the easiest to recall, and the strongest defense against the onslaught of desire for my old beliefs.

” Remember how faith in this God dooms you and all the friends you know and love to eternal pain? Remember how every good thing you’ve ever done means nothing if you don’t give Him credit? Remember how loving this God, the one you’re missing right now, means abandoning Reason and chosing Myth? Remember Moscow? Remember the agony these people put you through in the name of their savior? Remember. Remember. Remember.”

And then we were standing. The Apostles’ Creed swam before my eyes. I opened my mouth to recite the phrases that will never quite fade from memory. I started –  then clamped my mouth shut.

These weren’t my words to recite any more.

Everyone around me, save my precious mother, recited: 

I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
    Maker of heaven and earth,
    and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord:

Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost,
    born of the virgin Mary,
    suffered under Pontius Pilate,
    was crucified, died, and buried;

He descended into hell.

The third day He arose again from the dead;

He ascended into heaven,
    and sitteth on the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
    from thence he shall come to judge the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Ghost;
    the holy catholic church;
    the communion of saints;
    the forgiveness of sins;
    the resurrection of the body;
    and the life everlasting.

Amen.

And just like that, the pain began to fade to a dull ache. Hearing the souls around me recite those words reminded me quicker than anything what I was not missing out on. 

This was not a god to be missed. This was a crutch to discard for people weaker than myself. I’ve learned to walk and run through life free of limitations – and even if it’s painful at times…why would I wished to be crippled again? 

No comfort, no matter how beautiful, complete, or convenient was worth affirming those words. 

Every tear after the Creed I shed in pure, profound empathy for the pain of my suffering family facing the loss of its patriarch. After the service was over, I mingled with family, feigning disinterest in the dairy laden delicacies people kept pushing on me, and counting the minutes til I could exit the scene without reeking of disrespect or rudeness. I just wanted to escape to my car where I could be by myself and not have to worry about aunts, uncles, cousins misinterpreting my grief with a silent skeptical, “They weren’t even close.”

I drove down 5, struggling to get my emotions in check and turn on the auto-pilot smile which is my only saving grace at work. I was rattled and exhausted. Fighting the good fight of Sanity over the hypnotizing ease of Christian Insanity took its toll.

But like all things worth having, it’s worth battling for.

Goodbye Grandfather, you will be missed.

Goodbye Faith, one day you will not.  

 

2nd

Lines are being drawn.

Sides are being chosen.

Admissions, long overdue, are finally being made.

The gloves are off, if only in my head –  and fists fueled by anger and shock orbit my face protecting the ears and eyes and mouth… doors to senses that once were thrilled by her.

Accusations, founded on nothing, rage through my mind – and lashes, justice questionable, are prepared for the giving.

Long, but worth it.

One of the fathers of the kids I used to work for posted this on his facebook page recently.

It’s a long read, but interesting, and I got pretty darn excited about it. Not Just a High.

To: Facebook

You make the beginnings and ends of relationships infinitely more complicated and messy then they need to be.

You make starting a fling so much easier – picture stalking, friend spying, obsessive updating about feelings.

You make setting the boundaries of “where you are” with your significant other much clearer with your pink heart emoticon that’s always ready to publically take casual fucking or hand holding to the next level.

You quickly spread the news of a breakup so we don’t have to deal with telling people ourselves and you let us know when people are moving on..or stuck in the past.

But the thing that bothers me most about you, Facebook, is me. My addiction to the updates, messages, im-ing, events, photos, and friend requests. I’ve let you condition me to care so much about my virtual connections with people, I’m actually losing sleep over the loss of one.

I know it’s my fault….but fuck you, facebook.

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

I make no bones about the fact I have a problem with police.

I believe there are a number of respectable, honest, kind cops out there ( I even know one )- and that many – even most,  initially join the force with the intention of doing good. However, one thing I know for certain, is that whether it’s in a church, government, law enforcement, or playground – power corrupts. The love of power, even more.

While I would never desire it myself, I can certainly imagine how intoxicating and exciting it must be to be handed a gun, nightstick, and shiny gold star with the charge ” Go get the Bad Guys.”  And to be able to inspire fear and “respect” with the mere flick of a switch sending the good old reds and blues blazing?  Awesome, I’m sure.  However, what I can’t accept is the way this power seems to go straight to their head, transforming a normal Joe into a racial slurring, gun stroking, control hungry testosterone machine that gets together with his buddies and laughs about that “Mexican we chased down and beat the shit out of” as they wipe beer foam from their mustaches.

The four following clips all star members of the Seattle Police Department. Three of them took place within the last NINE months. Underneath the first three I’ve added links to accompanying news articles.

This first one just took place this past Monday. It’s what kicked off my raging this morning.

Ok, the girls were out of line for sure…but what caused this scene? The cops ordered them over to the cop car for JAY WALKING. This shit went down because of crossing the street. Apparently the girls tried to walk away when the cops were reprimanding them for jay walking, and when one of the cops grabbed her arm, she started going off. Should she have cooperated? Sure. Is there ANY REASON a trained professional should have let a girl yelling in his face escalate to punching? NO.

The President of the Seattle Police Officer’s Guild defends him: http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/nationworld/2012130640_apuspolicepunch.html?prmid=obinsite

This story, thankfully, got a LOT of press even though the SPD did not want the video released. Deputy Schene (the more violent of the officers) is being charged with fourth degree assault. It could mean up to a year in jail time. I can only hope he gets it and someone treats him as “fairly and appropriately” as he did this victim.

This article sheds even more light on Schene and various other SPD officers under recent Federal investigation: http://www.seattlepi.com/local/402103_schene04.html

I think this story (^) speaks for itself.  Their actions were excessive, disgusting, and wrong.  

This final clip I found the most disturbing. The victim was not resisting arrest (at least before they started violently beating him, unprovoked.) Even more disturbing? All three policemen were cleared of charges.

This article explains the victim’s situation, criminal history etc in more detail: http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2010264603_saunders13m.html 

I know that the police are here to protect us…but dear GOD who is going to protect us from them?

Eet – Portland Revisted

I haven’t slept well since Sunday. Not surprising, I never do after a break up.

To avoid the inevitable lonliness bedtime brings, I search my mind for the best and brightest times from my past.

Probably because I, a glutton for punishment, listened to Regina Spektor all evening, but I couldn’t get Eet out of my head…or my dreamlike memory associated with it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brother Dave’s eyes were two bottomless holes veiled in glass as he stared serenely at the apparatus before him.

The typewriter had run out of ink weeks ago, but the satisfying plick plick of the keys and charm of the bell when your letters reached the end of the road and were sent flying back to start a fresh new line had not changed.

The Hindu goddess on the wall smiled down on him as he began to run his fingers over the keys, tenderly stroking vowels and consonants..slowly at first, then increasing in fervor and pleasure until his fingers were a blur, and his body swayed back and forth to the melody in his head. 

He was performing a piece from memory on the typewriter turned baby grand.

The walls were vibrating to the rhythm, swirling in front of my eyes – vivid green and indigo hues curtesy of the unassuming mushroom enveloped in hazelnut chocolate I’d swallowed an  hour before.   

“I’ve seen this before,” I thought. ” This very thing.”

 I smiled wide and floated out of my chair and up the stairs.

Fin

The sun is somehow shining.

The leaves adorning the tree outside my window quiver in the breeze.

Neighbors mow their grass. The blades clash and motors roar tuning out the sounds drifting from windows, open, to let in the day’s warmth.

The world spins and rages on, paying no heed to the alternating pain and numbness of two hearts, now alone, in the city.

Wandering Home

Taking trips does weird things to my perception of where home is.

Although I’ve called Seattle “home” for about eight months now, whether I actually feel at home when I say it seems to entirely depend on where I’ve visited recently, the current weather, and my general mood and outlook on my future. This city and I have an on again- off again relationship at best. I’m hopeful with the most beautiful time of the year coming on that we’ll at least experience some summer- love. What can I say? I’m kinda superficial.

I’ve been traveling quite a bit in the past few months (at least for me) and it seems that these trips have caused my feelings for Seattle to fluctuate more than anything else.   

After feeling displaced for months when I moved here and missing Portland so intensely my heart almost broke, it was a huge relief when I visited Portland in February and came back to Seattle truly feeling for the first time  that I’d made the right decision to relocate. Although I have no doubt I will live in Portland again someday, my desire to do so immediately was lessened. Portland is like the complicated, yet unfading love of my life that I will settle down with someday, but is healthy to have a break from for now. Outcome of trip: Seattle is home for now. I’m content.

Come March, my best friend and I took a short vacation to San Francisco, neither of us having been before. I fell in love with it the second my feet touched the street. The energy of the city is incredible. Her people and neighborhoods felt so welcoming, and the surrounding itself, was beautiful. We were blessed with good weather during our short stay, and became well acquainted with the streets and sights while we were there. Like Portland, I felt safe and right. Leaving was difficult, and I missed it the moment the plane lifted into the air. Returning to Seattle was physically painful.  San Fran was like the laid back and beautiful affair that I’d like to visit often (and live with for a short time) but I know isn’t practical to be with all the time. Outcome of trip: Seattle is awful. I want to move.

Now May. Grant and I just returned from a week long trip to New York City. Although I was excited for the trip, I knew from the beginning I wasn’t going to love the city. I’m not cut out for the Darwinian nature of it’s culture and breakneck pace with which everyone seems to move. It was a fun place to be in for a short time. Very short. I did enjoy hearing all the languages of couples and families passing by, and the museums were breathtaking. I was reduced to tears several times by simply being in the presence of art I’ve loved for years, and walking down the streets of Broadway knowing such fantastic theater was at my disposal was thrilling. At the end of each day however, I couldn’t help looking forward to our hotel room and craving a break from the masses. New York city was overwhelming and I craved the tranquility of Seattle. We were told, “If you can’t something you’re looking for in New York, it can’t be had.” I disagree. The second we were walking on Seneca back to the apartment, I felt a peace I could never find in the city that never sleeps. Flying back to Seattle felt like coming home and I liked that. I have to admit that I can’t help feeling a little guilty, because people hype NYC so much it feels wrong not to love it as much as everyone else seems to. To me, New York City was like having an insanely sexy one night stand with a celebrity, and waking up the next day feeling disappointed. It was enjoyable, but not mind-blowing like everyone told you it should be. Outcome of Trip: Seattle is lovely. I guess I’ll stay a while longer.

Now I’ve been home for three days and all I can do is scheme about my next trip. My god, what is my deal? I can’t help thinking that if Seattle was truly my home I wouldn’t be so inclined to leave it all the time. Seattle is a safe choice, I know. At the moment I have everything that some people look for – a job I enjoy, a great boyfriend, friends, and I’m close to my family…and it’s still not enough.  Something’s missing. Am I just being greedy?…I don’t think so, is always the answer.

It occurred to me today I might be searching for the wrong thing. I keep thinking I’ll be happy when I find the perfect city. When I’m honest, I’m sure I found the perfect city – in Portland – and the real problem is that I need to find myself. Horribly cliché, I know,  but it’s true. The hardest part about the search for myself now, is figuring out where to start.

No Love for Supercross

Sports season is here again.

After a four month hiatus, Qwest and Safeco are once again hosting thousands of rowdy fans for various sports every week. This wouldn’t matter at all to me except that I work in a restaurant located less than 20 yards from their parking lot. We are a brew pub, and even at $5.25 a pint, we can provide a much cheaper (and tastier) drunkenness then the ball parks can.

Having worked at Winger’s in Moscow (a family sports bar-ish place) and dealt with masses of drunken UI and WSU students and parents for three football seasons, I truly believed I was capable of handling any sports fan. There was no possible way Seattle  could produce more ignorant rednecks and assholes than rural Washington and Idaho. How silly of me.

Although you might never have heard of it – or considered it a sport – there is a little activity called Supercross  that has a remarkably huge following in this country. Supercross is a type of motorcross that takes place in indoor arenas and consists of “racing specialized high performance off-road motorcycles on artificially-made dirt tracks consisting of steep jumps and obstacles. ”

Last Saturday, Qwest hosted a Monster Energy drink sponsored Supercross event for thousands of fans. We at the Fields had the misfortune of having to deal with them.

Usually a full restaurant is something to look forward to – but not always. Not when it’s filled with people who don’t understand how to order off a menu that doesn’t have pictures beside the item, and can’t mentally comprehend the idea of a restaurant only offering one type of burger, one domestic light beer, and no ranch dressing. To see the looks of confusion on these people’s faces, you would have thought we were offering them a menu written in Sanscrit offering dog meat and sour milk.

“You only got one burger? What kind of restaurant only got ONE burger? Do you even have cheeeeze?”

“A panini? Wait…that’s a kind of pasta right? You have turkey pasta? I don’t think I’d like that. I’ll have a burger. Do you even have burgers?”

” I’ll take a Miller Lite.”  We’re a brewery sir, we only have one domestic – Bud Lite. ” So – I’ll have a Coors Lite.” Um…nope. We just have Bud Lite. “Well just give me a PBR, then, jeez.”  SIR. We have ONE domestic beer – Bud Lite. This is a brewery. ” Oh. Well, I don’t like microbrews.”

We all knew that it was unrealistic to expect basic restaurant etiquette from such people, but I think we all had a vain silent hope that we were wrong and just being snotty. Maybe, at the end of the day we’d be able to say, “Well, they weren’t so bad.” 

No such luck.

 Any attempt at withholding vicious generalizations about their breeding, personal character, intelligence level, and class were blindly abandoned after the lunch rush. Three hours in, and I could barely contain my revulsion as every table turned with a new crew of ignorant douchebags sporting a chinstrap, black baseball cap, and volcom tee-shirt (one size too tight,) all grabbing the upper thighs and asses of their vacant eyed, dyed blonde, fake tanned girlfriends who ordered nothing but Lemon Drops or Jager bombs. 

To say that staff morale was “low” Saturday night, would be an outright lie. I’ve never seen my friends so haggard and emotionally spent from one shift.

No matter how superior we inwardly believed ourselves to be, or how much we tried to encourage each other with “shake it off – it’s just one day,”  or how many jokes we made about their lack of decency and apparent inability to read, at the end of the day, nothing could take away the feeling that serving this crowd gave us – namely, that we all were working the most pointless, fuck-up, dead-end job in the world.

