I am wildly fond of social media
I love connecting with people online, and have gone on to form many wonderful friendships though the internet.
The new rating, ranking, reviewing culture I could do without.
I am one picky mofo.
I like to give feedback, I am pretty high maintenance, and I am bossy.
What I am not (I hope) is an asshole.
It started with Yelp, and now the online review has grown like a nebbishy wildfire, out of control.
I've worked in the service industry since I was 17, in one form or another.
Child Care
Food Service
Bartending
Social Work
All high impact client/customer contact positions
For the better part of my life I have been kissing someone's ass in hopes of making them happy and satisfied and most of the time it's worked out well.
I am a perfectionist and I do good work.
The first time I encountered Yelp was several years ago when I was working for a fancy private school.
A woman had reserved enrollment for her child, and phoned over the Labor Day weekend Sunday to give notice that she had changed her mind.
She did not expect that I would be there doing payroll, and had intended to leave a voicemail.
I let her know that I understood that circumstances change, wished her well and reminded her that she would be forfeiting her deposit.
She went ballistic.
She went on Yelp and said many unkind things and then she went on social media and created a shit storm with a local mothering group.
She did not go after me, but rather the owner of the school.
She made up many colorful lies.
BOLDFACED LIES
She lied and lied and threatened and threatened and lied some more, like a petulant child.
At the time I begged for the money to be returned, because at the time I was unfamiliar with this sort of bully tactic.
Since I've worked at the food cart, there have been a handful of negative reviews.
Almost all of them have been vague, poorly written, sour grapes affairs, with little substance, regarding quality of food, or service.
One, or two have been spot on.
Recently on a busy Sunday I had a woman come in with an elderly man and ask for a knife.
We were out of knives, and many other things.
My helper had spent the morning vomiting and disappearing and I was frantic, cooking and tending the window.
The woman was convinced that I was holding out on her, and wrote a review, that I wouldn't give her a knife.
I offered to cut the food up with a knife in the cart, but she was already gone, as the old Eagles song says.
It was slightly more complicated than that, but at the end of the day, that was her bottomline, I withheld something she wanted and I deserved to be punished.
She was unable to see beyond her own need, even an inch and had to go bleed her spleen over it.
Was her review intended to make me a better person?
Make sure we up our supply of plastic cutlery?
No it was a cheap shot at a person in a position of little power.
People are demanding and weird.
They think they are being noble and righteous with these reviews, when they are in fact being petty and passive aggressive.
This form of kvetching used to be reserved for friends and family (or written on your own damn, self absorbed blog post), not mistaken for a review.
These petty temper tantrums, and nit picky expulsions are not reviews, they are typed witch hunty bitchfests that serve no one except the writer.
There is no one alive that enjoys complaining and venting more that I do, but I pretend that I am providing valuable feedback when I do it, and I try to remember that real people depend of the jobs that are impacted by these reviews.
Three years ago my family rented a house through Air B&B, which was listed as "completely furnished".
When we arrived there were two folding chairs and not a single bowl in the house.
The house was furnished only in the sense that it was not empty.
I sent the owner three e-mails letting him know I would require a bowl, or pot large enough to serve a salad to four people in, and two additional chairs.
He never replied.
He was a sort of wan, dreamy hippie type, that wore his infant son, in a sling on his hip and appeared to hope that his parental excellence would make the world overlook his flakiness.
At the end of our stay, my feedback on the feedback page was
"needs a salad bowl and two additional chairs, to be comfortable for a family of four. A hook to hang a towel and a mattress cover would also be welcome."
He was grossly offended and sent me several e-mails, including one that said
"You use a lot of words and you are not very nice!"
I may have not been nice, but I did not write the scathing review that I would have liked to write.
I did not burn his business at the stake.
I am a frank person and I always give feedback.
If something is not right, and it can be fixed I will look for a fix, I will ask for a fix, and occasionally I will demand a fix, but I will do it well, with frankness and grace.
What I will not do is write a review that lacks any objective, save fucking up someone's job, life, day.
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
Wednesday, June 14, 2017
I worry.
I worry about my people and I worry about strangers.
I rarely worry about politics, but I worry about war.
I worry about the soldiers.
The knocks on the head, the severed limbs.
My son is leaving Friday for Cambodia, for a summer adventure teaching English with one of those dogooder groups.
He has traveled abroad to dangerousish places several times.
He was in Uganda three years ago.
Don't say a god damned progressive thing! Keep your mouth SHUT!
Is what I said to him.
This time he is going alone and this time he is an adult.
I don't really buy the adult thing, but he assures me it's true.
This week I worried about a couple of new mothers I know.
I told my friend Barb
Being a new mother is like sex work, it degrades your sense of personhood, and you aren't allowed to talk about it.
I am sure there are many mothers that would find this an offensive assessment, but for me it was true.
I chose with great intention to have my babies.
I wanted them, and I love them intensely, but the early days of mothering, particularly when you are poor, and without support, are terrifying and dark.
My own mother, interestingly enough, has always maintained that she loved having a nursling, and that mothering me as an infant was easy, despite that fact that she was 16 and living in a tiny trailer in the middle of nowhere.
As a child my mother often said that I was difficult, which means sensitive, however, like Schrodinger's child, I was also praised as being easy.
My easiness came in infancy and toddlerhood.
Where by all eyewitness accounts I was an eager and enthusiastic nurser, slept beautifully and demonstrated advanced developmental growth.
I also talked early, and according to both my parents and my grandmother, was an exceptional conversationalist, by two (my Grandpa Chuck, a man of few words, and the one dissenter, once asked my Grandma Eva, as they hit The Dalles on the Way to Boise, "Does she ever shut up?").
I grew up in a family of story tellers.
In a family of poor, deeply religious, complicated people.
I grew up hearing my own story, the story of my extended family, and friends and neighbors.
The stories were of family and care-giving and birth and death.
I know that I was in a Plymouth Fury, driving from Portland to Boise, the summer of 1970, and that I stood behind my Grandfather's shoulder, and talked his ears full.
I know that when I was born, my parents lived in Aloha, and had to drive all the way to NE Portland, on surface streets in a snow storm.
I think they were driving in a Ford Falcon, but it may have been a pickup truck.
My mother was afraid, because she said she wasn't entirely clear on how the whole birth thing worked.
That she was knocked out and woke up and "had a baby".
That when my grandmother phoned her and asked her what I looked like she said, "her eyes are kind of squinty", and upon hearing that, my grandmother, who at the time was doing piece work sewing, worked herself into a complete anxiety attack, thinking that there was something terribly wrong with THE BABY! and sent my Grandfather ahead to scout out the situation.
As Grandma sobbed through her shift, Grandpa left the dairy, drove across town, went to the nursery and declared to everyone there that "this girl is just about perfect!"
Which he told me often as a child.
There are pictures of my mother holding me in the hospital, looking like a tiny, damp 16 year old, wearing a white slip.
Her strawberry hair is long for her, and there is still a space between her teeth, the space would be fixed in the mid 70's, and her hair would never be that long again.
There are pictures of Grandma holding me, her jaw stern, black hair.
She never cared for smiles in photos.
Don't go up there and grin like a damn monkey.
Resulting in a picture album of my childhood, filled with somber studio photos, pale blue eyes, a slight droop on the right side of my mouth
she looks like Dan Lawler's people
My grandmother pronounced my appearance to be the fault of my paternal grandfather.
My own children have no such narrative.