Days like Supercross Day are soul crushers for servers. They make us question our inherent value and personal worth if we are choosing to be in a profession that makes us SERVE people who are so ignorant, classless, and rude that we would never dream of tolerating their company under any other circumstance – yet here we are, apologizing, that we can’t offer them a menu more to their liking, and “oh, thank you, for that $4 tip on a $70 tab. You couldn’t have summed up how much you think I’m worth any better.”

A lot of us stayed late and got drunk that night. The idea of doing anything else didn’t occur to anyone. Since many of us have been on a dry/health kick since January, it was a blessed relief to sit at the bar and just drink until the 9% tips, snide remarks, and self-disgust washed away under a tide of whisky and vodka. Call it weakness. Call it a lack of moral fiber. Call it whatever you want – we call it Survival mode.  

Over the next few days, the various ways we’d dealt with the stress of Supercross came out. I was one of four, I learned, to go home, start crying and pick a fight with my boyfriend. A group of us got together the next morning to drink out our hangover at brunch then continue to a co-workers house and bbq and witness our two male servers pick a fight with each other and cry it out, and the next day admit, “I think I was still working through the frustration and humiliation of having to serve those motorcross ranch-whores.” Others have simply stewed all week and randomly piped up, “God, Saturday was just fucking awful, wasn’t it?”

Considering how little we thought of the Supercross fans as people, they sure worked a number on us. There’s over a hundred years of combined experience in the service industry between the crew at Elysian, yet none of us seemed to have the ability to navigate that day and emerge unscathed…let alone, in a healthy frame of mind. That one day was enough to make me question my ability to continue in this profession – and certainly question just how much money is really worth when it’s all said and done, if serving people of that caliber is what I have to do to get it. It was not the first day I’ve sat and thought about the similarities between serving and hooking – and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Especially since it’s only 356 days til the next Supercross.

I love you, Richard Yates.

An excerpt from the end of Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates.

April Wheeler’s musings on the dangers of tricking yourself into love/marriage:

What a subtle treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you’d started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying “I’m sorry, of course you’re right, ” and “whatever you think is best,” and “You’re the most wonderful and valuable thing in the world,” and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of the golden people. Then you discovered you were working at life the way the Laurel Players worked at The Petrified Forest, or the way Steve Kovick worked at his drums- earnest and sloppy and full of pretension and all wrong; you found you were saying yes when you meant no, and “We’ve got to be together in this thing” when you meant the very opposite; then you were breathing gasoline as if it were flowers and abandoning yourself to a delirium of love under the weight of a clumsy, grunting , red faced man you didn’t even like – Shep Campbell! – and then you were face to face, in total darkness, with the knowledge that you didn’t know who you were.

On This Day

I am thankful that this day holds no enchantment for me other than seeing my family and eating a large chocolate rabbit.

Today I am thankful that this is the fourth year of Easter Sundays I no longer answer, “He is risen indeed!”

Today I am thankful I am not part of the hypocritical masses that slink into some unholy building in order to murmur through hymns they don’t remember from last year,  and dig crumbled fives out of pockets for the collection, and feel awkward and somehow ashamed for how tenderly I hold the mythical blood of Christ in a plastic thimble.

I am thankful to be free of the devastating doctrine of original sin, its price, and its savior.

I am thankful for the strength it takes to forsake the belief of eternal security in favor of belief in myself.

Grateful or not, though, Easter is a hard day. It fills me with a bitterness and resentment towards the Christian world that I truly hope will fade in time. I hope one day I will not grudge them their lovely story and blind faith and they will not grudge me my lack of it.

Enough hoping for one day.

Here’s to a happy Easter.

 

Labels.

The most infuriating thing about optimists is that they believe themselves to be realists.

Us

I’ve been a fan of Regina Spektor for a little over a year now, and was lucky enough to get to see her in concert this November for my birthday (thanks Grant!) She sounded even better live then on her albums, and since then her music keeps me company more often than any other artist.

 Although I considered it pretentious at the time (since it was coming from a hipstery music snob),  the phrase, “Music is to poetry what flying is to walking,” I can’t help thinking it when I listen to her albums. Her song, “Us,” is one of my favorites, and like most of the songs I adore now, reminds me of Hoyt House. I’ve had it stuck in my head for over a week now, and it’s getting to the point where a trip to Portland may be the only thing able to remedy the homesickness it’s plaguing me with.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyH-tAIhX48

If you please.

On wives, husbands, and families that have recently been frequenting my place of employment.

1.) To all my twenty and thirty- something female customers that come in, haggard and frustrated with your screaming child and obviously disinterested husband: please refrain from taking your irritation with your life choices out on me. I offer no apologies for the fact I had good enough sense not to get married young and wear myself out with little devils wearing four year old kid suits. It is not MY fault that I have enough energy to put time into my appearance and care about looking attractive to come to a job where my earnings are directly affected by how I present myself. I am NOT interested in your douchebag husband and being friendly and attending to his need for a refill does not mean I’m hitting on him. I could not be less interested in a man accompanied by a bitchy woman shooting daggers at me, and a nightmare screaming for crayons every three seconds. If you are that concerned with him ogling women more attractive than you, put in some freaking effort already. Remember make-up? And if not make-up, at least a hairbrush? Remember when you cared about him finding you sexually appealing? Well – if you do, please remember it took work. Marriage is not a license to let yourself go and then be shocked when he checks out other women, and getting married does NOT give you license to hate on other women that live a lifestyle you obviously wish you could have a taste of again.

2.) To the husbands of these wives: stop being douchebags. Look at your wife when she’s talking to you. Listen to her. Help her take care of your demon spawn trying to run all over our restaurant smearing their grubby mits and faces all over our pristine fish tanks. Yes, I’m aware I’m younger looking than your wife, I’m wearing a short black dress,  smiling while I refill your water and doing what you ask me to do like I actually give a damn. I don’t. I’m not interested, so stop checking out my ass and for god’s sake you DON’T need another beer. I can absolutely guarantee your wife does not want to be your DD tonight.

3.) To these families: I’m sure that in your day to day life of wiping noses, fingerpainting, cartoon watching, and trying to find time to still maintain some semblance of your lives pre-family, you forget a few things about how the world works for everyone else that does NOT have children. Allow me to remind you of a couple things. Restaurants, businesses, retail stores etc are not under any obligation whatsoever to be child-friendly. My restaurant, in particular, is NOT child friendly and we like it that way. If the lack of kid menu, loud music blaring songs littered with profanity/drug references/sexual innuendo, and leather couches, set up lounge style adjacent to our massive bar didn’t tip you off – we do not want your children in our establishment. Even a little bit. We do everything possible to make it painfully obvious kids are not welcome. So please. Be aware of your surroundings and hold the entitled attitude. No, we will NOT turn down the music. No, we do NOT have changing tables in our bathrooms. No, we do NOT serve apple juice, have crayons, or want your child roaming between the tables. You will be asked to reign them in by our manager through thinly veiled disgust. We offer no apologies. We can, however, offer you directions to a restaurant you should have taken your child in the first place – and I can guarantee it’s not in SODO.

Screw you, Disney Princesses.

So. This is it, huh?

I had a bad night’s sleep,  grouchy groggy morning followed by a shitty day of work,  and finished it off with one too many glasses of wine to dull the monotony of the customers and ease my irritation with my boyfriend.  We turned on a show that innocently touched on a topic which lead to an intense “discussion” of a matter we disagreed on.

Discussion. Words. Tears. Disbelief. Words. Devil’s Advocate. Shut downs. 

The absence of a resolution was so tangible I could name it – and then it was time for bed. My breathing slowed to the point of a continual sigh and we heaved ourselves from the couch and brushed our teeth.

Teeth brushed. Faces washed. I fell in bed beside my boyfriend, ten minutes previous enemy, and promptly fell apart.

Is. This. IT?

Is this what marriage/co-habitation/long term commitment is? The monotony of good/normal days only broken by nights like these…fights about important issues that are only significant enough to make you doubt your relationship – not leave it? Fights that end without a resolution followed by trudging to the bathroom to wash off the day then lay down besides each other, just to get up the next day to another 18 hours of the same thing? Another 18 hours to replay what SHOULD have been said, and flounder back and forth on whether maintaining the delicate balance of happiness and harmony is worth swallowing the bitter pill of knowing you’re right but keeping your mouth shut?

Of course, I know there are plenty of benefits to monogamy…Togetherness. Support in times of crisis and joy. “Unconditional” love. Someone to take care of you when you’re sick, and open your jars, and make Mom’s manicotti. The Good Days.

But, let’s face it. Commitment isn’t about the good days. It’s about the bad days. It’s about the bad days that you are laying next to each other – but you are both alone.

I’ve known commitment wasn’t easy for some time now. By why is it such a difficult concept for me to wrap my head around? Somewhere, deep-seated in me, I keep expecting things to be easier than this.  Who sold me the idea that somewhere out there, there is someone PERFECT who I will never disagree with?…and why for the love of god, do I keep thinking there is although I know, so entirely, that there isn’t?

For some, commitment with another person is something they enter into gladly. They find a beautiful completion of themselves with another person that could not be achieved if they were alone. These people, to me, are the inspiration for fairy tales, romantic comedies, and epic tragedies. Very rarely does this occur in a pure form in actual life.

For some, commitment is duty, a way of life, the way it is. A duty willingly undertaken because of the benefits and the misconception that their worth is dependent upon honoring their social/religious/familial obligation to marry, procreate, work, sleep, fight, make love, and die with one person.  

For me, commitment is a challenge. Monogamy, especially a lifetime of monogamy, seems an unrealistic thing to expect out of a person.  For as much as I detest change, the knowledge that I might one day be stuck in a lifestyle that can’t or won’t change is ultimately more terrifying. A husband, mortgage, dog, and beautiful yard peppered with children’s toys and gardening equipment holds as much enchantment for me as a straightjacket….the idea of wandering this amazing world alone though, is even worse.

I’m so lucky to have found and adore who I’m with now, that to turn down this challenge would be to  waste everything I endured to finally find someone worth the hard work. So, I’m taking everything a day at a time. Learning, slowly learning, what love really looks like – and hoping, cautiously hoping, that if this is it, then it  will be enough for both of us…good days and bad.

Hardly Easy

Lately it’s been bothering me how much I have to lie every day to be considered a successful, functioning member of society.

I work as a server at a restaurant, and as a server, my income is entirely dependent on how sincerely I can lie to my customers. I care as little about the four people at table 41 and their day, as they care about me – however, it is my job to make them believe that their dining experience is of utmost importance to me, and that I would be concerned for their dining pleasure, whether they were to tip me or not. (Which of course, I wouldn’t. ) It is my job to smile and laugh at the stupid, unoriginal jokes they tell, and be understanding and compliant when they run me ragged for nine million extras, or get so wasted they forget how to walk. My ability to pay my rent for the month, rests on my skill of manipulating a group of strangers to like me for the span of (hopefully) no more than 90 minutes…and doing this calls for a surprising amount of white, and not so white, lies. 

There are two lies in particular that I hate to tell – and I despise them even more because I have to repeat them on a daily basis. More so than other fibs, the sincerity of these answers shapes a person’s opinion of me instantly.

One.

Question: “How are you doing today?”

Lie: “I’m good!” Smile. Beat. “How about you? ”

Two.

Question: ” You’re new here? So how are you liking Seattle?”

Lie: “Oh, it’s great. I’m really enjoying it so far.” Nod and smile.

Now, as far as number One is concerned, there are many days I am doing quite well, great, in fact, and no truth bending is needed. But there are plenty of days where I’d love to say,

“God, my day is royally sucking. How about yours?”  (But we all know how charming hearing your waitress or new acquaintance snarl that at you would be.)

There is not a single time number Two has been true.

Perhaps it’s this lie that has made my adjustment to Seattle so difficult, and that the weight of this untruth is causing minor ones to seem even worse. The fact that I haven’t felt I can be honest about my misgivings and dislikes about the city and still have people befriend me is incredibly discouraging. Most of the people I’ve met here love Seattle, and are quick to defend it like it’s their mother’s honor. No one wants to hear you unload about their hometown – and just like new boyfriends hate hearing praise for exes – new cities hate losing in comparisons to previous ones.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that there’s nothing to love about Seattle. I’m finally in a healthy, loving relationship with someone who lives here. My best friend lives here. The water surrounding this city is truly breathtaking. And although I occasionally gripe about it, I really enjoy my job. The difficulty for me lies in the fact that three of the four reasons I like Seattle are situational  and not inherent to the city itself. Relationships and friendships don’t have to be contained here – and if I looked long enough, I could find a job I enjoyed in any major city. This does nothing to endear this place to me.  

I didn’t realize until I left Portland, how much difference literally loving the city you’re in can make. Situationally, I was miserable by the time I left…but never once did I hate the city. By July, Portland’s streets and parks and buildings and strangers were the only thing keeping me sane. I adored the very dirt under my feet, and leaves brushing against my window in the morning. My neighborhood was perfection, and no matter how awful my day, I could always take refuge among the stacks in Powells or booths of Coffee Time. 

I fell in love with Portland the third day I lived there. I remember the street I was on when I thought, “I connect with this town. I don’t even know where I’m going to live yet, but I know I’m already home.” The first few months in Portland were extremely difficult for me, professionally, financially, and emotionally – but I remember telling my mom, through tears and sobs over the phone, that I truly loved the city and it was worth it to stick it out, no matter what.

Although my heart has been filled in many ways since arriving in Seattle, the hole that leaving Portland caused pains me daily. Even beautiful days in Seattle hurt because I’m always wondering if the weather is as beautiful three hours south…and if so, wouldn’t it be perfect to be walking the park blocks right now? Is the patio open at Blue Moon? Are Froni and August enjoying the sun from the back deck playing dominoes on the table?

When my first love and I broke up I was devastated. I believed I could never love someone as much as I loved him. I thought the gaping emptiness in my chest would never heal, and I would never feel true passion again…and for awhile, it was so. For years, actually. But slowly, wounds mended, happiness returned, and I was able to find love with someone new. It wasn’t the same love – I don’t believe first love can ever be repeated – but it doesn’t mean it’s any less wonderful. It’s exhausting to think I’m going to have to go through the same process of healing to mend from a heartbreak not even caused by leaving a person – just a place.  It’s frightening to think I might one day get so used to this city that I’ll actually like Capitol Hill and the infuriating hipsters that plague it…that I’ll write off Seattlites as “passive aggressive” when they’re actually just fucking rude…or that I’ll allow the truly lovely things I gleaned from Portland’s energy and citizens to fade under the pressure to fit in here and conform to whatever’s most conducive to making friends.  