There are no grinning monkeys, or car trips to see extended family in farm houses.
Most of the time I find this liberating.
To be free of all the baggage and discord that swirled around me most of my life.
When those big worries wash over me, when I think of the new mothers I know, or the soldiers, or of my own son leaving my protection, I wrap up in my stories, dip into the past, the connectivity is comforting, as comforting as it is disturbing most of the other time in my life.
God would not let anything happen to Maxwell, I say.
You don't even believe in god, Mark says.
Maybe I have a tiny corner in my heart, where the god that protects my son lives! I tell him.
And in the same corner, I push all the people, all the babies, all the soldiers with their missing parts, and try to keep them all safe with my white lady Baptist voodoo.
I worry about my people and I worry about strangers.
I rarely worry about politics, but I worry about war.
I worry about the soldiers.
The knocks on the head, the severed limbs.
My son is leaving Friday for Cambodia, for a summer adventure teaching English with one of those dogooder groups.
He has traveled abroad to dangerousish places several times.
He was in Uganda three years ago.
Don't say a god damned progressive thing! Keep your mouth SHUT!
Is what I said to him.
This time he is going alone and this time he is an adult.
I don't really buy the adult thing, but he assures me it's true.
This week I worried about a couple of new mothers I know.
I told my friend Barb
Being a new mother is like sex work, it degrades your sense of personhood, and you aren't allowed to talk about it.
I am sure there are many mothers that would find this an offensive assessment, but for me it was true.
I chose with great intention to have my babies.
I wanted them, and I love them intensely, but the early days of mothering, particularly when you are poor, and without support, are terrifying and dark.
My own mother, interestingly enough, has always maintained that she loved having a nursling, and that mothering me as an infant was easy, despite that fact that she was 16 and living in a tiny trailer in the middle of nowhere.
As a child my mother often said that I was difficult, which means sensitive, however, like Schrodinger's child, I was also praised as being easy.
My easiness came in infancy and toddlerhood.
Where by all eyewitness accounts I was an eager and enthusiastic nurser, slept beautifully and demonstrated advanced developmental growth.
I also talked early, and according to both my parents and my grandmother, was an exceptional conversationalist, by two (my Grandpa Chuck, a man of few words, and the one dissenter, once asked my Grandma Eva, as they hit The Dalles on the Way to Boise, "Does she ever shut up?").
I grew up in a family of story tellers.
In a family of poor, deeply religious, complicated people.
I grew up hearing my own story, the story of my extended family, and friends and neighbors.
The stories were of family and care-giving and birth and death.
I know that I was in a Plymouth Fury, driving from Portland to Boise, the summer of 1970, and that I stood behind my Grandfather's shoulder, and talked his ears full.
I know that when I was born, my parents lived in Aloha, and had to drive all the way to NE Portland, on surface streets in a snow storm.
I think they were driving in a Ford Falcon, but it may have been a pickup truck.
My mother was afraid, because she said she wasn't entirely clear on how the whole birth thing worked.
That she was knocked out and woke up and "had a baby".
That when my grandmother phoned her and asked her what I looked like she said, "her eyes are kind of squinty", and upon hearing that, my grandmother, who at the time was doing piece work sewing, worked herself into a complete anxiety attack, thinking that there was something terribly wrong with THE BABY! and sent my Grandfather ahead to scout out the situation.
As Grandma sobbed through her shift, Grandpa left the dairy, drove across town, went to the nursery and declared to everyone there that "this girl is just about perfect!"
Which he told me often as a child.
There are pictures of my mother holding me in the hospital, looking like a tiny, damp 16 year old, wearing a white slip.
Her strawberry hair is long for her, and there is still a space between her teeth, the space would be fixed in the mid 70's, and her hair would never be that long again.
There are pictures of Grandma holding me, her jaw stern, black hair.
She never cared for smiles in photos.
Don't go up there and grin like a damn monkey.
Resulting in a picture album of my childhood, filled with somber studio photos, pale blue eyes, a slight droop on the right side of my mouth
she looks like Dan Lawler's people
My grandmother pronounced my appearance to be the fault of my paternal grandfather.
My own children have no such narrative.
There are no grinning monkeys, or car trips to see extended family in farm houses.
Most of the time I find this liberating.
To be free of all the baggage and discord that swirled around me most of my life.
When those big worries wash over me, when I think of the new mothers I know, or the soldiers, or of my own son leaving my protection, I wrap up in my stories, dip into the past, the connectivity is comforting, as comforting as it is disturbing most of the other time in my life.
God would not let anything happen to Maxwell, I say.
You don't even believe in god, Mark says.
Maybe I have a tiny corner in my heart, where the god that protects my son lives! I tell him.
And in the same corner, I push all the people, all the babies, all the soldiers with their missing parts, and try to keep them all safe with my white lady Baptist voodoo.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Mother's Day weekend of 1984, I stayed over at a small apartment in downtown Lake Oswego.
My mother was living there temporarily with my brother, while she waited for the lease to run out on the house she owned a few miles away.
She had been renting out the house, while we all lived with her boyfriend in Dunthorpe, but that whole arrangement had gone slowly south, and now my mother and my brother were here in a dumpy little rental, while I stayed on with the boyfriend and his cat and one of his daughters.
It was an odd time of flux.
I was just over sixteen and weary of change.
I liked the house.
The cat was fine.
The boyfriend was teaching me to cook in a more sophisticated way than my own family had.
My mother was away at her army reserve weekend, and I was staying at her tiny apartment, writing a paper on Marx, seated cross legged in front of an Ethan Allen coffee table that was way out of scale for the room.
I know this, because there is a snapshot of me, hard at work, with a severe bi level haircut, long swoopy forelock across half my face.
The photo was snapped by the older daughter of the boyfriend that was living here and there and occasionally with my mother.
In the photo, I am wearing a frayed Brooks Brother's oxford, with the sleeves cut off at the elbows, a blue sweater vest, and enormous silver moon earrings, and I have about 6" of silver bangles on my left arm.
I have on blood red lipstick and a great deal of green eyeshadow.
I look like a child playing dress up.
I am making a face my mother would call a frown, and that would be called resting bitch face, today.
At some point in the evening my friend Chris phoned to say he was coming over.
As it turned over he was coming over by freight train, from downtown, which was a thing that you used to be able to do back then, hitching a train from downtown to Lake Oswego.
It was a very dirty and dangerous thing that we used to do.
He arrived covered in soot, with a fellow I didn't know, named Colin.
My friend Dom worked a few blocks away at a Chinese diner, at the time, waitressing.
I called the diner and asked her to come over.
We all decided to walk up to meet her halfway.
The fellows were absolutely filthy, so I suggested cleaning up.
Chris adamantly refused, due to some attachment to either his leather jacket, or the notion of cleaning up being an affront to punk rock.
I went to work looking for something clean to put on Colin and in my search, came across our mouse costume.
My mother made the costume for me in 6th grade, out of pinstripe flannel, but because I had shunned food for several years, it still fit.
Colin put the mouse costume on, because it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do at the time, and we all set out to meet Dom after work.
One soot covered leather jacketed boy
One in a mouse costume
And me.
We met Dom and she suggested getting beer.
I am now and was then very risk adverse, so the notion of procuring beer made me queasy, so we split up, with Chris and Dom heading out to shoulder tap, while I went back to the apartment with Colin to wait.
We waited, and waited and waited and waited.
We waited a very long time.
Eventually hours later they returned with beer.
It turns out they had walked to the 7-11, followed by a stray dog.
As they sat in the parking lot waiting for someone to buy them beer, the owner of the dog showed up.
"HEY THAT'S MY DOG!"
He was so happy to have his dog back that he bought them beer and offered them a ride back to my place.
He just had to make one stop along the way.
The one stop turned out to be at his drug dealer's place.
They thought it would be a in and out type of deal, but the drug dealer was getting a haircut in his kitchen from his sister, and it took a while.
Eventually the dog guy did make good on his promise and drove them back to the apartment.
At that point it was very late and we realized that there was no real food in the house.
Chris set about pouring all of the condiments into a frying pan and mixing them together and eating them.
A sort of giant mustard and pickle omelet.
There rest of us sort of lost our appetites after that.
My mother was living there temporarily with my brother, while she waited for the lease to run out on the house she owned a few miles away.
She had been renting out the house, while we all lived with her boyfriend in Dunthorpe, but that whole arrangement had gone slowly south, and now my mother and my brother were here in a dumpy little rental, while I stayed on with the boyfriend and his cat and one of his daughters.
It was an odd time of flux.
I was just over sixteen and weary of change.
I liked the house.
The cat was fine.
The boyfriend was teaching me to cook in a more sophisticated way than my own family had.
My mother was away at her army reserve weekend, and I was staying at her tiny apartment, writing a paper on Marx, seated cross legged in front of an Ethan Allen coffee table that was way out of scale for the room.
I know this, because there is a snapshot of me, hard at work, with a severe bi level haircut, long swoopy forelock across half my face.
The photo was snapped by the older daughter of the boyfriend that was living here and there and occasionally with my mother.
In the photo, I am wearing a frayed Brooks Brother's oxford, with the sleeves cut off at the elbows, a blue sweater vest, and enormous silver moon earrings, and I have about 6" of silver bangles on my left arm.
I have on blood red lipstick and a great deal of green eyeshadow.
I look like a child playing dress up.
I am making a face my mother would call a frown, and that would be called resting bitch face, today.
At some point in the evening my friend Chris phoned to say he was coming over.
As it turned over he was coming over by freight train, from downtown, which was a thing that you used to be able to do back then, hitching a train from downtown to Lake Oswego.
It was a very dirty and dangerous thing that we used to do.
He arrived covered in soot, with a fellow I didn't know, named Colin.
My friend Dom worked a few blocks away at a Chinese diner, at the time, waitressing.
I called the diner and asked her to come over.
We all decided to walk up to meet her halfway.
The fellows were absolutely filthy, so I suggested cleaning up.
Chris adamantly refused, due to some attachment to either his leather jacket, or the notion of cleaning up being an affront to punk rock.
I went to work looking for something clean to put on Colin and in my search, came across our mouse costume.
My mother made the costume for me in 6th grade, out of pinstripe flannel, but because I had shunned food for several years, it still fit.
Colin put the mouse costume on, because it seemed like a perfectly reasonable thing to do at the time, and we all set out to meet Dom after work.
One soot covered leather jacketed boy
One in a mouse costume
And me.
We met Dom and she suggested getting beer.
I am now and was then very risk adverse, so the notion of procuring beer made me queasy, so we split up, with Chris and Dom heading out to shoulder tap, while I went back to the apartment with Colin to wait.
We waited, and waited and waited and waited.
We waited a very long time.
Eventually hours later they returned with beer.
It turns out they had walked to the 7-11, followed by a stray dog.
As they sat in the parking lot waiting for someone to buy them beer, the owner of the dog showed up.
"HEY THAT'S MY DOG!"
He was so happy to have his dog back that he bought them beer and offered them a ride back to my place.
He just had to make one stop along the way.
The one stop turned out to be at his drug dealer's place.
They thought it would be a in and out type of deal, but the drug dealer was getting a haircut in his kitchen from his sister, and it took a while.
Eventually the dog guy did make good on his promise and drove them back to the apartment.
At that point it was very late and we realized that there was no real food in the house.
Chris set about pouring all of the condiments into a frying pan and mixing them together and eating them.
A sort of giant mustard and pickle omelet.
There rest of us sort of lost our appetites after that.
Wednesday, May 10, 2017
I went to an awards dinner last night, where my son was honored, along with eight other seniors.
Eight in the state of Oregon.
He had been nominated for a college prep program his sophomore year, and we learned last night that the nomination came from two different teachers.
This program is unique because it reaches out to children that have a sort of X factor, something special that a teacher sees, rather than just grades, or the predictable jock angle.
Students apply for the two year program, and the chosen folks meet weekly to form a plan.
A master plan for how they are going to be successful in college.
Sound simple, but my goodness, what I would not have given for any kind of guidance at that age.
In addition to strategic planning, they were supported in applying for grants and scholarships, given field trips to colleges and coached on the etiquette of being successful.
Maxwell is was born diplomatic and eloquent, but this program helped point him in the right direction, in ways that I, raised by a pack of wild corndogs when it came to college prep, could never have done.
Two years is a long time for a teen to stick with something, particularly something as boring as these meetings surely were, but he did and in the end he got a $6000 scholarship, but more importantly, he will have on going support for four years, from the advocate that runs the program.
One of the very best pieces of this whole experience, is that each child was plugged into a project that was uniquely suited to their skill set.
Maxwell was able to do an internship with the city of Milwaukie, and fell in love with urban planning and the notion of local politics.
Instead of flipping burgers this year, he was making $15/hour working at city hall, and more importantly, making connections.
Mark and I have worked with him extensively to make sure he makes good choices, does well in school, feels supported, has enriching experiences, but we can use all the help we can get.
While so many people I know have the wheels falling off with their teens, I feel like we have had an amazing experience parenting him through high school and that he can have reasonable expectations for a bright future.
Eight in the state of Oregon.
He had been nominated for a college prep program his sophomore year, and we learned last night that the nomination came from two different teachers.
This program is unique because it reaches out to children that have a sort of X factor, something special that a teacher sees, rather than just grades, or the predictable jock angle.
Students apply for the two year program, and the chosen folks meet weekly to form a plan.
A master plan for how they are going to be successful in college.
Sound simple, but my goodness, what I would not have given for any kind of guidance at that age.
In addition to strategic planning, they were supported in applying for grants and scholarships, given field trips to colleges and coached on the etiquette of being successful.
Maxwell is was born diplomatic and eloquent, but this program helped point him in the right direction, in ways that I, raised by a pack of wild corndogs when it came to college prep, could never have done.
Two years is a long time for a teen to stick with something, particularly something as boring as these meetings surely were, but he did and in the end he got a $6000 scholarship, but more importantly, he will have on going support for four years, from the advocate that runs the program.
One of the very best pieces of this whole experience, is that each child was plugged into a project that was uniquely suited to their skill set.
Maxwell was able to do an internship with the city of Milwaukie, and fell in love with urban planning and the notion of local politics.
Instead of flipping burgers this year, he was making $15/hour working at city hall, and more importantly, making connections.
Mark and I have worked with him extensively to make sure he makes good choices, does well in school, feels supported, has enriching experiences, but we can use all the help we can get.
While so many people I know have the wheels falling off with their teens, I feel like we have had an amazing experience parenting him through high school and that he can have reasonable expectations for a bright future.
Thursday, May 4, 2017
I recently watched The man in the high castle, which is a dystopian two season series based on a Philip K. Dick story.
I really liked the first season, the acting was excellent and the story was fascinating- what if Germany and Japan had won WWII?