But that’s life… isn’t it? Nothing is constant, nothing stays the same, and loves come and go. The heart recovers, people adjust and move on to survive, and new joys are found.  I’m just looking forward to a day where I have one less lie to tell, and Seattle proves itself to be worthy of the adoration so many others give it…or that the old saying is wrong, and I am able to go home again.

Love for Employment

After a three month break, I’m now employed – and after a two and a half year hiatus, I’m employed as a server once more.

 Every time I’ve quit a job, I’ve done so with the words, “Never again…” running through my head. Never more so than quitting my second serving job.

 By the time I was done with a four year stint as a server in Moscow, I was more than thrilled to switch things up for a full time nanny gig.  No more being treated like a servant. No more rudeness. No more stupid managers, long hours, aching joints, shifts ending in tears, and co-workers intent on making sure I had a hangover the next day.

 I wish I could say being a nanny actually helped me avoid all those things – it didn’t. No job is perfect. As much as I’d love to say that my days watching two year olds were blissful and full of sunshine and giggles, I’d be lying. Don’t get me wrong – working with children can be wonderful, and frequently was. But it was not so unlike waitressing when I actually think about it – good shifts were awesome… bad shifts were horrific. The yelling of drunken patrons was replaced with the screaming of toddlers. The long hours of serving one group of people became long hours of serving another group of much shorter, inarticulate people – who couldn’t even use the toilet. My joints still ached at night, and I ended more days in tears of frustration and exhaustion, drinking the “shift” away as a nanny, than I ever did as a server.

That being said, I never felt even a fraction as fulfilled or rewarded as a server as I did, often, as a nanny. I will certainly miss that.

 I’m very fortunate to have landed the job I did, and even more fortunate that this restaurant is similar to the one I worked in Moscow….only better. The management actually seems to know what they’re doing, the restaurant has a perfect lay-out, they don’t overstaff, they hire security on busy days, and they stand behind their employees – not forcing the servers to suffer sexual harassment at the hands of certain clients just to maintain a successful relationship with big money. I know that in the following weeks and months I’ll see the breakdown of management/employee relation and get to know the faults of even this seemingly flawlessly run establishment – but for now I’m content…excited even. Something I never believed possible as I drove away from a serving life in Moscow, yelling “Good riddance!!” Apparently time does heal everything.

 So bring on busy days, hectic nights, long hours, high tension in the server alley, breaking into a clique, free food, free drinks, inside jokes, bonding over a common hatred for rude customers and bad percentages, great tips, small kindnesses, and the like. I’m a server once more.

 “Hello everyone, my name is Esther and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get y’all started with something to drink?”

Little Lies

While scanning the rows of old books in E’s basement tonight, my eyes fell upon a white book with blue titling script running up its spine. Little Visits with God. Feeling the familiar wave of nostalgia and nausea that sweeps over me whenever I see something that helped foster my belief in Jesus, I grabbed the book to take upstairs.

I couldn’t help but hesitate before opening it. The wounds inflicted on me by the Christian faith, and my abandonment of it, are still fresh and I know that subjecting myself to passages, sermons, or literature  is the quickest way to reopen the old hurts and leave me either blind with rage, or curled in a ball sobbing.

Feeling particularly serene however, I opened the book and began thumbing through the little anecdotes I was read when I was little. Little anecdotes, questions, and prayers written to shape little minds, and “teach the nature of God.” The smallest traces of nostalgia quickly died after reading three or four “Devotions” and I laid back on my bed – unable to even sit up after the onslaught of lies I’d found between those pages.

So as not to seem condescending or overly harsh about the book, here is ONE of MANY atrocities the people of Concordia Publishing House would have you teach your children about the Christian God:

Praying Together Helps

Jesus said, If two of you will agree on anything that you will ask, it will be done for you by My Father in heaven. ~ Matthew 18:19

“ Della, you ask Daddy to have a picnic tomorrow,” said her brother Bob.

“ No, you ask him,” said Della.

“ Let’s both ask him,” said Bob.

So they both asked their father to have a picnic. When their father saw that they both wanted very much to have a picnic, he said,” Well, if you both want it, maybe we can.” They were glad.                                                                                                                                                        

 We can talk that way to God, our Father in heaven, too. When you ask God for something, He hears you, and when I talk to God, he hears me, too. But there are some things that many Christians want. If we will go together in our prayer, even if there are only two of us, Jesus says that God will listen and will answer our prayer.    

What are some things we all want? We want to be loved, we want to be happy, we want to be more like Jesus, we want other people to learn about Him! Let’s pray for that together, and our Father in heaven will give us what we want.

Are there some things that you want very much? Jesus said, “If two of you will agree on anything that you will ask, it shall be done for you by My Father in heaven.” Isn’t that a wonderful promise? Just get someone to pray with you for what you want, and you’ll see.

 Let’s talk about this: Why did Bob and Della both ask their father for a picnic? What did Jesus say would happen if two of His friends would ask His Father anything? What are some things nearly all Christians want? What are some things our family wants? Let us pray for them today. (Here the members of the family may each say a sentence prayer.)

Bible reading for older children and grownups: Matthew 18: 19, 20

Let us pray: Thank You, dear Father in heaven, for promising to do what Your children all want. We all want what Jesus wants, so please make us more like Him. Please keep us as Your children for Jesus’ sake. Amen.

 __________________________________________________________

Please tell me I’m laboring the obvious by expressing my shock that anyone could write such a blatantly filthy untruth about a God, Christian or otherwise.

I understand this book was written for children and they wanted to “dumb it down” so kids would understand it. But, EXCUSE ME, you can simplify a religious concept without watering it down so far it’s a lie.

Because the atrocities of the world, especially against children, were the number one thing that made me question God, I’m perhaps more prone than others to take things like this devotion and think of the extreme, but not unrealistic, scenarios by which a child could be emotionally crippled by accepting the moral of the offered story as Truth. Capital “T.”

 Upon finishing reading “Praying Together Helps,” I couldn’t help visualizing a little anecdote of my own.  (As a brief disclaimer, I’d like to mention that the “wounds” I refer to Christianity inflicting on me are of an entirely different nature than the ones I’m about to offer here..)

 Della and Bob are the precious children of two loving Christian parents – parents who understand the importance of introducing their offspring to the gentle truths of Jesus early and often. They read to them from Little Visits with God regularly. Not being overly discerning or mindful, they fail to fill in what the devotion leaves out…that sometimes, God doesn’t answer our prayers the way we want – no matter how hard, or how many people we pray with.

 Being true servants for Christ, and loving others as themselves, they willingly agree to help Dad’s brother, John, (Della and Bob’s uncle) while he’s out of work and searching for a new place to live. In their honest zeal to do the right thing, and believing in the all redeeming and purifying love of Christ, they welcome Uncle John into their home, fully trusting him – and God – that his former run in with the law for inappropriate behavior with a minor was a temporary backsliding and one-time-only sin…the forgiveness of which has rendered him even more thankful and faithful to the encompassing power of Christ’s loving mercy.

 Where I’m going with this is obvious, isn’t it?

 Uncle John began back-sliding again. This time with Della and Bob. This time it wasn’t merely inappropriate. It was explicit. It was rape. It was way too easy.

Della and Bob, too afraid and ashamed to tell their parents, try to take comfort in each other and in Jesus. Little minds, taught to believe that God would answer their prayers – guaranteed, even, if they both prayed – commence to ardently praying, whispering petitions over clasped sweaty hands every night. More so on Bible Study night – the evening Mom and Dad leave Uncle John to babysit.

Now I know I’m taking this to an extreme…but it’s not really THAT extreme, is it? Don’t think there’s not children all over the world, desperately wishing at this very moment, Jesus will return tomorrow so that they don’t have to suffer another night of violation. Don’t think there’s not children, in your very town, that haven’t wondered why God hasn’t answered their prayers.

 And for Christ’s sake, don’t think that telling them, broken and sobbing, “God has a reason – we just don’t know it now,” will do them any. good.

Little Visits with God, my ass.

I guess this was one of those blind with rage kind of nights.

Love for Fallen Ducks

      As mentioned in a previous post, I had several logistical ducks I needed to get in a row before I could move to Seattle. First duck: find employment. Second duck: find housing.

      Both managed to fall into place within a week of each other. My wonderful boyfriend  made a phone call to an old friend, who after twenty minutes of Happy Hour told me that he knew I must be pretty special if Grant was with me, and that after seeing my outgoing nature and hearing my previous restaurant experience would be happy to make a few phone calls to get me a job…which he didn’t even have to do because an owner of a local restaurant he knew walked in just at that moment and after a twenty second conversation with him, set up an appointment with me to find out my schedule and get me started the following week. Duck One down.

      Duck Two was just as simple. My dad’s sister and her family live in Seattle and had said I was more than welcome to stay with them while in town for whatever interviews I landed or house hunting I wished to do. This was more than generous, and when they later offered me my uncle’s father’s (E.) second house as a place to live while getting on my feet, it was all I could do not to burst through the roof. I would have been more than content to sleep in their basement/den, but the prospect of having my own space to myself was certainly more appealing. I didn’t care where it was. It could have been a glorified shed and I’d have been thrilled.

      My uncle, Ed, took me over early Tuesday morning to show me around E’s and get me settled in. I was excited to see the house he grew up in, and even more excited to have some time to myself.

      We opened the side door, and the stale scent of dust and my uncle’s old memories greeted us. One moment I was on the porch, on a cloudy October morning in 2009, and the next I was entering a perfectly preserved time capsule of the late 1960’s. 

      I looked around in happy amusement, observing the avocado colored kitchen tile, matching stand alone dishwasher, and electric can-opener – conveniently located above the ceramic white vintage stove.  (A further investigation of the kitchen cupboards revealed a spice rack with contents untouched since the house was built, and a refrigerator hosting a variety of condiments all expiring sometime before the year 2000 – many yeeears before 2000.) 

      I quietly exhaled an, “Oh wow,” stepping into the living room. The polite, short-shag sage and cream carpet complimented the chairs and sofa that looked like every piece of furniture you’ve ever seen in the yellowing pictures of your parents’ childhood home. A stately steel ship, sails full mast, graces the wall above the stone fireplace and a mantle that supports pictures of grandchildren, and E. and his lovely wife, lost 17 years ago this Christmas Eve.

      My uncle led me to “my room” down the hall past “my” salmon colored bathroom. The door opened into a large room with a Queen sized bed covered in a flower print comforter, straight out of the Sear’s Catalog, Fall 1968. A wall hanging of a sunflower made out of carpet stands against the blank right wall, adjacent to my nightstand, on which sits an oversized white and gold polka dot table lamp with a shade the size of a thirteen gallon trash can. I sighed, smiling. “Ahh….perfection.”

      The room next to mine is indescribable. Truly. Only a picture would do it justice. When Ed opened the door I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Oh my god! This is incredible!” I yelled. “I know, right?” and even my uncle couldn’t stop from laughing at the room – splashes of golden rod yellow and soft fawn browns littering the room on every surface– this ancient bedroom set is in such exquisite condition I can barely believe it.

     The basement revealed a tired looking sofa and twin bed in front of a TV that is turned on with knobs. Bookshelves heavy with dusty classics like, “The Bobbsey Twins” “Robinson Crusoe” and “Tom Sawyer” are anchored into faux wood paneling. I’ve spent the least amount of time down there of the whole house since my arrival. It might be quaint and funny and remind me of “That 70’s Show,” but it’s still a basement, and it still gives me the creeps. We climbed the carpeted stairs out of the basement and I took a second to bolt its door behind me.

      After a few more details about how to work the furnace, shower, and garage door, my uncle left me to the house. I wandered around again from room to room, taking a closer look and marveling at my amazing luck to not only be staying somewhere for free – but to be staying here, in the 1960’s, all by myself. Duck Two down.

      No description I could possibly write would do the house justice – and I keep finding more and more gadgets that make it even better. Grant discovered E.’s limited vinyl collection, and we made our first meal together at my new place, spinning around the kitchen to “The Best of Nat King Cole” blaring from the built in wall speakers in the living room. There is also the added benefit of living without cable or internet again, so I’ve finished almost three books in five days and successfully broken my addiction to Facebook.

As soon as I can get my hands on a camera I will snap a few pictures so everyone can take a peak into my new retro abode…

Love for 25

I turned 25 two days ago.

I remember being a “kid” (8-15ish)  and thinking that by the time I was 25 I would have eeeeverything figured out. I’d be married, living in a beautiful house somewhere with my dashing husband and mild mannered german shepard,  just starting to kick around the idea of having a baby. Mr. Perfect Husband and I would get up every day and go to our respective perfect jobs (he, some sort of hot-shot businessy man, and myself a well known writer/activist/lawyer type fighting the good fight for women’s rights) and we’d come home to our perfect little life and perfect house and perfect dog. Money wouldn’t be an issue, and we’d have lots of lovely friends with lovely boats who threw lovely parties.

Everything would be perfect and lovely. I couldn’t wait to be 25.

 Good thing I hadn’t bet on it.

Up until recently, August 1st to be exact, I was living with six modern gypsies in a house built on tension and bad decisions -all of us sharing a self destructive lifestyle justified by whisky drunk rages about a shared love for art and words. One day melted into another, nights defined by what we drank or how much we smoked or who we woke up with the next morning. The haze of regrets nursed by self medicating to the point of oblivion lulled me into the false belief that what I was feeling was normal – and that the life I was living was the life…a life worth envying…and a life I would never give up.

In the middle of May I decided to do a ten day cleanse to give my body a rest and shed a few stubborn pounds. If injesting nothing but lemon juice, cayenne, and maple syrup for 10 days (and two days juice fasting before and after) couldn’t help my body feel better – what would? Several days in I was cursing myself for my decision to do the cleanse – but being too stubborn to admit defeat, I foolishly finished out the last 8 days. While it certainly did nothing to improve my health (it effed up my metabolism something fierce) it did wonders for my mental clarity. While I was on the cleanse I abstained from just about everything that I had come to believe I couldn’t live with out – alcohol, constant socializing, and an emotionally unhealthy friends-with-benefits relationship I had with one of my roommates. I was able to look at my life objectively and soberly for the first time in almost a year…and I came to the very unwelcome realization that the life I believed I’d never abandon was not worth living for me anymore. Something had to change.

And so I was faced with a decision – stay in Portland and keep living at Hoyt House (moving out wasn’t an option…I knew myself well enough to know there WAS no Portland for me outside those walls) or move and start over. Again.

The thirty days of this June were some of the hardest I’ve known in my life. Having given myself over to an intense love affair with the energy of the city, the thought of leaving was devastating. The idea of finding happiness in other tree lined avenues or candle lit basement apartments was impossible. Portland had become so firmly linked to freedom in my mind, even the whisper of Seattle, San Fransisco, Port Angeles, Denver seemed adulterous. What could I do?

The pros and cons raged through my head night and day, dragging me down, and quite literally, began driving me mad. I began losing interest in everything – my job, my friends, writing, running, even my vices. I was consumed with the knowledge I had to leave…and just as consumed with the feeling of having nowhere to go. When my mom called the last day of June and told me I was welcome to move home and my parents would see me through this rough patch, I broke. Broke into a thousand pieces all over my bedroom floor. I spent all of July collecting them slowly…day by day…trying to patch them back together just long enough to make it through each hour until August 1st – the day I’d leave my home to go to a new one.

And so I came to Port Angeles. Scared as hell. I was almost 25 and living at home again for the first time since I was 18. Not quite what I envisioned when I was a kid. I had driven away from Hoyt House weeping and audibly asking my reflection in the rear view mirror, “What are you doing? What are you doing? This is your home.”

I was starting over. Again.

My one small comfort in leaving Portland was that regardless of how it looked to friends, or seemed in the moment I drove away,  unlike my move from Moscow to Portland, I was running towards, not away, from something this time. I feel like my move to Port Angeles was sprinting toward  something right – an opportunity to recuperate and get healthy – find a new job, a new niche, and a new city (Seattle) all with my parents and friends love, support, and encouragement.  The quiet knowledge that I was doing something hard, yet good for myself, kept me from questioning my decision too much or returning to Hoyt House.

Granted, I’m starting out twenty-five facing some uphill battles. Twenty-four took quite a toll.  However most of these fights are “easily” won (the logistics of relocating to a new city and all that entails) and I’m confident will be over shortly. Details keep falling into place, I stumbled – awkward and honest – into a relationship with a man who continues to amaze me more and more with each passing day, and I’m falling in love with a new city.  

Twenty-five is nothing like how I imagined it would be….

And that suits me just fine.

‘Tis the Season. A Ramble.

 

 Humans are animals. This we know. We might be the most intelligent in the animal kingdom, (although we would have stiffer competition if more creatures had opposable thumbs) but our basic instincts and desires are on par with the monkeys, giraffes, and rabbits.

And like the animals – our biological clocks kick into high gear during certain seasons.

I was reminded of this while FB chatting with a Portland friend the other day. As we were talking, a mutual friend’s status went from “Single” to “In a Relationship,” and our conversation came to a temporary stand still. I was amused at the particular coupling, and my friend made the comment, “This is ridiculous. This is my third friend in a month to get a boyfriend. People are just animals right now.”

 Spring gets a lot of hype for being the season of twitterpation, mating, coupling up, the birds & the bees etc etc…and while this is true on a certain level – I feel like the people who push this idea only get half of it right. The way people talk about spring, any single person would think that if they miss this three month blitz of carnal window shopping for a mate,  they are doomed to an uphill battle of trying to find a partner out of season for the next nine months.

From what I’m seeing, this could not be more false.

Sure, spring is Hook Up season, but what most people fail to mention is that spring is also Break Up seaon. 

When I first realized this, I thought the trend of breaking up in the spring (to be available for sexy summer shenanigans) was something I’d see less and less the farther I got from school/college age. But I’ve been out of school for a while now – and am friends with people who’ve been out of school for years – and the trend is just as strong and relationship patterns are just as predictable. Yes, everyone wants to hook up in the spring…maybe it’s the animal in us…but lots of people just want to mate with someone new. Of the people I know that have cheated on their partner, almost every person has done so in the spring – and through being caught, or owning up to it, has ended their steady relationship shortly after.

Being a Facebook addict, I couldn’t help noticing all the little broken heart emoticons popping up on my homepage starting in March. Of course there were a few people that attempted an “Open Relationship,” (possible in theory, ridiculous in practice) but those were also shortly followed by sad faces and Single statuses.

But now we’re in September…summer has come and gone…girls are retiring their short skirts, breaking out bulky sweaters/tea pots and about to get a lot less concerned with shaving their legs every day. Guys are trading cargos and bare chests for sweat pants, football, and beer guts. 

Cue Coupling season. Exactly what my friend was referring to.

This season, while just as predictable as Hook Up season, gets a lot less press. Perhaps because hunting for a mate to do cozy Sunday morning crosswords with is a lot less sexy than hunting for a mate to have no-strings-attatched crazy Sunday morning sex with – but who knows. * Who said crosswords can’t be sexy, anyways?*

Whether it’s the onset of chilly nights and our instincts telling us “two bodies are warmer than one,” or subtle cultural cues reminding us how nice bringing a boyfriend/girlfriend home for the holidays and having someone to bring us soup when we’re sick is…come fall, people start pairing off for the winter.  I’m going on five friends being coupled in the last two weeks alone. Craziness.

So, to my single friends out there who are mourning the loss of mating season, and worried about a lonely stretch of nights until next spring – fear not. Forget the short skirts and ripped tan muscles to snag a guy and girl – and project those cozy “nesting” vibes – the vibes that scream, “Your parents will love me…I will let you wear/I will look amazing in my/your oversized guy’s hoodie…I make a mean chicken noodle soup, and look hot while cooking it,”  and expect to be a participant of the Coupling trend shortly.

I’ll look for your status change.

Just Sayin’

Radiohead+Yo La Tengo+Imogen Heap on Pandora = solid mellow tunes even I can write to. Hurrah.

Love for Ben & Jerry’s

As it would happen, the original of this new flavor, “Chubby Hubby,” is my all time favorite ice-cream! Now I have one more reason to love it!

Read the story of the name change and Ben & Jerry’s awesome partnership with Freedom to Marry.

http://www.businesswire.com/portal/site/benjerry/?ndmViewId=news_view&newsId=20090901005358&newsLang=en 

Love for Prevention

Alright. I’m totally aware that Planned Parenthood gets a bad wrap from the Christian conservative world for being heartless baby killers  running centers that are raging cesspits of immorality leading young girls down the path of fornication and regret…BUT…I’m no longer a Chrsitian conservative, I can think whatever I want, and I’m here to say Planned Parenthood rocks my socks. This post is not about abortion – it’s about prevention.

While it is quite accurate that they offer abortions or abortion referral, what is often overlooked by the red faced Pro-lifers hurling insults and condemnation at it’s patients, is that most of the girls they’re harassing are there to obtain birth control, emergency contraception, or education about safe sex and STI prevention. Many of these girls are taking responsible steps toward preventing an unwanted pregnancy – and therefore a potential abortion.

To the protesting masses: Are you aware that in your over-zealous attempt to save an unborn fetus you are aiding in creating the very situations that lead young woman to obtain abortions? (i.e. girls not being able to obtain birth control) If, for one second, you believe a young 15,16, 23, 25 year old woman wants to navigate your disgusting crowd of judgement, even if it’s just to pick up birth control, you are even more crazy than it appears. Yes, you might be temporarily scaring girls away from an abortion- but for every pregnancy you “save,” you are invariably creating more headed for the garbage.

Does it help you sleep at night knowing you’ve done “God’s” work? Do you think he’s proud your Pro-Life and Abstinence Only campaigns have lead to your Christian daughters being so ashamed of  their desire for sex (protected or not) they’d rather risk pregnancy…and then abortion…to maintain the facade of sexual perfection you force upon them?   

Planned Parenthood is a haven for girls who feel like they can’t go to their parents with their questions on sex. It provides kind, judgement free education and alternatives to abortion through stressing the importance of prevention first – not clean-up afterwards. Their volunteers and staff are there because they care about young women and men – regardless of their religion, finances, race, and sexual preference. They wish nothing more than to prevent an unplanned or unwanted pregnancy – they do not go to work hoping a scared, desperate 16 year old, or selfish party-loving 26 year old, comes through the door looking for an abortion so they can gleefully rip another fetus from the womb.   

In a perfect world, Planned Parenthood would be so effective abortions wouldn’t be needed. In a perfect world, Christian parents would stop naively thinking their children will abstain until marriage and instead teach them the importance of loving themselves and their future children enough to use protection until they’re ready for a child.

But this is a far from perfect world- ALL parents, Christian or not, make mistakes. And so do their kids. That’s why places like Planned Parenthood are so vital to our country. Yes, I’m aware not every clinic is perfect. I’m sure many could use more funding to hire even better qualified staff.  But if the religious right knew just how many unwanted pregnancies were prevented by this organization – how many pastor’s, elder’s, deacon’s, choir leader’s families were spared  the humiliation of a “bastard” child because of free, confidential birth control pills – they would get down on their hypocritical knees and thank their God for the institution they campaign so hard against.

I’m just glad I don’t have to be appreciative in silence anymore. Thank you Planned Parenthood.

Love for animals.

My friend and her husband in Maryland just got two chinchillas. I went through a stage in highschool of trying to convince my parents to get me one…but to no avail. Now that I see pictures of theirs, I’m reminded of why I wanted one so badly.

Damnit.

I will not be content until I have a chinchilla.

   

Clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee, and….

A blog is a dangerous thing.

If you choose to make it public, you are inviting anyone and everyone – friends, strangers, lovers, enemies, exes, family, co-workers – into your headspace and encouraging them to sit and stay awhile. You’re allowing them to take a look around, study your words, and draw whatever conclusions they choose…conclusions about you, your life, your talent (or lack thereof), and often times, conclusions about how you view them as a person.  

Admittedly, I’m not exempt from reading friend’s blogs and thinking their post is directed at me…but by and large, unless specific names are named…or stories are rehashed that I was a part of, I don’t automatically assume someone is posting about me. The more pieces I share – and feedback I get (usually privately) – the more I’m finding I’m not the norm in this regard.

I used to think that I was a really transparent writer. I thought that whatever person my poetry was written about was painfully obvious. Apparently not. So I’m left with trying to figure out whether my writing is either faaar more general than I intended – or if the nature of people is to be more self centered than I ever imagined.

Either way, if you are a follower of this blog, take my posts, especially my attempts at poetry, with a grain of salt. I’m telling you, yes you, they’re. not. about. you. Don’t get me wrong – you’re totally worth writing about – but more than likely my thoughts about you haven’t warranted a blog. Yet.

A Brief List

In general I like to think that I’m a patient person. I worked with kids 3 and under for the past four and a half years – and that takes a good deal of patience. Living in a house with seven people took a large amount of patience as well…but tantrum throwing children and twenty-somethings are cake in comparison with this small list of things that drive me stark raving crazy with impatience.

1. Waiting for my english muffin/piece of toast/ego to pop out of the toaster. Don’t ask me why – but the 2 minutes it takes for my desired carbohydrate to jump from it’s little electrical cave and onto my plate all warm with toasty goodness just about does me in.

2. Waiting through the stupid shpeal my voicemail insists on subjecting me to before I can get to my messages. Yes, thank you, I’m aware of who I am and that I was unable to make it to the phone. Just let me hear my damn reminder to pay my phone bill or call my mother.

3. Waiting in line at the grocery store while the middle aged chatterbox checker discusses every item they check for the customer in front of me. Oh dear god – I’m sure poor Evelyn doesn’t want to have to justify why she bought Jolly Green Giant when the Western Family green beans were $1.30 cheaper. Checkers like this also make my skin crawl because it seems I always get the overly inquistive ones when I’m buying tampons or something of similarly personal nature.  

4. Waiting for a reply email in response to a message I desperately wished I’d proof read, or re-phrased the second after I sent it. Ugh. Nothing worse than rewriting a message 90 times in your head – the way you should have written it – while you’re waiting for a response. Chinese water torture is slightly less cruel than forcing someone to wait for a response while you mull over what they said for two days.

And…that’s about it. Bring on a tantrum or slurring drunken roommate…just give me my pop-tart and voicemail in a speedy manner and we’ll get along just fine.

Ghosts of Lovers’ Past

            An image currently running in a Safe Sex ad campaign in Canada.

                                                            Huh.

                      Quite possibly the least effective ad I’ve ever seen.

So…You think you wanna try online dating…

I’ve wanted to write something about this subject for a looooong time. So. Without further ado. (Note, this is going to be a helluva long post.)

I haven’t made it a secret that I’ve used online dating in the past. When I moved to Portland I only knew one person – literally – just ONE – and he, to put it nicely, was an asshat. I was starting a job as a nanny that offered little to no connection with anyone my age and I was living in Family-ville Beaverton…about 15 miles from downtown Portland. I figured joining an online dating site (Match.com to be specific) was just as good a way as any to meet people – and wouldn’t it be a pleasant surprise if I met someone worth dating? Well yes. That would have been a pleasant surprise. Over the course of the number of months I was on it, I met several truly fabulous men- none of whom I connected with in the necessary way to begin a relationship, but became friends with all the same.

I will soon be moving to Seattle. Thankfully, this is a city where I know more people than I did when I moved Portland – and one of my bestest friends EVER already lives there.

Grand total of people my age I know in Seattle: 12.
Number of those people I’d even remotely consider hanging out with: 4. Including said best friend.

While certainly an improvement, it is still a relatively small number of people to be acquainted with.

So I find myself considering the online dating realm once again. As per a friend’s advice, I’m forgo-ing Match (which is predominantly filled with twenty somethings looking to buy a house, find a wife, adopt a lab named Sam, and drive a nice mid-sized sedan – nothing wrong with this…it is just the farthest thing I could imagine myself signing on for right now – or ever.) Instead, I’m checking out Lovelab, on The Stranger website.