The story took place in 1955/1963 (sort of a vague time travel vibe) and demonstrated both institutional oppression and man's drive for independence beautifully.
My friend Steve said seeing all of the displays of swastikas was disturbing, but naturally that was the whole point.
Many people are comparing the show with our current political shitshow, which I think is absurd.
Both the Nazi's and the Japanese ran their respective parts of the conquered US with great precision-
Oppressive as fuck?
Yes
Crumbling infrastructure and toxic drinking water ?
No
I would liken our current political situation more to Dr Strangelove, or may Jerry Lewis' Cinderfella.
Anyway, I continue to keep my garden loppers sharp in the event the reinstate the draft, and I need to remove a toe from either of my babies.
I really liked the first season, the acting was excellent and the story was fascinating- what if Germany and Japan had won WWII?
The story took place in 1955/1963 (sort of a vague time travel vibe) and demonstrated both institutional oppression and man's drive for independence beautifully.
My friend Steve said seeing all of the displays of swastikas was disturbing, but naturally that was the whole point.
Many people are comparing the show with our current political shitshow, which I think is absurd.
Both the Nazi's and the Japanese ran their respective parts of the conquered US with great precision-
Oppressive as fuck?
Yes
Crumbling infrastructure and toxic drinking water ?
No
I would liken our current political situation more to Dr Strangelove, or may Jerry Lewis' Cinderfella.
Anyway, I continue to keep my garden loppers sharp in the event the reinstate the draft, and I need to remove a toe from either of my babies.
Wednesday, May 3, 2017
I took Mark to see Patton Oswald for his birthday.
He is turning 50, a big one, and impossible to buy for, and experience gift seemed like the way to go.
My friend Barb was shopping for gifts for her husband over Christmas, which made my heart catch a little.
I cannot think of a single deeply meaningful gift, that I have ever given Mark ( and I am a really good gifter, usually).
He is just one of those people that buys himself the things he desires, and he is terribly unsentimental, so it makes him my great challenge and failure, which is doubly terrible, me being me and taking that sort of thing very seriously.
So when I read on Facebook that Patton Oswald was performing in May, in Portland, I snatched up those tickets like a crazy person.
I got one for Maxwell, too, since he just had his big, meaningful 18th birthday and comedy is something he shares with his father.
I was WINNING, as the slang goes.
I also bought a ticket for myself, which was highly unusual.
I am typically so frugal, so cheap, that we have in 20 years together rarely done things together.
In some ways my neurosis around money has been good.
We almost own our home outright.
We have no debt, and money in savings.
But in some ways it has been damaging to our relationship.
I am terrified of debt, homelessness, wreck, ruin, failure, that ominous rainy day you always plan for.
TERRIFIED
Living with real and imagined danger around every turn is wearing, and I know it has been hard on Mark to navigate my fear of spending money.
So this time I shocked him and went along and we had a terrific time.
I did not complain, or fret, I just went and even purchased a teeny plastic cup of $9 wine for me, and a $5 bottle of water for him.
He is turning 50, a big one, and impossible to buy for, and experience gift seemed like the way to go.
My friend Barb was shopping for gifts for her husband over Christmas, which made my heart catch a little.
I cannot think of a single deeply meaningful gift, that I have ever given Mark ( and I am a really good gifter, usually).
He is just one of those people that buys himself the things he desires, and he is terribly unsentimental, so it makes him my great challenge and failure, which is doubly terrible, me being me and taking that sort of thing very seriously.
So when I read on Facebook that Patton Oswald was performing in May, in Portland, I snatched up those tickets like a crazy person.
I got one for Maxwell, too, since he just had his big, meaningful 18th birthday and comedy is something he shares with his father.
I was WINNING, as the slang goes.
I also bought a ticket for myself, which was highly unusual.
I am typically so frugal, so cheap, that we have in 20 years together rarely done things together.
In some ways my neurosis around money has been good.
We almost own our home outright.
We have no debt, and money in savings.
But in some ways it has been damaging to our relationship.
I am terrified of debt, homelessness, wreck, ruin, failure, that ominous rainy day you always plan for.
TERRIFIED
Living with real and imagined danger around every turn is wearing, and I know it has been hard on Mark to navigate my fear of spending money.
So this time I shocked him and went along and we had a terrific time.
I did not complain, or fret, I just went and even purchased a teeny plastic cup of $9 wine for me, and a $5 bottle of water for him.
Tuesday, May 2, 2017
I buy coffee every morning at a small cafe near my house.
The coffee is much too acid for my taste, but I buy twenty ounces anyway, because I like to be supportive.
The cafe is on Foster, a street that needs a great deal of support.
The cafe is not very cute, despite some effort from the owner, a man I suspect is about my age, but looks older, with a bald head and an unfortunate beard.
He wears hats most of the time, felt fedoras beige and loden.
He is a darter and and lacks charm.
He parks wonky and makes it challenging for me to get in and out of the gravel parking lot.
The whole place is a small L shaped room, with a restroom tucked into the corner.
Homeless people try valiantly to use the restroom and the staff, grumble at them to purchase something.
I watch this exchange almost every morning.
There was a very large homeless camp in the large gravel parking lot, but a developer bought most of the lot last year and put up a chain link fence.
So now most of the campers are more covert, slipping under hedgerows after dark.
Foster is one of the last ungentrified stretches of old Portland.
A place with wide unencumbered streets with plenty of parking, and run down buildings, with interesting storefronts.
The inside of my charmless cafe, suffers from an identity crisis.
The tables look as though they were meant to sit outside in a beach town.
Round with orange mosaic tile.
The mosaic tile tables were no doubt purchased from a big box store and cheaply made somewhere with shameful human rights practices.
It is one of those things you can just tell about things.
There are pastries in a plexiglass case, which looks a little old, even at 6:45am.
There are also breakfast sandwiches, which people seem fond of.
Some mornings there are several people ahead of me, and two or three invariably order a sandwich.
Usually the ponytail guy and the mail carrier woman.
They may think of me as impatient, frumpy, red lipstick lady, or messy bun, zaftig, gal, who knows.
I always ask if I can cut ahead and grab just a coffee, and they always let me.
There are two fellows that work the counter, both named Andy.
I call the dark haired one Jimmy, because he looks like Jimmy from Quadrophenia.
The other Andy is tall and skinny and appears to cut his own blonde hair with clippers, and I think of him as Shawn, because he looks like my friend Shawn did in 1984.
They like to play jazz and I like to surprise them with a tiny bit of jazz recognition.
This morning Jimmy asked me again why I call him Jimmy and we had a nice laugh over Quadrophenia.
Jimmy is from Salem and plays in a band.
Shawn is from someplace more sophisticated and has the demeanor of someone that studied philosophy, or maybe comparative literature.
Shawn never greets me, but Jimmy always does.
I'm not really keen on sales people calling me by name, but coming from him, it feels ok.
He is just on the very edge of smarmy, but he pulls it off well.
We talk about the changing neighborhood often, and about food service, and a little about movies and music.
I have precisely the taste in movies, books and music that arty school drop out boys have, so it works well.
The coffee is much too acid for my taste, but I buy twenty ounces anyway, because I like to be supportive.
The cafe is on Foster, a street that needs a great deal of support.
The cafe is not very cute, despite some effort from the owner, a man I suspect is about my age, but looks older, with a bald head and an unfortunate beard.
He wears hats most of the time, felt fedoras beige and loden.
He is a darter and and lacks charm.
He parks wonky and makes it challenging for me to get in and out of the gravel parking lot.
The whole place is a small L shaped room, with a restroom tucked into the corner.
Homeless people try valiantly to use the restroom and the staff, grumble at them to purchase something.
I watch this exchange almost every morning.
There was a very large homeless camp in the large gravel parking lot, but a developer bought most of the lot last year and put up a chain link fence.
So now most of the campers are more covert, slipping under hedgerows after dark.
Foster is one of the last ungentrified stretches of old Portland.
A place with wide unencumbered streets with plenty of parking, and run down buildings, with interesting storefronts.
The inside of my charmless cafe, suffers from an identity crisis.
The tables look as though they were meant to sit outside in a beach town.
Round with orange mosaic tile.
The mosaic tile tables were no doubt purchased from a big box store and cheaply made somewhere with shameful human rights practices.
It is one of those things you can just tell about things.
There are pastries in a plexiglass case, which looks a little old, even at 6:45am.
There are also breakfast sandwiches, which people seem fond of.
Some mornings there are several people ahead of me, and two or three invariably order a sandwich.
Usually the ponytail guy and the mail carrier woman.
They may think of me as impatient, frumpy, red lipstick lady, or messy bun, zaftig, gal, who knows.
I always ask if I can cut ahead and grab just a coffee, and they always let me.
There are two fellows that work the counter, both named Andy.
I call the dark haired one Jimmy, because he looks like Jimmy from Quadrophenia.
The other Andy is tall and skinny and appears to cut his own blonde hair with clippers, and I think of him as Shawn, because he looks like my friend Shawn did in 1984.
They like to play jazz and I like to surprise them with a tiny bit of jazz recognition.
This morning Jimmy asked me again why I call him Jimmy and we had a nice laugh over Quadrophenia.
Jimmy is from Salem and plays in a band.
Shawn is from someplace more sophisticated and has the demeanor of someone that studied philosophy, or maybe comparative literature.
Shawn never greets me, but Jimmy always does.
I'm not really keen on sales people calling me by name, but coming from him, it feels ok.
He is just on the very edge of smarmy, but he pulls it off well.
We talk about the changing neighborhood often, and about food service, and a little about movies and music.
I have precisely the taste in movies, books and music that arty school drop out boys have, so it works well.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
I made my bed with great care and attention to detail, which is a departure from the slapdash job I typically do.
I have a quilt from my grandmother on the top, having given up bedspreads ages ago.
The quilt is enormous and made up of blocks embroidered flowers, on a field of white.
Each block was made during the war, by one of my grandmother's sisters, or sister-in-law, or aunt.
There is a block for each member of the family, including the children, and I suspect it was made as a gift to my great-grandmother Anna.
In those days most women had some degree of handwork skills.
You can tell the ones that were not enthusiastic, or gifted.
The daisy people.
Then there are the strongly gifted like my grandmother, with more intricate designs, done in a traditional palette of color, deftly sewn, with fancy flourishes and French knots.
On the other end of the spectrum there is my Aunt Alice, baby sister of the family, the sweet one, who elected to embroider pineapples and hibiscus, despite being in Idaho.
And finally, the rebel, with garish burgundy, done in a sloppy hand.
In addition to the flowers and cones and occasional pineapple, there are names on each block.
My Aunt Mable cheated and did one block for both children, with a Tommy & Sherri, crowded into the corner.
Bad
Form
I can imagine my grandmother sighing at both her eldest sister's burgundy rose, and her middle sister- the good looking one- and her double name block.
There would have been a certain resignation and vague disapproval.
When I was a child I loved to hear my grandmother's stories.
I sat upon her draped like a cat, around her neck and asked her 10,0000 questions.
This was one of the few times you would find my grandmother inactive.
She was a powerful woman that had many things to do, and limited leisure time, but we would sit and watch Perry Mason at noon and I would chatter in her ear and she would tell me stories of the farm, or her harsh, alien childhood, and her courtship with my grandfather.
All of the names, of the colorful cast of characters, where represented on the quilt, which would much later wind up on my bed.
At four I was scandalized by the block with the mysterious Viola embroidered in black, with a blue heart basket, filled with tiny forget me nots.
"Her name was VIOLA?!"
Her name was Viola and she was Grandpa Jesse's first wife.
I was from an old fashioned family, where people had one wife, and one only, so this was doubly fascinating to me.
I would make my grandmother tell me how everyone died, and how many children they had, whether they were beautiful, ambitious, homely, or shiftless, who could bake a decent pie, who bought store brought bread, and never swept up properly.
I knew my grandmother's aunt Effie had eleven children, and was loving and kind to every, single, one (something her own mother was not.)
I knew that Alice was the pie baker, and my grandmother's specialty was cake, and that her mother would pull them out of school at harvest time, to cook for the threshing teams.
My grandparents lived in a sort of time capsule, with wood heat, and a wringer washing machine, and home grown vegetables.
While other children were charmed by shows like The Waltons, my family lived it.
I have a quilt from my grandmother on the top, having given up bedspreads ages ago.
The quilt is enormous and made up of blocks embroidered flowers, on a field of white.
Each block was made during the war, by one of my grandmother's sisters, or sister-in-law, or aunt.
There is a block for each member of the family, including the children, and I suspect it was made as a gift to my great-grandmother Anna.
In those days most women had some degree of handwork skills.
You can tell the ones that were not enthusiastic, or gifted.
The daisy people.
Then there are the strongly gifted like my grandmother, with more intricate designs, done in a traditional palette of color, deftly sewn, with fancy flourishes and French knots.
On the other end of the spectrum there is my Aunt Alice, baby sister of the family, the sweet one, who elected to embroider pineapples and hibiscus, despite being in Idaho.
And finally, the rebel, with garish burgundy, done in a sloppy hand.
In addition to the flowers and cones and occasional pineapple, there are names on each block.
My Aunt Mable cheated and did one block for both children, with a Tommy & Sherri, crowded into the corner.
Bad
Form
I can imagine my grandmother sighing at both her eldest sister's burgundy rose, and her middle sister- the good looking one- and her double name block.
There would have been a certain resignation and vague disapproval.
When I was a child I loved to hear my grandmother's stories.
I sat upon her draped like a cat, around her neck and asked her 10,0000 questions.
This was one of the few times you would find my grandmother inactive.
She was a powerful woman that had many things to do, and limited leisure time, but we would sit and watch Perry Mason at noon and I would chatter in her ear and she would tell me stories of the farm, or her harsh, alien childhood, and her courtship with my grandfather.
All of the names, of the colorful cast of characters, where represented on the quilt, which would much later wind up on my bed.
At four I was scandalized by the block with the mysterious Viola embroidered in black, with a blue heart basket, filled with tiny forget me nots.
"Her name was VIOLA?!"
Her name was Viola and she was Grandpa Jesse's first wife.
I was from an old fashioned family, where people had one wife, and one only, so this was doubly fascinating to me.
I would make my grandmother tell me how everyone died, and how many children they had, whether they were beautiful, ambitious, homely, or shiftless, who could bake a decent pie, who bought store brought bread, and never swept up properly.
I knew my grandmother's aunt Effie had eleven children, and was loving and kind to every, single, one (something her own mother was not.)
I knew that Alice was the pie baker, and my grandmother's specialty was cake, and that her mother would pull them out of school at harvest time, to cook for the threshing teams.
My grandparents lived in a sort of time capsule, with wood heat, and a wringer washing machine, and home grown vegetables.