The Stranger is Seattle’s version of The Mercury (or vice versa). It is a free weekly alternative arts and culture newspaper. Its version of a dating profile is unlike any I’ve seen, and in short, is right up my alley – as are a number of the men and women signed up for it. It asks unusual questions, that while odd, if answered honestly give a unique and humorous insight into the kind of person you are dealing with. I can safely say that although many of the guys don’t fit my prefered demographic for dating, some certainly do, and many do for friendships. Anyways. I’ll stop defending this site. It’s a hoot and a socially acceptable way to find a date for Friday.

In short – I believe I have seen and learned enough to offer some constructive advice to any girl considering joining an online dating site (as well as a few words to the men already registered.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1.) People lie on their profile. Be aware of this. Men and women tend to lie about different things.

*Women: lie about their weight. Sorry honey, if you are 5’2 and 250lbs – you are not “Average.”
Be proud of being big and beautiful – do NOT post pictures of yourself 30,50, 70 lbs thinner. Yes, your personality may be phenomenal – but your personality is attached to your body. Do yourself, and the guys, a favor by being honest. They aren’t being an asshole if they don’t want to see you again after meeting – you lied about something pretty damn important from the get-go.

*Men: lie about their height, income, and often, hair: (I’ll only address height – because to be honest, I don’t care about the other two.) More than anything, dudes lie about height. Unless his height is over 6′, I always subtract at least one to two inches from what they claim. I’ve yet to be wrong on this. Like women know a common standard of beauty=thin, men know a common standard of attractiveness= tall.
Not all women, but many, myself included, will date a man her height if she really likes his personality/face/humor etc…we will date our height. Not shorter.
So men – save us and yourself some time and be honest about your height (and for that matter, your income and bald spot.)

2.) This suggestion piggy backs on numero uno. Unless he is just crazy crafty – and is looking for a girl with a heart of gold that would love him whether he looked like Brad Pitt or Quasimodo – there is a reason he hasn’t posted pictures of himself where you can see his face clearly. Same for women.
Online dating is glorified window shopping for a mate. People aren’t stupid. If they are aware they are not conventionally good looking, in 4 out of 5 cases they will post pictures in which it’s impossible to get a good idea of what they look like.
What is unfortunate, is usually these people are totally kick ass (well…that, or are total freaks) – but it goes back to number one. In my mind, not showing clear and accurate pictures of yourself is as bad as lying about what you do look like. You’re banking on hooking someone with your amazing humor and wit – and then praying to god they don’t run for the hills when you meet. It’s just not fair. Be honest. If you can’t find a date with an accurate picture – don’t post 10 pictures of mountains you’ve hiked, your motorcycle, or your cat.

3.) Speaking of cats, guys that post as many (or more) pictures of their cat as they do themselves are usually weirdos. Guys that post one or two pictures of their dog, along with pictures of themselves, are usually cool.

4.) Some people (both men and women) are just online looking for sex. Fine- whatever – I don’t really care, but it’d be nice if they’d be more upfront about their intentions. Ladies, if you are not looking for quick sex, here are a few ways to recognize guys that are:

a. They are very picky about what they are looking for physically in a woman.
b. They say they’re “not sure if they’re looking for anything serious right now.”
c. They throw out sexual innuendo on their profile, or early and often right after you begin talking with each other.
d. They blatantly say they love sex. (Um, yes, thank you- we all love sex. That’s a given. It doesn’t need to be said.)
e. They have pictures of themselves flexing without their shirts on (well…these types could also just be immature and lacking class or original thought…)

Obviously there are exceptions to every rule. But all of these combined in one profile is usually fairly telling.

5.) If he/she says they recently got out of a long term relationship – they either have an inability to be alone, or they’re looking for a rebound.

6.) For the love of Mike, if they openly say they are shy, selfish, arrogant, short-tempered (“fiery”), love porn, drink a lot, sleep a lot, dislike sports – believe them. Even if any of those things are followed by smiley or winky faces – they are usually being serious. If you are not ok with any of the traits he lists for himself either change your mind, or keep looking. It’s not fair to get into a relationship looking to change someone, especially if they were honest about their personality from the beginning.

7.) If a person does not spell/grammar check their profile and emails  it means something. Keep looking.

8.) Once you’ve started corresponding with someone, if you’re interested in each other, set up a date to meet as soon as possible.
Everyone is at their best and brightest over email. Meet quickly. This keeps you from the inevitable emotional attachment and the pie-in-the-sky hopes they are exactly the same in real life. They’re never the same. But, when you’re lucky, they’re better.

9.) As an unapologetically, completely maternal piece of advice: Let someone know where you’re meeting this person and who they are. I completely defend online dating – but dear god, there’s some freaks out there. Don’t be a Dateline special.

Alright, that’s “all” I can think of for now. As time goes on, there will likely be more to come….Cheers.

Cellar Musings

And the girl you believed you knew fades from view, replaced, unexpected, by a woman you never concieved she could be. The distant thunder of future loathing begins to rumble through your chest and your breath catches on the exhale.

The growing realization that she is no longer your instrument to play is strangely unsettling as you lean forward taking your next shot across the green pointless pastime- the roll and clash of solids and stripes set the tempo to the music she is composing with someone new… melody inviting yet unremarkable, new to your ears – finally open to the chord progessions that used to play for you alone.

She is winning at a game that has no rules, chin up- eyes wide- lips parted- heart open. Unaware the first move had been made – you’ve already lost. At least in her mind. Shake your head like you shook off her affection, concentrate on the new piece, square like you accuse him of being, and stutter like first grade for something to say that steals into her mind and unlocks bolted passages to insecurities.

But the locks are changed. The keys unfamiliar as the eyes that stare through you searching for something you will never be again – an inspiration. Beat your familiar phrases til they bleed, they will never ellicit another sigh of adoration.

Feeling vicious and redeemed she discerns your uncertainty and cruelty that will surely progress as the nights get warmer. Liquid courage, simmering, boiling, will explode and all the previous plans of Renaissance and change will ignite and burn burn burn this new friendship to the ground.

Oh god, really?

Wow.

I don’t know about you, but there’s nothing more tragic/funny/mind-numbing than finding out people that have only known each other six months are getting married.

I understand that you are 23 and think that what you’re feeling is significant and different than anything you’ve felt before…but getting married is not the way to prove to her friends that you meant it when you said, “I’ll never cheat on her again. Like, I mean it this time.”

The state of marriage in America is so unhealthy it amazes me that anyone bothers to even try anymore. Were it not for every woman’s dream of being a bride, and every guy’s relief at the tax cuts it will bring, I don’t believe marriage would be high on ANY thinking person’s priority list.

Say what you will about “love” being the reason people want to get married – but I for one plan on LOVE being the thing that keeps me with my significant other and not some $45 piece of paper and fear of divorce papers from my lawyer.

Works in Progress

The darkness is starting to lift. The soles of my feet dragging away from a life I thought I’d never leave ignited a spark that is becoming a flame.
Flickers of hope dance across the deep blue waters that surround me here
and cast dancing shadows on these walls -darkly illuminating a smile that is reaching my eyes after making my lips a false plaything for so long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m genuinely excited to visit Portland this weekend. Not long before I moved out, three truly lovely souls moved into Hoyt House. Although I got to know them on a decent level – sharing bottles of booze, artistic hopes, and the occasional emotional outburst- I believe it’s fair to say the girl that is returning Sunday is not the one who left – nor the one they met in June.

To think that I’ll be meeting them again without being shrouded in the thick veil of sadness that clung to me for so many months…well, that’s something to look forward to.

Not that I have no misgivings about visiting. I’ll be entering Hoyt House with caution. The energies that reside in that house – and their ever raging battle for dominance – bring out the best and worst in me. I can only hope that my exit has done the house as much good as it has done me…and that I’m not entering a battlefield.

We shall see.

A Parting Ramble

I know I will write more about Hoyt House…but these were some rambling lines I jotted down…and left on the fridge before I left today.

We’re all orphans in these rooms.
Wandering hopeful children we came here to mend what is
beyond repair, in search of the illusive muse we’ve heard
feels like “belonging.”

We’ve met Heartbreak on these streets and passed
Redemption on these bridges. Smiled with Despair and made
Chance our lover.

Drawn to each other through fate or karma –
our lives writing stories of truths and regret.

Nights composed of sighs and laughter melted down to a
slow steady note
keeping time with the beat from Burnside.
We’re creating – building – praying to Art
we’re crossing bridges not easily burned.

And as the door closes behind me – it swings on hinges forged of
memory and Hope.

Doubles

And your ridiculous belief that you’ll spend sun filled days in laughter and exotic breezes is so optimistic of a relationship built on ink soaked pages of best feet forward and unbroken promises.

Games. Games, running walking talking circles around who you’ve always been. Twisting, turning spheres of words, your gift and vice, round your head to unlock a door to who you should have been long before now.

Words. Words, begging pleading, striving to convince us, as much as yourself, that this is who you want to be, were meant to be, truly are inside.

This nymph, quiet, demure, pleasing in simplicity and gut wrenching nerve grating with innocence would make us sick if it weren’t for the silent amusement she brings us. Laughter spills from our eyes and drops to the floor in front of you – quickly swept out of sight so she can’t see we’re giving you away with smirks.

Sigh. Sigh for the love you could lose when your true colors show, and the flash of lightening you’ve magically caught through her would extinguished in the haze you’ve persuaded her you’re free of.

Hide. Hide in sincere smiles shared only through pictures and during the scheduled peaceful evenings and passion filled mornings of regular weekends.

Deny. Deny yourself, one piece at a time, until the man we all know for what he is – and love anyway – gives in silently and becomes the stability girls like her desperately seek…one more screw in the machine of mundane normality, living to see old age, and loving to avoid dying alone.

Hope. Hope that this will end in whisky drenched rages against women and relationships. That your eyes will adjust to the naivity screaming from your entwined hands and lingering smiles.

Smile. Smile back as me as I grin in pitying wonder that you too have succumbed to the soul binding crutch that is monogamy.

Learn. Learn your lesson one more time with wasted years attempting the impossible. You will never be tied down, and this ridiculous dream of sun filled days and exotic breezes will fade into the nightmare we all forsee so clearly.

Good luck.

A Brave Man. I heart you Stephen Colbert.

For whatever awesome mischance Stephen Colbert was asked to give the main address at the 2006 White House Correspondents’ dinner…I absolutely cannot believe this speech didn’t get more press…It’s a beautiful and hilarious thing. Totally worth the time to watch it!!

Part 1:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qa-4E8ZDj9s

Part 2:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MOYZF3It848

Part 3:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iAvFM4TYQKU

Love Hurts

I stumbled across this piece while going through old files of my writing earlier today. Most of my writing in the past six months has been inspired by the rollercoaster of insanity I deemed a “relationship,” but not this piece. I remember writing this in a drunken haze after learning that one of my friends was in an abusive relationship…and refused to leave it, regardless of the pain, physical and mental, she was enduring.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hit me

Shake me

Push me

Slap me til I’m black and blue and cannot stand.

Burst vessels behind my eyes as the tidal waves of pain thunder in my ears and rattle the marrow in my jaw.

Countless times would I stand up again just to be laid flat- quiet my pleas and accept the apology rolling from your trite, sober tongue in the morning.

But. You are not so kind.

Your attack leaves no bruises. The tongue, quicker than any upraised hand strikes with the force of a head on collision – over before the sound registers.

The sickening crunch of cruel truths and lies fill the room and I’m thrown

 shattered to pieces

 mind splitting, arteries pouring pulsating streams of red all over the floor where we first made love.

I stand, broken but somehow whole and search for a lone whisper of defiance rattling around my chest.

Nothing.

I exhale, empty, and stumble to our bed. Sore, one more night, hoping in vain the morning will open your eyes and you’ll see again what lured you so long ago.

Love. This violent sickness will kill me yet.

Love for Humans

Shadow Art by Tim Noble and Sue Webster

The human mind is a beautiful and complex thing.

Three cheers for random acts of kindness

Tonight in the bakery section of Fred Meyers, a nice looking guy about my age grabbed a loaf of bread beside me, paused, and said in the way of old friends, “You look really cute today!” And walked away with a big smile.

I managed to squeeze out a “Thank you!” before he turned, and I stared back at the loaves of dark rye, embarassed yet more pleased than I can express by his random compliment and positive energy.

I turned to follow him with my eyes, somehow hoping the smile I was shooting at his back registered in his mind and he could sense how completely happy I was in that moment and how that one tiny act of kindness literally turned my whole day around, filling me with the warmest fuzzies I’ve had in quite some time.

Call it cheesy, but I feel the absolute need to put it out into the universe since I will never meet him again – to my kind stranger today – thank you, thank you, for taking a second to make a sad girl’s evening. Your genuine smile and words meant more than you know. I hope my embarassment didn’t overshadow my happiness, and that you benefited as much from giving the compliment as I did recieving it.

Moral of the story~ Share the love y’all. You never know how much one sentence can improve someone’s outlook.

Seen While Driving…

If it hadn’t been for the fact I was attempting to pacify two screaming 2 year olds hollering for sippy cups in the backseat, adjusting the volume on my radio so I could hear the voicemail I had playing on speakerphone, and keeping my travel mug of tea from tipping over – I would definitely have given the driver of the car bearing this, and only this, bumper sticker an enthusiastic thumbs up as I pulled past her at the stop light.

Thank you, Douglas Wood!

In my line of work I read many many many children’s books. Over the past five years I’ve worked for several different families, each one differing in the values and beliefs they want their children to be raised with. Guaranteed, if a parent wants a certain belief or moral code built into their child, there will be multiple kid’s books laying around that present the message in a way that not only conveys the beliefs in a simple, easily understandable way, but also with a air of truth, guiding the child to believe the principles/stories are Truth (capital T) from the beginning.

 

Because of my very intense aversion to organized religion, I’ve struggled with reading some of the stories I’ve found on these children’s shelves. I take my job very seriously – I work with children during very formative years of their lives, and its hard for me in good conscience to read them books that present make believe as fact, and fiction as history – a history worth building their life on.

When one of the kids toddled up to me with this book in their hand, and I flipped through it only to see GOD sprawled across every other page, I was inwardly irritated. Having had a rough morning battling multiple tantrums and hot sticky weather, I was looking forward to naptime. But, knowing that refusing the book might induce another fit of tears, I sighed and snuggled the munchkin on my lap, opened the book, and prepared to present another set of ideas that I staunchly believed he’d be better without.