While other children were charmed by shows like The Waltons, my family lived it.
Saturday, December 24, 2016
Max and the Zacks went over to Zak L's place after band practice.
I can host practice, but the over night thing is not my favorite, Zak's parents have a bigger house and a rec room.
When he came home this morning he said that they had taken the dog for a walk around 11:30, and run into a man beating up a woman at Richmond park.
When the boys walked up the man ran away.
The woman said she didn't want them to call the cops and that she would be ok.
They walk on, but as they were coming around the other side of the block, they saw the guy chasing the woman down the block, so they rant after them.
The man turned and yelled at the boys, that he was a Crip and some other slurry nonsense, and Max said that while he wasn't afraid that a gang of Crips would come, he was concerned about the guy being armed and extremely unstable.
He said right at the moment they were going to call 911, a cop walked out of the cafe across from Village Merchants, so they told him about the couple and the cop jumped in his car and drove off toward the park, where they were last seen.
He was a little shaken up, as we don't have a lot of violence and drama in our lives (thank goodness) and he has certainly never seen a man punching a woman in the face before.
I can host practice, but the over night thing is not my favorite, Zak's parents have a bigger house and a rec room.
When he came home this morning he said that they had taken the dog for a walk around 11:30, and run into a man beating up a woman at Richmond park.
When the boys walked up the man ran away.
The woman said she didn't want them to call the cops and that she would be ok.
They walk on, but as they were coming around the other side of the block, they saw the guy chasing the woman down the block, so they rant after them.
The man turned and yelled at the boys, that he was a Crip and some other slurry nonsense, and Max said that while he wasn't afraid that a gang of Crips would come, he was concerned about the guy being armed and extremely unstable.
He said right at the moment they were going to call 911, a cop walked out of the cafe across from Village Merchants, so they told him about the couple and the cop jumped in his car and drove off toward the park, where they were last seen.
He was a little shaken up, as we don't have a lot of violence and drama in our lives (thank goodness) and he has certainly never seen a man punching a woman in the face before.
Thursday, December 15, 2016
Last night I went to bed very late, because I knew I didn't have to get up for work.
As I was falling asleep, I heard a scratching, coming from the built in cupboard, next to my bed.
Our house was build in 1916, and at some point someone finished the tallest parts of the attic and put in this chest of drawers and two cupboards right into the wall.
Good concept, poor execution, because they didn't finish the back.
The cupboard, is deep and opens right into the wings of the attic; you can see the roof, and a little bit of daylight, where the insulation ends.
I asked Mark to check.
He went downstairs and got an oven-mitten and a flashlight and slowly opened the cupboard door.
There was nothing there.
We went to sleep, only to be awakened again at 3:00am and 4:45.
I banged on the door, and barricaded it shut with my sewing machine and the trash can.
At first I was thinking rat, which was horrifying, but then I changed my mind to squirrel, because of the nature of the scratching.
When I worked for the yogic school we had a squirrel problem in the house where the nuns lived.
They were horrible pests, running through the walls and on one occasions busting through into the kindergarten room.
One tiny paw, sticking through the plaster, in a black power style salute.
This morning I asked Mark to look again and he said there was no poop (which rules out rats!), but there was the beginning of a nest, with pieces of insulation.
My plan is to blow dry the insulation back out of the cupboard, to create a hostile environment, then trap the squirrel, using the trap my neighbor lent me this morning.
I can then drive the squirrel five miles away, and release her.
I can't do any of this until this stupid snow melts, because driving is currently impossible.
As I was falling asleep, I heard a scratching, coming from the built in cupboard, next to my bed.
Our house was build in 1916, and at some point someone finished the tallest parts of the attic and put in this chest of drawers and two cupboards right into the wall.
Good concept, poor execution, because they didn't finish the back.
The cupboard, is deep and opens right into the wings of the attic; you can see the roof, and a little bit of daylight, where the insulation ends.
I asked Mark to check.
He went downstairs and got an oven-mitten and a flashlight and slowly opened the cupboard door.
There was nothing there.
We went to sleep, only to be awakened again at 3:00am and 4:45.
I banged on the door, and barricaded it shut with my sewing machine and the trash can.
At first I was thinking rat, which was horrifying, but then I changed my mind to squirrel, because of the nature of the scratching.
When I worked for the yogic school we had a squirrel problem in the house where the nuns lived.
They were horrible pests, running through the walls and on one occasions busting through into the kindergarten room.
One tiny paw, sticking through the plaster, in a black power style salute.
This morning I asked Mark to look again and he said there was no poop (which rules out rats!), but there was the beginning of a nest, with pieces of insulation.
My plan is to blow dry the insulation back out of the cupboard, to create a hostile environment, then trap the squirrel, using the trap my neighbor lent me this morning.
I can then drive the squirrel five miles away, and release her.
I can't do any of this until this stupid snow melts, because driving is currently impossible.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Snow Day
The snow started falling during naptime.
I didn't notice, because I had all the shades drawn and the blackout curtains pulled, so the children would sleep as long as possible.
Ms. Theresa and I were hopping around settling restless children and cleaning the bathroom, when one of the dads burst into the room at 2:30.
I gave him my usual, I know you did not just walk into a roomful of sleeping preschoolers, look, but I could tell from the snow on his feet that is must have gotten bad, since we pulled the drapes at 12:30 for story.
He did a pretty decent job of picking up his sleeping child silently, while I rooted around in the giant pile of coats and boots for her pink snow pants and mittens.
We suited her up and sent them off into a Christmas card looking flurry.
My Facebook friend Kirkwhousedtobeinthenavyandknowsaboutweatherpatterns had said that this snow would be dry and the wind blustery and that it most likely would not stick, so I was feeling sort of ok about it.
Another parent texted me that she would be there in ten minutes, so I got her child up and dressed and seated on the shoe bench with a cracker.
When she arrived she said the traffic was bad, so I woke up the rest of the children, and got Theresa to help speed clean up the beds and get snack served, so she could get going home to NW.
Portland is just not set up to deal with snow and ice.
It is always a big mess.
It just is.
Best not to be out in it.
At 4:20 I was worried, but then my last little girl exclaimed that she saw her mom in the driveway, which eased my mind.
I cleaned up the last little bits and bobs and got the hell out, just as the snow was starting to pack down on the secluded side streets, in the sleepy neighborhood where the preschool lives, just over the Multnomah county line, and a little rural and not well traveled.
I slide a little as I pulled onto 72nd, behind a long line of stopped cars, but after crawling a few blocks, I noticed it was because there was a stalled car with it's flashers on. We all drove around it carefully and were back in business by the time we passed Duke.
All the way home, uneventfully along 72nd, past Woodstock, Foster, Holgate, headed toward Powell, I felt profoundly grateful that my parents all picked up in daylight.
I have been working in child care since 1986 on and off and over the years I have been stuck closing many times with children that had parents that simply could not get to them.
The first time it happened was the winter of 1988, while I was working at a Montessori school downtown.
I met Rolf there that spring, and by winter we were already best friends.
We both lived downtown, he and his wife right next to Safeway on 10th and me a little further out on Broadway Drive, just at the base of the hill going up to Counsel Crest.
I was working and going to PSU and Rolf was finishing his PhD at the chemistry department and his wife was finishing hers remotely, which was harder back then than it is now with the internet.
They had a little girl that was in my class at the Montessori school.
The snow was falling and the city was shutting and all the children had been picked up.