By the end of the book I was so relieved I could have cried. It’s an amazing book – a beautifully illustrated story presenting the even more beautiful truth of God’s presence not being confined to one entity or philosophy – but part of everything on earth.

I was so jazzed about the book in fact, that I copied it out and posted it below for you all to take a look at if you are so inclined 🙂 I can’t recommend this book, or this author, more highly!

 

 

 

Old Turtle by Douglas Wood

Once, long long ago…yet somehow, not so very long…

When all the animals and rocks and winds and waters and trees
And birds and fish and all the beings of the world could speak…and understand one another…

There began…AN ARGUMENT.

It began softly at first…

Quiet as the first breeze that whispered, “He is a wind who is never still.”
Quiet as the stone that answered, “He is a great rock that never moves.”
Gentle as the mountain that rumbled, “God is a snowy peak, high above the clouds.”
And the fish in the ocean that answered, ” God is a swimmer, in the dark, blue depths of the sea.”

“No,” said the star, “God is a twinkling and a shining, far, far away.”
“No,” replied the ant, “God is a sound and a smell and a feeling, who is very, very close.”

“God,” said the antelope, ” is a runner, swift and free, who loves to leap and race with the wind.”
“She is a great tree,” murmured the willow, “a part of the world, always growing and always giving.”

“You are wrong,” argued the island, “God is separate and apart.”
“God is like the shining sun, far above all things,” said the blue sky.
“No, He is a river, who flows through the very heart of things,” thundered the waterfall.

“She is a hunter,” roared the lion.
“God is gentle,” chirped the robin.
“He is powerful,” growled the bear.

And the argument grew LOUDER and LOUDER and LOUDER…

Until…

STOP!

A new voice spoke.

It rumbled loudly, like thunder. And it whispered softly, like butterfly sneezes. The voice seemed to come from… Why it seemed to come from…Old Turtle!

Now, Old Turtle hardly ever said anything, and certainly never argued about things like God.
But now Old Turtle began to speak. “ God is indeed deep,” she said to the fish in the sea; “and much higher than high,” She told the mountains.

“He is swift and free as the wind, and still and solid as a great rock,” She said to the breezes and stones. She is the life of the world,” Turtle said to the willow. “Always close by, yet beyond the farthest twinkling light,” She told the ant and the star.

“God is gentle and powerful. Above all things and within all things. “God is all the we dream of,
And all that we seek,” said Old Turtle, “all that we come from and all that we can find.

“God IS.”

Old Turtle had never said so much before. All the beings of the world were surprised, and became very quiet. But Old Turtle had one more thing to say.

“There will soon be a new family of beings in the world,” she said, “and they will be strange and wonderful. They will be reminders of all that God is. They will come in many colors and shapes
with different faces and different ways of speaking. Their thoughts will soar to the stars,
but their feet will walk the earth. They will possess many powers. They will be strong, yet tender, a message of love from God to the earth, and a prayer from the earth back to God.”

And the people came.

But the people forgot. They forgot that they were a message of love, and a prayer from the earth. And they began to argue… About who knew God – and who did not; and where God was, and was not; and whether God was, or was not. And often the people misused their powers, and hurt one another. Or killed one another. And they hurt the earth.

Until finally even the forests began to die… and the rivers and the oceans and the planets and the animals and the earth itself…Because the people could not remember who they were, or where God was.

Until one day there came a voice, like the growling of thunder; But as soft as a butterfly sneezes,

Please, STOP.

The voice seemed to come from the mountain who rumbled, “Sometimes I see God swimming, in the dark blue depths of the sea.”
And from the ocean who sighed, “He is often among the snow-capped peaks, reflecting the sun.”
From the stone who said, “I sometimes feel her breath, as she blows by.”
And from the breeze who whispered, “I feel his still presence as I dance among the rocks.”
And the star said, “God is very close.”
And the island said, “His love touches everything.”

And after a long, lonesome, and scary time…

..the people listened, and began to hear…

And to see God in one another… and in the beauty of all the Earth.

And Old Turtle smiled.

And so did God.

An Open Letter to The Giving Tree

I could not get this book out of my head tonight….and felt the need to write about it. Here’s the story in case you’ve forgotten the details:

The Giving Tree
by Shel Silverstein

Once there was a tree….. and she loved a little boy. And every day the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest. He would climb up her trunk and swing from her branches and eat apples. And they would play hide-and-go-seek. And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade. And the boy loved the tree…….very much. And the tree was happy.

But time went by. And the boy grew older. And the tree was often alone. Then one day the boy came to the tree and the tree said, “Come, Boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy.”

“I am too big to climb and play,” said the boy. “I want to buy things and have fun. I want some money. Can you give me some money?”

“I’m sorry,” said the tree, “but I have no money, I have only leaves and apples. Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city. Then you will have money and you will be happy.”

And so the boy climbed up the tree and gathered her apples and carried them away. And the tree was happy.

But the boy stayed away for a long time… and the tree was sad. And then one day the boy came back and the tree shook with joy and she said, “Come, Boy, climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and be happy.”

“I am too busy to climb trees,” said the boy. “I want a house to keep me warm. I want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house. Can you give me a house?”

“I have no house,” said the tree. “The forest is my house, but you may cut off my branches and build a house. Then you will be happy.” And the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house. And the tree was happy.

But the boy stayed away for a long time. And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak. “Come, Boy,” she whispered, “Come and play.”

“I am too old and sad to play,” said the boy. “I want a boat that can take me far away from here. Can you give me a boat?”

“Cut down my trunk and make a boat,” said the tree. “Then you can sail away…… and be happy.” And so the boy cut down her trunk and made a boat and sailed away.

And the tree was happy…. but not really.

And after a long time the boy came back again.

“I am sorry, Boy,” said the tree, “but I have nothing left to give you. My apples are gone.”
“My teeth are too weak for apples,” said the boy.
“My branches are gone,” said the tree. “You cannot swing on them.”
“I am too old to swing on branches,” said the boy.
“My trunk is gone,” said the tree. “You cannot climb.”
“I am too tired to climb,” said the boy. “I am sorry,” sighed the tree. “I wish that I could give you something—— but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump.”
“I don’t need very much now,” said the boy. “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired.”
“Well,” said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, “Well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.” And the boy did.

And the tree was happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m not quite sure what brought this story into my mind this evening, but once it was there, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I have warring memories of this book from childhood. On one side, I have the very charming, eye clouding nostalgic memory of adoring this story for the simple black and white illustrations that so beautifully exemplify the concept of self sacrificing love.

On the other side, I have the vivid memory of an indignant, overly sensitive 8 year old me fighting back tears as I hollered at my mom – “The Boy didn’t DESERVE the Tree. How could he be so….so….SELFISH?! How could he cut! her! down!”

To be honest, knowing me, the latter is probably the accurate memory, and all warm fuzzy feelings connected with the story came about from later readings – but for whatever reason, I remembered the story tonight and was really troubled by it…and felt the need to write what my freshman English teacher called, “an emotional response,” to sort it out before going to bed.

An Open Letter to the Tree:

Dear Ms. Tree:

     Thank you for your cautionary tale. On behalf of all women who have been used by a man until they are little else than a lonely desperate lump, I feel your pain. I know what it’s like to experience the honeymoon phase of a relationship – full of games, sharing, and laughter…the days all drifting together into one beautiful stretch of contentment that you naively believe will never end.
     But as you know, they always do.
     I too know the feelings of longing while you watch the boy, turned man, that used to enjoy only you- find joy in someone new…and the inner shivers of excitement and hope that course through you when they return in a moment of weakness.
Like yourself, I gladly offered my support and love hoping that I would find happiness in his joy – even if it was without me.
      But I’m writing this letter to tell you in case no one ever has: The Boy was an ungrateful asshole. You deserve so much better than a man-child who used and ravaged you until there was nothing left of yourself for you to enjoy. You could have grown mighty and tall long ago. Given life to so many more thankful, kind people – had not your emotions and inability to let go of the past blinded you to your potential.
      By the time you receive this letter, the Boy will most certainly have died. Good riddance. Please do not mourn the loss of said ingrate another day. Your story has inspired me to put an end to pathetic attempts at self sacrifice in hopes of winning back lost love – and I write this letter to remind you that tomorrow is a new day – and you have the ability to grow again and reach heights previously unattainable while pining after a dumb male. Your kind and giving demeanor will most definitely attract the right sort of man this time around – as long as you remember to respect yourself and not settle for the first thing that wants to climb your trunk and eat your apples.
     Thank you again for sharing your story of years lost. Although I hurt for you that you suffered countless lonely nights, I rest in the wisdom of your age that you will do things differently this time around – and keep sharing your story in hopes that future women will avoid wasting their talents and gifts on awful boys.

All the best,
Esther

No Love for the Zoo

If you live in Portland and have kids, know anyone that has kids, work with kids, or possibly kidnapped a child for the day – you were at the Oregon Zoo last Wednesday morning. From now on, whenever I hear the phrase, “It was a zoo in there!” I will instantly associate it with the mayhem that I experienced there this past week.

Now, it’s not uncommon for the zoo to be busy on a nice day in Portland. Wednesday was not only a nice day – but it was the FIRST nice day after about a week and a half of rainy days, it was pay day for many, and *Drum roll* the PBS Kids show Between the Lions was performing 3 live shows all before 1 pm.

I arrived to the zoo parking lot a mere three minutes after the zoo was scheduled to open. After racing three minivans, two suvs, and one god awful huge truck thru the lot of compact car spaces, I squeeeezed into one of the only remaining available parking spots at the very back of the lot.

For the first time ever, I decided to forgo the bane of my existence (a.k.a. the double stroller) and storm the zoo armed only with a backpack of snacks, diapers, water, and my own two (already sweaty) hands. This. Was. A. Horrible. Mistake.

We trekked across the lot only to arrive at the entrance to the zoo where every line – all eight of them – was backed up so far people were waiting in the loading zones in the parking lot. Looking around at the other parents’ faces I realized I was not alone in my belief that the gates in front of me were actually leading to the mouth of hell – not a fun filled morning with the kids.

Cursing every person who ever felt the need to remind me how lucky I am to have such an easy job, I got in line. Within seconds, there was a troop of six more behind us: 2 six year old boys (twins), 1 young girl (probably 8 or so), a frazzled mom, and a grouchy grandma pushing a screaming shoe throwing 2 year old.

I inched forward, attempting -unsuccessfully – to gain a foot of much needed personal space from the madness behind me. Apparently I need to work on my stink eye, because whatever look I was shooting over my shoulder at the grandma pushing the stroller so far forward she was on the back of my flip flop, was NOT working.

Discontent with merely irritating me through poor stroller driving, bitch grandma made it personal by attempting to push me out of the line and cut in front of me not five minutes later. At this, I grasped Noah and Hayden’s slippery hands firmly and said loudly enough for her to hear, ” Step forward boys – WE’re in this line, too.”

Hoping I had made my point (passive) aggressively enough, I bent down to get the boy’s sippy cups out of the bag. No sooner had I taken her out of my range of sight, said awful human being pushed forward AGAIN trying to force me out of line.

I shot up and spun around, opening my mouth (fully preparing to say something worth getting fired over) but before I could get anything out, the little 8 year old turned to the bitch with the stroller and said, “Grandma – be careful – we don’t want to cut in front of them!”

Polite kids rock my socks. Especially when they have such poor examples of common decency to learn from. It never ceases to amaze me when I meet a rude old person who expects respect merely because they’ve managed to stay alive so long. The idea that they deserve leniency in their old age, and that their impolite behavior should be excused, is ludicrous. The elderly, of all people, have had more time on this planet to learn the value of kindness and patience.

Thankfully, Grandma was shamed into a grudging courtesy, and I spent the remaining 15 minutes in line only having to worry about the wild animals attached to my own two arms.

I could labor the nightmare the rest of the morning at the zoo was – but I won’t. At the end of the day, the stress of the outing was balanced out by the fact the boys were so exhausted they crashed out for three simultaneous hours and I got to mellow out and regain my sanity. Thank goodness for naps.

And…I’m done.

It’s a sad sorry state of affairs, Batman

You know you are having a rough night when a 20 year old homeless kid who has only eaten three times in the past week and girlfriend is breaking up with him tells you, “It’s going to be ok. Things will get better.” And when later thanked for the comfort says with a shake of his head, “You just looked so broken.”

Napkin Scrawls

Every last Thursday in Portland, NE Alberta shuts down and the streets overflow with hopeful musicians, starving artists, and vendors peddling everything from feather and bone earrings to psychedelic mushroom chocolates. The bars are filled to capacity and the Portlanders spilling out onto the pavements can wait their turn for a table while enjoying firedancers or hulu hoop competitions in front of packed stores and coffee shops.

This previous last Thursday, PDX was blessed with an unusally perfect Spring night, and for all my good intentions of spending the evening editing and writing more, I felt something larger than myself beckoning me out. My friend Dave agreed to accompany me across the river after he got off work, and although we were pretty sure we had missed most of the action due to our late departure, we decided to chance it and check it out regardless.

We arrived to Alberta and were relieved to find the party was still in full swing. We walked the streets, not quite grounded, stopping here and there to listen to a lonely guitar or folk band, enjoying the warm breeze and variety of lifestyles on display. Parched, we began the difficult task of finding a bar with an empty chair or two. We were just about to head back to the car, thirsty and disappointed, when we heard what Dave swore was an accordion coming from the Alberta Street Public House. I was down, so we went in to investigate.

Dave, a composer and lyrical enthusiast, just about had a musical orgasm when he saw that yes, in fact there WAS an accordion – and even better- there was a Russian folk/ska band rocking out on stage. All I knew is that I wanted to groove and join the mass of sweaty hippie dancers already gyrating around the beer slick floor.

The room got hotter with every patron and before long we were sweating and dancing under the red lights along with the rest of the crowd, ordering round after round of Fat Tire just to stay sane in the heat. I was pretty convinced that meeting this band was what had called me out that night, until I saw the fiddle player for the Main act take the stage.

“Oh god,” I said to Dave, “HE’s why I’m here.”

The Tequila Mockingbird Orchestra (G.T.S.) raged for close to 2 hours and ended by announcing their upcoming concert at the Someday Lounge that Saturday. Having eyed the fiddle player mercilessly from the beginning, I summoned my liquid courage, boiling by this point, and introduced myself…more accurately, accosted the poor guy and rambled about life, screaming with delight upon each new thing we had in common. His smile kept lighting up with what I believed, at the time, was attraction, while in hindsight I’m inclined to think was pure amusement. However, my sincere enthusiasm (read – unadulterated mindblowing drunken adoration) for his previous position as a “Manny” won his interest for a few more minutes, and lead him to ask what I did when I wasn’t nanny-ing.

“I’m a WRITER” I yelled, laughing at myself, partly for professing to be a legitimate writer, partly because I realized, even in that moment, how crazy what I was about to do was.

“Oh really?” His smile literally made me weak in the knees.

“Want to read some?!!” Not pausing for an answer, I fished through my abyss of a shoulder suitcase for the napkin I’d been scrawling on some 30 minutes before.

The first one I shoved into his hand was some ridiculous lesbian sounding atrocity about this stunning girl dancing in front of me most of the night – which I could tell within seconds was NOT the napkin I had intended for him.

“Oh god, not THAT one, Sorry!” And I snatched it out of his hand, thrusting a second, more crumpled piece of paper into his hand.

Red lights, sexual only for the music that’s about to bring us ecstasy.
Racing thoughts of sweat slick encounters with the man playing the strings like
I want him to play me.
Energy tangible
Desire audible
Heat unbearable
The beat flows through us easier than this poison
And we Smile.

“Wow. I like that one. I really like that one…”

And I went home smiling like an idiot, half a torn napkin, crumbled in a ball to be found at the bottom of my bag in the morning – the other half tucked neatly into his pocket with my cell number that he had requested.

Well, the weekend came and went and he didn’t call – perhaps he lost the napkin, perhaps his half also ended up in a crumpled ball, unceremoniously discarded after witnessing me skip, yes, skip out of the bar. Either way, once the sheer humiliation over my actions wore off the next day, I was able to find joy that one by one my inhibitions as a writer were falling away…which I realize now was the real thing beckoning me out that evening, and most evenings now.

Cheers Friends.

 

 

Brother Dave and I

Alberta Street Public House

It Can Wait

I lie and wait for inspiration in this sun bathed attic confessional. Tiny miracles of flight sing outside my window, a beautiful break in the silence of early morning hangovers. Contentment is impossible with a mind this full, and I’m raging inside this still room – memories of seconds, made of eternities in glances. I pray for the day I will find inspiration in other’s eyes.

This pathetic kindergarten infatuation propelled by unplanned moments of absolute abandon between sheets in patched walled basement rooms is proving too much. He is the most unwelcome muse imaginable, making it impossible to share the only worthwhile endeavors into our art because absurd devotion, written explicit, is too honest for a Sunday morning.

The leaves shivering in the breeze outside my window beckon me from my cradle of solitude. Tonight is looming before me – my first half hearted attempt of finding something new – in something old – is exhausting. There will be laughter and flirtation no doubt. A brush here, a sigh there, leading him to believe I’m the kind of girl, twelve years junior, that wants nothing more than a silver fox substitute for legitimate attraction to buy her Coach and rail her senseless. I might be cliché, but I’m not that girl.

I feel the sun will not wait a moment longer. I have all day to write. But as I sit up, three hundred words changes nothing and the weight of sighs and undefined past moments is proving too heavy for this room, and this girl, and this house. Having everywhere to go, yet no desire to leave I lay back down. And simply open a window.

Choices choices

Orange lights glow, barely illuminating the dark booths which embrace our bodies and hide our thoughts from outside observation. We are a tedious mistake in the making, formulating excuses in advance to mask this complication which is smoldering more intensely with every drop we swallow.

I recline and make a routine show of affection for the boy beside me, never taking my eyes off your face and the black frames that were the window to my initial attraction. Viewing you through golden wheat poison and heavy coffeehouse beat I could care less about what we are on a road rage drunken mission to destroy. What is comradery in comparison with the heat induced intoxicating question our meeting is posing?

I close my eyes and drift to the pulse of the music, a curious smile plays with the corner of your mouth, head nodding in agreement to my energy. There’s nothing to do but to dance, so we stumble from the cave, and I pause to kiss your friend in assurance of loyalty he’s done nothing to earn.

The question hangs in the air, even weeks later, as springtime evenings chase the breeze into summer nights and mornings full of awkward silences…..

….A question, doomed to be unanswered, when honor, such a forgotten quality, emerges in us both during a stolen moment of complete solitude.

We sleep alone that night, sighing in expectation for the day our integrity will reward us with someone new, unspoken for, requiring little self control and even less restraint. Honor, such a forgotten quality, battles my desire to forgo discretion and attempt another meeting. Long hot nights seem unbearable alone, but disloyalty is an even worse bed companion, so away I drift into dreamless sleep, and wake up to a new day, unsatisfied, alone, still searching, but exhaustibly respectable.

To my darling niece, Camilla

I woke up Saturday morning (June 27th) an aunt for the first time. My brother Josh and his lovely wife Paula welcomed Camilla Calliope Eva-Marie Frances Jerusalem Jubilee Gibbs to the world at 4:54am. She weighed an impressive 8 lbs 5 oz and is, in my completely objective opinion, the most beautiful baby that has ever been born.

I’m ridiculously excited to be an aunt, and am bound and determined to be, “the fun one.”

This is the inscription in the card I’m mailing to Camilla and her parents tomorrow morning…personal, yeah, but I feel like it sums up my view on life , so I thought I’d share it…:)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To my niece, Ms. Camilla Calliope Eva-Marie Frances Jerusalem Jubilee ~

A few pieces of advice from your adoring Aunt:

Welcome, welcome beautiful child to this amazing wondrous world. You are already dearly loved by so many people.

You were conceived with thought, passion, and love ~ a perfect combination of motivations and a powerful foundation to build your life upon.

You are blessed to be the first born of two parents who greatly value and respect human life and have already done so much to make this world a more lovely place by creating countless pieces of art that bring joy to all that know them. You are, and always will be, the most significant and precious of these creations.

Life is a gift, as overwhelming in beauty as it is in pain. Pain is necessary for survival; it is an instrument that helps teach us right from wrong, as well as what is important enough to endure it. Beauty is equally as necessary for survival, as it is the physical manifestation of the divine within all things; searching it out within every person and situation can give hope in the bleakest of circumstances. Love Beauty.

Throughout your life, the ever crumbling corporate world will try and convince you happiness is attainable through possessions and social status. This is a lie. Monetary and social success is as inconstant and fickle as the weather, and loving these things will weigh you down and steal your youth. Happiness can always be found in nature. The skies, oceans, rivers, fields, and trees sigh collectively with you as you dream, will always offer refuge, and never be a place of judgment. You will never see a reflection of God in a bank account, but the Divine is undeniable in the shadow of a mountain. Love Nature.

You are the child of two souls who deeply long for peace although you are being born into a world at war. Nations are battling nations, ideals are warring with each other, and the Church would have you bring battles of faith into your home. We are told the things worth fighting to protect are the things worth dying for. Nothing worth sacrificing your life for would ever ask you to do so. Love Peace.

There is a joy unlike any other that is felt when you step back to survey a piece of yourself exhibited through an artistic medium. Clay, canvas, ink, paper, half notes, quarter notes, an arm outstretched to rhythmic beat…the human gift of creating art separates us from the animals and enables us to beautify the world and the lives of everyone we come in contact with. Never limit yourself artistically – adhering to boundaries is the death of new thought and self expression. Never underestimate the power you have to change the world through creating. Love Art.

The dream of a world at peace will never be brought to pass if we do not foster love, forgiveness, and acceptance within our families first. No doubt you and your parents will disagree – there will be times you will be right and they won’t see it. It is always acceptable to question what they teach you, not to ignore it. They want nothing but what they believe is good and right for their extraordinary daughter with an extraordinary name. The power of family is the most underrated, yet powerful force in the world today. Love Family.

Finally ~ I’ve said a lot about the world. It is a wonderful place…even more wonderful because you are now in it. There are things about it you will never understand, hard as you may try. Let your curiosity for the unknown drive you to discovery, not madness. Hunger for insight, don’t insist upon it. Do not create explanations for the unexplainable. Faith for faith’s sake is not beautiful and innocent, it is foolish. Love for love’s sake is foolish – but grand. Do everything in your power to learn and experience as much as you can. Don’t be afraid of making mistakes – life is what happens when you’re picking yourself up after falling down. Take chances. Be brave. Love Yourself.

I love you, precious niece.

Your crazy aunt,
Esther

Blue Moon Advances

The difference between who I am and who I used to be cannot be learned in one conversation over a sunset orange beer. Knowing that I am the consistent fallback of a twenty something, mid level management accountant who spends his days praying for the paycheck that will catapult him into a one bedroom luxury loft over looking the Pearl is the last thing I needed at the end of this day. Laughing over what used to be, and feeling awkward as our first kiss explaining what my current reality is could not be more uncomfortable. Please, god, yes, take your exit of this bar and this conversation and call the girl you should have in the first place. You know – the one I used to be – the sure thing – and fuck her until she feels better about herself and you feel like half the man you’ll never be. Who would have guessed your shallowness ran so deep.

Relapse

I committed emotional suicide that night. All night. Overdosing on the most potent drug ever taken. Two months of withdrawls and rehab just to end back at Step One. Square One. One moment of weakness lead to hours of relapse.

And now what? The bruises are starting to show. The slightest graze of my collar bone and the imprint of your hand leaps to the surface, aching and throbbing with a dull burn that is the only validation of what I would have considered a dream.

Living in such a way for weeks as to avoid pain if possible- now I’m terrified for when these hurts will fade. Every few moments reaching up to my neck, touching the marks as if they were salvation, not what they are in fact – the very damnation to a hell of my own contrivance.
For now I welcome the pain. It makes each blurred memory clear again, and for two seconds I’m there – your hands around my neck – your lips on my spine – our fevered skin slick with the effort we’re both exerting to escape this reality with the heroin of loveless fucking.
Engaging in an act so blasphemous to the nature of friendship that we have to be seven hours, eight drinks deep to even consider it. Both of us hesitating moments before the necessary sequence is set into being that will lead to me lying here, writing this shit just to cope with my own inability to get over it.

And as the poison courses through our systems, exiting our bodies, bearing testament on your damp sheets there is a pause. Coming down is painful, reality is cruel, and your eyes are not a gentle landing. There is a silent acknowledgment of what is happening and how it changes nothing. And so I spin circles in my head and twist your sheets into knots as I drift off to sleep. Your arms around me a false show of what is profoundly absent and how any attempt at escaping this relapse is futile. So I stay.

Renaissance

What else is there to live for but this? Breaking boundaries, creating art, sharing ideas-love-bodies-vices. Exploding through the self made ceiling of what I thought I was capable of. Refusing to limit myself and let fear of rejection keep me from expressing what I believe to be the very nature of truth and purpose to the life I’m blessed to be living now.

Unlimited Ignorance

Another piece from my original blog…

HPV, or the Human Papillomavirus, is the number one cause of cervical cancer in women – a disease that kills almost 250,000 women a year worldwide. Over half the American population – both men and women – have HPV at some point in their life. (1) In most cases it clears up on its own, and for men, the effects are minimal and curable. But for women it can lead to both cervical cancer and infertility.
Growing up in Christ Church, I remember praying for the end of a lot of different things – world hunger, political strife, feminism (not literally, but might have well since it was preached as “evil” from the pulpit), child abuse, Islam, AIDS (oh wait, can’t pray for a cure for that either…God’s judgement on the “Sodomites” dont ya know…)and finally cancer. However, it would seem that some Christians are never satisfied unless answer to prayer comes on their terms.
A couple years ago I heard rumblings about a shot that would prevent HPV and was extremely excited (as I figured everyone would be) that a prevention for this destructive virus was on the way. The FDA approved the vaccine in 2006, and Guardasil is now offered to females between the ages of 9 – 26. How wonderful – there’s no reason (given the shot works like its supposed to, with a 95-100% success rate) families and friends should lose another mother, sister, wife, girlfriend, cousin, niece, granddaughter, or friend to cervical cancer caused by HPV. (2)
But some are not so excited about this cancer preventing vaccine. Since I didn’t make it clear before, one important thing to know about HPV is that it is a sexually transmitted disease, and this is the reason various Christian organizations are not happy about it.
“Abstinence is the best way to prevent HPV,” the FRC’s Bridget Maher reportedly told New Scientist. “Giving the HPV vaccine to young women could be potentially harmful because they may see it as a license to engage in premarital sex.” (3)
How interesting – it didn’t even occur to me that preventing cancer and saving women’s lives could be a negative or “harmful” thing – for any reason.
“We’re going to be sending a message to a lot of kids, I think, that you just take this shot and you can be as sexually promiscuous as you want and it’s not going to be a problem, and that’s just not true,” Dr. Hal Wallace, who heads the Physicians Consortium, said in a Focus on the Family news release. (4)
Call me crazy, but Guardasil is only known to prevent 2 kinds of STDs (HPV and Genital warts) and with proper sex ed (or common sense), I trust the American youth to understand that they CAN’T be “as sexually promiscuous as [they] want” just because of one shot.
I’ll be reasonable though, I can understand parents not wanting their teens or pre-teens having sex (protected or not). I don’t think most teens appreciate or completely understand sex, and I’m not going to be the kind of parent who encourages my kids to have rampant premarital sex. However, I am going to be a realistic parent who loves their child enough to 1) educate them about sex and their options and 2) do everything humanly possible to protect them from some of the ramifications of their choices (i.e. birth control, vaccines etc.)
The problem I have with these parents is that they are so concerned with their “Christian moral values” they are potentially harming their children. These parents need to face it that they can tell their kids to abstain until they’re blue in the face, but in the end, when their teen has sex, it’s a decision they’ll make without their parents. I do not understand the type of parent that wouldn’t want the safety net of a vaccine that would protect their child from the possibly unhealthy ramifications of their “mistake/sin.” There’s a lot to be said about having a personal set of ethics and morals – but to impose that on your children to such an extent you put them at risk…to me that’s the real “sin.”
I’ll wrap this up with a quote that made me laugh and want to throw up at the same time. This is from Janet Parshall, a staff member of the Family Research Council in 1999:
“Either have sex before marriage and get an STD and HIV, HPV or an unplanned pregnancy, or you save it until marriage and you live happily ever after.”(5)
There is no limitation to ignorance.