Rolf had picked up Johanna and was waiting to walk home with me, but I had one baby left, Camden, a bald blue eyed beauty that I babysat frequently.
Camden's mother loved me.
She loved me because I knew a lot about taking care of babies, even though I was only 20.
She was a very nervous lady, a lawyer.
A teeny, tiny, nervous lawyer lady that didn't know anything about babies.
I can't remember what his father did, but he was gone often and was named Michael.
They lived up the hill from me in a very fancy house, that was minimally furnished with great intention.
My grandmother would have thought they were too poor for furniture, but they wanted it that way.
I often babysat for them over the weekends in that emptyish house.
I loved that baby fiercely, as I would many of the babies I cared for over the years.
So when the snow started falling and the children started leaving, and no one had come for Camden Brown, my boss came to tell me his parents were stuck in Salem and that they wondered if I could take him home with me, it seemed like a perfectly normal thing to do.
So I packed up his bag, and set off in the snow, up the park blocks and onto Broadway.
I borrowed a stroller from the school and put the baby bags and my basket in it (in those days I carried all my school gear around in an absurd market basket),and put Camden in one of those old Gerry back packs that were in fashion then.
Rolf carried baby Johanna on his shoulders, she hung onto his long hair like the reigns of a horse, shrieking and laughing.
I was wearing my wooden Swedish clogs, the green leather ones that I got at a garage sale for .90, black cotton tights and long peasant skirt, with a motor cycle jacket, that I thought made me look like Patti Smith, and Rolf was wearing black leather boots that made it clear he was German. I had my beret on my head and Rolf had wrapped the baby's sweater on his, tying the sleeves under his chin.
We slipped and slid along, until we hit Broadway, with all the awnings and made pretty good speed.
The plan was that we would walk along and at some point meet up with Rolf's wife in the car, but we wound up walking all the way to my house, with both both babies, our gear and the stroller.
When we got there my housemate and her girlfriend were home.
Rolf's wife made it a little later, having ditched their car, a 1968 Corolla at the bottom of my hill.
We all ate lentil soup and bread and played records and looked at the Christmas tree.
We played Scrabble and cooed at the babies.
Rolf and his wife and Johanna went home in the dark, walking through the park blocks to their tiny apartment,(a corner of the Simon Benson house, that would later be restored and moved onto the PSU campus).
Camden and I curled up with my poodle Teddy Braun, in my big antique bed, with all the blankets I could find, and Denise and Jackie, my roomates, slept on the floor with us, because there was only heat in the one room of that house.
The next afternoon the parents arrived to pick up their baby and paid me, for something I would have done for free.
I didn't notice, because I had all the shades drawn and the blackout curtains pulled, so the children would sleep as long as possible.
Ms. Theresa and I were hopping around settling restless children and cleaning the bathroom, when one of the dads burst into the room at 2:30.
I gave him my usual, I know you did not just walk into a roomful of sleeping preschoolers, look, but I could tell from the snow on his feet that is must have gotten bad, since we pulled the drapes at 12:30 for story.
He did a pretty decent job of picking up his sleeping child silently, while I rooted around in the giant pile of coats and boots for her pink snow pants and mittens.
We suited her up and sent them off into a Christmas card looking flurry.
My Facebook friend Kirkwhousedtobeinthenavyandknowsaboutweatherpatterns had said that this snow would be dry and the wind blustery and that it most likely would not stick, so I was feeling sort of ok about it.
Another parent texted me that she would be there in ten minutes, so I got her child up and dressed and seated on the shoe bench with a cracker.
When she arrived she said the traffic was bad, so I woke up the rest of the children, and got Theresa to help speed clean up the beds and get snack served, so she could get going home to NW.
Portland is just not set up to deal with snow and ice.
It is always a big mess.
It just is.
Best not to be out in it.
At 4:20 I was worried, but then my last little girl exclaimed that she saw her mom in the driveway, which eased my mind.
I cleaned up the last little bits and bobs and got the hell out, just as the snow was starting to pack down on the secluded side streets, in the sleepy neighborhood where the preschool lives, just over the Multnomah county line, and a little rural and not well traveled.
I slide a little as I pulled onto 72nd, behind a long line of stopped cars, but after crawling a few blocks, I noticed it was because there was a stalled car with it's flashers on. We all drove around it carefully and were back in business by the time we passed Duke.
All the way home, uneventfully along 72nd, past Woodstock, Foster, Holgate, headed toward Powell, I felt profoundly grateful that my parents all picked up in daylight.
I have been working in child care since 1986 on and off and over the years I have been stuck closing many times with children that had parents that simply could not get to them.
The first time it happened was the winter of 1988, while I was working at a Montessori school downtown.
I met Rolf there that spring, and by winter we were already best friends.
We both lived downtown, he and his wife right next to Safeway on 10th and me a little further out on Broadway Drive, just at the base of the hill going up to Counsel Crest.
I was working and going to PSU and Rolf was finishing his PhD at the chemistry department and his wife was finishing hers remotely, which was harder back then than it is now with the internet.
They had a little girl that was in my class at the Montessori school.
The snow was falling and the city was shutting and all the children had been picked up.
Rolf had picked up Johanna and was waiting to walk home with me, but I had one baby left, Camden, a bald blue eyed beauty that I babysat frequently.
Camden's mother loved me.
She loved me because I knew a lot about taking care of babies, even though I was only 20.
She was a very nervous lady, a lawyer.
A teeny, tiny, nervous lawyer lady that didn't know anything about babies.
I can't remember what his father did, but he was gone often and was named Michael.
They lived up the hill from me in a very fancy house, that was minimally furnished with great intention.
My grandmother would have thought they were too poor for furniture, but they wanted it that way.
I often babysat for them over the weekends in that emptyish house.
I loved that baby fiercely, as I would many of the babies I cared for over the years.
So when the snow started falling and the children started leaving, and no one had come for Camden Brown, my boss came to tell me his parents were stuck in Salem and that they wondered if I could take him home with me, it seemed like a perfectly normal thing to do.
So I packed up his bag, and set off in the snow, up the park blocks and onto Broadway.
I borrowed a stroller from the school and put the baby bags and my basket in it (in those days I carried all my school gear around in an absurd market basket),and put Camden in one of those old Gerry back packs that were in fashion then.
Rolf carried baby Johanna on his shoulders, she hung onto his long hair like the reigns of a horse, shrieking and laughing.
I was wearing my wooden Swedish clogs, the green leather ones that I got at a garage sale for .90, black cotton tights and long peasant skirt, with a motor cycle jacket, that I thought made me look like Patti Smith, and Rolf was wearing black leather boots that made it clear he was German. I had my beret on my head and Rolf had wrapped the baby's sweater on his, tying the sleeves under his chin.
We slipped and slid along, until we hit Broadway, with all the awnings and made pretty good speed.
The plan was that we would walk along and at some point meet up with Rolf's wife in the car, but we wound up walking all the way to my house, with both both babies, our gear and the stroller.
When we got there my housemate and her girlfriend were home.
Rolf's wife made it a little later, having ditched their car, a 1968 Corolla at the bottom of my hill.
We all ate lentil soup and bread and played records and looked at the Christmas tree.
We played Scrabble and cooed at the babies.
Rolf and his wife and Johanna went home in the dark, walking through the park blocks to their tiny apartment,(a corner of the Simon Benson house, that would later be restored and moved onto the PSU campus).