Referenced Websites:
1) http://www.cdc.gov/std/hpv/default.htm
2) http://www.fda.gov/womens/getthefacts/hpv.html
3-5) http://www.ethicsdaily.com/article_detail.cfm?AID=6587

Thanks Craiglist.

I found this posting on Craigslist in Missed Connections….I’ve never seen anything like it…Love. It.
——
To the woman that crapped in my car. (NE Portland)

We met on Craigslist so I am hoping that this post finds you. I know that it could quite possibly be the most humiliating first date that you have ever been on, but I am willing to look past that.

I thought we had chemistry sitting at McMenamins sharing that basket of Cajun Tots while drinking the Terminator Stout. I really felt like there was a connection there. I found you to be intelligent and witty and looked forward to further conversation with you.

At some point in life, everyone has gambled on a fart and lost. It just happened to be on a first date in the passenger seat of my car. Please don’t feel bad. The package I sent you with Pepto the next day and the note that said “First dates are always a crap shoot. Call me” was meant to be funny, not offensive.

I have gambled on a fart and lost on multiple occasions. The first time I did it was very memorable. It happened when I was five and sitting on my uncle’s lap. I am lactose intolerant, but love cheese. I probably win 95% of the time, but I don’t think anyone wins 100% of the time. That’s why they call it “gambling”. I’m the last person to judge you for crapping your pants. In fact, I am impressed by your boldness. The timing on the other hand, could have been a tad bit better…like when you’re not sitting on a heated leather seat…

What I am trying to say is that if you want to go out again, I would be more than happy to take you someplace where we can get a meal that is high in fiber and less taxing on the digestive tract.

I await your call,
Stout
P.S. – If you shat yourself on purpose to end the evening early.Touché.

——
And I thought getting food poisoning on a second date was bad…..

So you think you’re a Nice Guy.

  

Back in September of 2007 I wrote a blog entry about the following topic (original post at www.limitedwhitespace.blogspot.com) due to the heavy percentage of “nice guys” that were in my life at the time. A year and a half later I’m in exactly the opposite position, surrounded now by male friends and lovers that are what most girls consider assholes… and rightly so in many cases. As effed up as it may seem to some, I’m perfectly content in this new situation, and have found that I love and respect these guys far more than any of the “nice guys” of my former acquaintance. I realize now that I’ll take less patience or sweetness any day if I don’t have to worry about sorting through the rose scented bullshit that most “nice guys” create for themselves because of their overwhelming lack of backbone.

So. To the nice guys out there – this post is for you. It is meant to help, not hurt, although I know it may sting a bit…

 

Ok- so here’s the deal. In general I make an effort to reign myself in when it comes to making generalized comments on men and women and/or my relationships with them. Love is hard, and both men and women use each other in horrible ways. Whether you are single, or in a relationship, there is always something to complain about… But this entry is dedicated to the boys, and a phrase that has been used for too many years to validate and bolster the self esteem of your sex :

“Nice guys always finish last.”

Really? That hasn’t been my experience. My friend Ryan once said, “Why hate someone because of the color of their skin? That’s ridiculous. If you got to know them I’m sure you’d find there’s a lot more legitimate reasons to dislike them.” This reminds me of most men. Why would a woman break up with a guy because he’s “nice?” Once she gets to know him she’ll realize there’s way more legitimate reasons to not be with him than the fact he’s such a great guy. During the past two years of my single life, this has consistently been the first cliché out of a guy’s mouth when I tell him I’m no longer interested in dating. Unfortunately, my consistent response has been, “I know. You’re right. It’s not fair.” I realize now that I took the easy road in those moments, and did nothing but help cement this lie in one more male mind. “Nice guys always finish last,” is nothing more than a crutch that men use to excuse their reason for being single, and that women hide behind as a polite excuse for not being interested.

In my opinion, guys like to buy into this phrase for one main reason. Guys that are stereotypical “nice guys” (i.e. respectful, good listeners, sweet, traditional gentlemen etc etc) like to pride themselves on being nice guys so when a woman turns them down or breaks up with them, they are flabbergasted as to why ANY woman would turn down the ultimate prize that is embodied in his polo wearing, hair gelling, man purse toting, sensitive listening, well mannered self. While in this state of butthurt confusion, they always seem to fall back on the conclusion that women only want to be with assholes, and that is why they are not in a relationship. They are simply too good for one.

Call me crazy, but I have never in my life met a single woman who dumped a guy because he treated her “too well.” However I’ve known many women, myself included, who decided they didn’t want to be with a nice guy for very legitimate reasons. To be honest, what many guys thinks is nice is actually a lack of a backbone, opinion, and good old fashioned masculinity – not having a favorite sports team, never having been in a fight, never looking at a Playboy, and “not enjoying” beer does not make you a nice guy – it means you have more in common with most 50 year old women than you do to the dude in the bathroom stall beside you. Obviously, I’m generalizing and I certainly don’t speak for all women. Just me.

The point of this rant is this – to all the “nice guys” out there – If a woman doesn’t want to date you, guaranteed it’s for some other reason than you’re TOO nice. Please do her the courtesy of taking a moment of self reflection on what your problem may be before you accuse her of being an asshole chasing idiot.

Cheers.

 

Love for Religulous

Since I abandoned Christianity several years ago, my life has changed dramatically. For the obvious reasons, of course, but also in ways I couldn’t have possibly foreseen. As passionately as I used to wave my salvation banner and go to arms against co-workers and friends in Jesus’ name – I now find myself avoiding discussing Christianity at all costs. Many people that knew me believed leaving the church was an easy choice – that was hardly the case. I felt like a child walking out on elderly parents. Abandoning what raised me, taught, disciplined, and loved me; made my existence have purpose, and gave me confidence about my place amid the chaos that surrounds us…and most terrifying of all – abandoning the one thing that I was lead to believe would never leave me or forsake me. All for the luxuries of drugs, sex, and alcohol…or so the envious faithful like to believe.

It was not an easy decision – but like most difficult things in life, ultimately worth the initial pain and heartache since I now live a life more fulfilling than I ever dreamed possible before. It’s a beautiful thing to be free to love and surround myself with whomever I please, their worth based simply on their own merit and not valued solely for who they are with Christ’s aid.

To get to the point, there are a couple big reasons I avoid discussing Christianity with others. Part of it is sadness over 21 years lost, and the other is the overwhelming guilt I will carry with me forever for the atrocious things I believed about innocent people, and for the god I so vehemently defended. A diety whose words encouraged and exalted my hatred and intolerance for behaviors and people I knew nothing about. Watching programs or documentaries on Christians (of all dominations) reduces me to tears – tears of joy that I live a life unbounded by archaic tradition and superstition, and tears of grief for all the people I know whose minds are not yet free.

Religulous was the first program I have fully watched and soaked in since I “put away childish things” and abandoned my hope in Christ. Its message of doubt encouraged and lifted me up more than I can possibly describe. I will not be content until every person I know has seen it and given its message a moment of reflection.

The following passage is Bill Maher’s ending monologue. Read and enjoy. Then tell your friends.

Cheers.

 

The plain fact is, religion must die for mankind to live. The hour is getting very late to be able to indulge in having key decisions made by religious people, by irrationalists, by those who would steer the ship of state not by a compass, but by the equivalent of reading the entrails of a chicken.
George Bush prayed a lot about Iraq, but he didn’t learn a lot about it.

Faith means making a virtue out of not thinking. It’s nothing to brag about. And those who preach faith and enable and elevate it are our intellectual slaveholders, keeping mankind in a bondage to fantasy and nonsense that has spawned and justified so much lunacy and destruction.
Religion is dangerous because it allows human beings who don’t have all the answers to think that they do. Most people would think it’s wonderful when someone says: “I’m willing, Lord. I’ll do whatever You want me to do.”
Except that since there are no gods actually talking to us, that void is filled in by people with their own corruptions, limitations and agendas.
And anyone who tells you they know… they “just know” what happens when you die, I promise you, you don’t. How can I be so sure? Because I don’t know, and you do not possess mental powers that I do not.
The only appropriate attitude for man to have about the big questions is not the arrogant certitude that is the hallmark of religion, but doubt. Doubt is humble, and that’s what man needs to be, considering that human history is just a litany of getting shit dead wrong.

This is why rational people, anti-religionists, must end their timidity and come out of the closet and assert themselves.
And those who consider themselves only moderately religious really need to look in the mirror and realize that the solace and comfort that religion brings you actually comes at a terrible price.
If you belonged to a political party or a social club that was tied to as much bigotry, misogyny, homophobia, violence and sheer ignorance as religion is, you’d resign in protest. To do otherwise is to be an enabler, a Mafia wife, with the true devils of extremism that draw their legitimacy from the billions of their fellow travelers.

If the world does come to an end here or wherever, or if it limps into the future, decimated by the effects of a religion-inspired nuclear terrorism, let’s remember what the real problem was:
That we learned how to precipitate mass death before we got past the neurological disorder of wishing for it.

That’s it. Grow up or die.
See you in Heaven.

Who knows?
Yeah, exactly.

Logos: A Brief Timeline of Sexism in the 21st Century

 

 This was a post from my first blog at www.limitedwhitespace.blogspot.com. I didn’t edit it at all, just copied it on over since it was my favorite 🙂

For those of you who don’t know, I graduated in 2003 from Logos Christian School in Moscow. I entered the school in 5th grade, and very shortly after began to have problems with it, even at such a young age.

Logos, while not explicitly funded/run by Christ Church in Moscow, is heavily influenced by their archaic and close minded view of society, due to the fact a large percentage of the faculty, and the Superintendent himself, are members of the church. The school’s main founder is none other than the pastor/pope of Christ Church, Douglas Wilson.

It is easy to argue that Christianity in itself, is a patriarchial, sexist religion. However, Christ Church’s “brand” of Christianity takes sexism a step farther, and their heinous and ancient view of women (i.e. women’s place is in the home (unless they’re nurses or teachers), women are not allowed to speak in church. ever. a woman’s main objective in her marriage is to “serve her husband” and be “at all times submissive to his will.” the list could go on much longer) has infiltrated Logos School to an alarming degree.

Even when I began school there, Logos was becoming more and more conservative and preaching fundamental Christianity as the only way of life. Things have only gotten worse through the years, and the girls at the school are the ones to suffer for it.

2000: Mr. Harken, my history teacher, during a tangent on elections and voting, informed the class that it would have been better if women had never gotten the right to vote. In his opinion the “head of the household” (meaning, the husband) should be the only one to vote and his vote should count for as many people as lived in his house.

2002: At a student council meeting, one of the sons of a school board member put forth the idea that in future years only males should be able to run for ASB President and Vice President since men have the duty to lead women.

2002: The school board/principal does away with our traditional “Spirit Week” and impliments “Knights Festival.” The boys and girls are given separate contests to enter. The boys get to fashion fake swords and shields and duel in front of the school in hopes of winning an old fashioned replica sword. The girls get to compete in a “pie baking contest” and the winner wins a gift certificate to Williams/Sonoma.

* And although I don’t have a set year that it was put into practice, Logos now functions in such a way, that beginning in kindergarten boys must at all times show preferance to the girls i.e. opening, closing doors, pulling out chairs, letting them go first etc. In itself, I don’t have a problem with the idea of teaching boys to be gentlemen. However, when boys are taught to do things for girls because girls are too weak to do them for themselves, I have a problem. Logos/Christ Church seems to have a preoccupation with producing weak men who want even weaker women.

And finally. 2007. The reason I started this rant in the first place.

Today I got home to find the latest copy of The Knight’s Page (quarterly student newspaper) in my mailbox. I can never read through it without being appalled at some new social limitation they are placing on their students in the name of “serving our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” Today was no exception.

Logos High School will no longer have a girl’s basketball team. Its not that there’s not enough players, coaches, support. Oh no. Nothing that mundane and reasonable.

” There were two broad reasons for the decision, the first being philosophical which Mr. Garfield [Superintendent] deemed as the more important. He said that he and others have had growing concerns for the nature of girl’s basketball. It has undergone a radical shift towards a very masculine approach. However, God made it very clear in His Word that He created man and woman distinct from one another. “The girls on many teams are coached like guys, and our girls are in danger because of how the other girls are coached,” Mr. Garfield said.”

It never ceases to amaze me how weak the school board thinks women are; (did I mention, btw, there are no women on the school board??) how completely incapable of handling adversity and pressure we can be.

But then it occurred to me, horrible thought, that perhaps Mr. Garfield was right on a certain level I couldn’t understand. Could it be that Logos had so adequately produced weak minded and over emotional girls that they honestly couldn’t handle basketball? Did my fear of what would become of the future classes of Logos girls come true? That after being told daily, for years, they were weaker and inferior, they had come to believe it?

Either way, I’m even more disappointed and disgusted in the place I graduated from. It pains me to know that Logos has been able to scrape by for 30 years, paying their teachers SO little to mis-shape the minds of so many. If they only knew how many Logos graduates were out there, continuing “the Lord’s work” and using their “Classical and Christ-centered Education” to binge drink, load a bong, and pop birth control before rampant pre-marital sex, they’d be amazed, and possibly reconsider sharing more of the real world with their students before they were thrust out into it, wide eyed and unprepared.

Works in Progress

The darkness is starting to lift. The soles of my feet dragging away from a life I thought I’d never leave ignited a spark that is becoming a flame.
Flickers of hope dance across the deep blue waters that surround me here
and cast dancing shadows on these walls -darkly illuminating a smile that is reaching my eyes after making my lips a false plaything for so long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’m genuinely excited to visit Portland this weekend. Not long before I moved out, three truly lovely souls moved into Hoyt House. Although I got to know them on a decent level – sharing bottles of booze, artistic hopes, and the occasional emotional outburst- I believe it’s fair to say the girl that is returning Sunday is not the one who left – nor the one they met in June.

To think that I’ll be meeting them again without being shrouded in the thick veil of sadness that clung to me for so many months…well, that’s something to look forward to.

Not that I have no misgivings about visiting. I’ll be entering Hoyt House with caution. The energies that reside in that house – and their ever raging battle for dominance – bring out the best and worst in me. I can only hope that my exit has done the house as much good as it has done me…and that I’m not entering a battlefield.

We shall see.