Camden and I curled up with my poodle Teddy Braun, in my big antique bed, with all the blankets I could find, and Denise and Jackie, my roomates, slept on the floor with us, because there was only heat in the one room of that house.
The next afternoon the parents arrived to pick up their baby and paid me, for something I would have done for free.
Saturday, December 3, 2016
Friday I drove to Carson, Washington and did a soak and wrap at Carson hot springs.
The Carson bathhouse a 1900 hotel in the middle of no where in the Columbia gorge.
The place is shabby and smells like boiled eggs, but the mineral water is amazing and makes you forget about the yucky spots on the cast iron tubs, where the enamel has worn away.
You soak for a half hour and then you lie on a little lawn chairesque lounge, and a nice lady wraps you up in warm sheets and blankets, where you lie for another half hour. There is also a sauna, but I hate saunas so I didn't use it.
I was fully pain free for the rest of the day and night, after the soak.
It is a peaceful place with no cell coverage, so perfect for a bit of mind clearing.
The Carson bathhouse a 1900 hotel in the middle of no where in the Columbia gorge.
The place is shabby and smells like boiled eggs, but the mineral water is amazing and makes you forget about the yucky spots on the cast iron tubs, where the enamel has worn away.
You soak for a half hour and then you lie on a little lawn chairesque lounge, and a nice lady wraps you up in warm sheets and blankets, where you lie for another half hour. There is also a sauna, but I hate saunas so I didn't use it.
I was fully pain free for the rest of the day and night, after the soak.
It is a peaceful place with no cell coverage, so perfect for a bit of mind clearing.
Saturday, November 26, 2016
Thanksgiving 2016
 |
| Apple pie, pumpkin pie, pear gingerbread tart tatin, and Karen's almond rocca cookies |
 |
| My friend Tamara, who is always inexplicably delighted to see me and most kind |
 |
| Ham and turkey |
 |
| All the usual suspects, or most anyway, I made four fewer dishes this year in some kind of austerity measure, that didn't entirely make sense. We still had too much food. |
Monday, November 21, 2016
Brisk.
It was fine, I was working with the sullen young man, that broods silently about whatever it is that fills his mighty mind, and keeps mostly to himself.
While this is not my most favorite model of work, he and I get a lot done and are typically quite successful.
He thinks I am old and resents me not allowing him to play his electronic music, and I find him insufferably young and cranky and am happy that I can play the old lady card and nix the music.
It is a delicate balance, but we make it work for five hours a week.
Yesterday, we were dealing with a new system of take out, a new venture by Uber, where you order food online and an Uber driver picks it up and drives it to you.
You can eat out while in your pajamas.
Hooray.
People have been doing this for decades with pizza and Chinese, but this is branching out to all the foods in the whole wide world.
It is a terrific concept, but it was new to us, and new to the drivers and there was this chirping and chiming ipad to contend with, rather than real people calling in their orders.
All the while our regulars, in all their hungover glory,
all the families with hungry children
young people in love,
elderly picky eaters,
each and every one, kept right on coming, all through the dinging and chiming.
All through the chirping and tweeting, time marched on and the tickets piled up and the people had ten thousand questions, and we lovingly answered every single one, because that is what we do, we cook and serve with
l o v e.
We remember who likes extra syrup, and who adds bacon to the sausage and who likes their things extra crispy.
Then the new guy let the bacon run out, and surly dude and I gritted our teeth and steeled our nerves and worked through it.
"I was thinking you made those preemptive eggs too early, but they are almost gone"
Is the closest thing to a compliment he said to me all day.
And at some point there was a fellow named Kyle that ordered online and his driver was a little confused and needed to use the restroom, and I was feeling very nervous because I had made Kyle the most beautiful, breathtakingly gorgeous sweet treat in universe with whipped cream and berries and I just could not square that with the restroom, but there it was. I suggested he leave the bag, or better yet RUSH the food to it's recipient, pronto, and the hint was received.
My blood pressure rose and rose as I watched the driver wander around and around and eventually tramp off into the fog.
Naturally there was nothing I could do, but it disturbed me greatly.
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My November dinner was a Mexican theme. I made a Oaxacan salad with chili peanuts and pomegranate seeds , a pork and sweet potato mole, and goat cheese and mashed potato stuffed poblano peppers, friends brought salsa, a green mole with prawns and a corn and kale salad . I also made margaritas and sangria Everyone was shellshocked after the elections and a few guests cancelled but we managed to rally and have a nice time. *photo credit to Ms. Dianna |
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| charing peppers |
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In other festive November news, I scored big at the Twilight Rummage Sale. TLRS is a monthly gathering of pickers and junk hounds, at the Eagles Lodge on Hawthorne. It is a last vestige of old Portland, with little old ladies and punk rockers and weirdos of every stripe, gathering to look at treasures, records, books, toys, and works of art and sometimes complete garbage, heaped upon folding tables. The Eagles have a bar and little diner in one corner, where there members gab, as shoppers shop and sometimes mix. I scored this fabulous teensy cuckoo clock for ten dollars. It has it's key and works, beautifully. Freyja and I go faithfully each month, in hopes of catching artist Alicia Justus of Redstar art, because every single thing she makes is pure magic. We collect a series of felt mice that she hand sews, as well as her little grab bags of vintage dodads and googas that one most certainly cannot do without. We also love the work of Kimi Boylan, who transforms found objects into amazing tiny shrines. |
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| Much more mice. |
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A print of a painting by Alicia Justice, of Ruth Gordon, from a 1940's movie magazine. I had this perfect little leather frame lying around, so it was clearly meant to be, since I am a Ruth Gordon superfan.  |
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Didn't see that coming
I was utterly shocked by the outcome of the election.
That is how insulated I am
You could have told me any number of ridiculous celebrities would be elected, and I would have believed it more readily, than Trump, but as my imaginary godfather Kurt Vonnegut says "so it goes".
Wednesday morning the parents streamed into the preschool with tears in their eyes, some obviously hungover, and sleep deprived.
The one most like a redneck, the hunter, the bro-dudest of them all, was misty at this national tragedy.
My trans parent sobbed and hugged me.
I did my best to offer comfort.
I know folks in the LBGTQ community are terrified.
In my feminist community women are buying morning after pills in bulk.
People talk of underground women's health collectives, things I had not heard of since the 80's.
The arts will surely get better.
Punk rock will rise again.
I am an old lady.
I will never need an abortion, a sex change, or political asylum.
I will not risk being beaten, or killed for the color of my skin, or my sexual orientation, but I don't want to turn back the clock and live in a world where people are afraid over these issues.
In my heart of hearts I want to believe that people voted for Trump, because of economics, and not because we are a country of hate filled bigots.
I want to believe that their motivation comes from trade agreements and not some creepy desire to overturn Roe VS Wade, but it's easy to be afraid.
That is how insulated I am
You could have told me any number of ridiculous celebrities would be elected, and I would have believed it more readily, than Trump, but as my imaginary godfather Kurt Vonnegut says "so it goes".
Wednesday morning the parents streamed into the preschool with tears in their eyes, some obviously hungover, and sleep deprived.
The one most like a redneck, the hunter, the bro-dudest of them all, was misty at this national tragedy.
My trans parent sobbed and hugged me.
I did my best to offer comfort.
I know folks in the LBGTQ community are terrified.
In my feminist community women are buying morning after pills in bulk.
People talk of underground women's health collectives, things I had not heard of since the 80's.
The arts will surely get better.
Punk rock will rise again.
I am an old lady.
I will never need an abortion, a sex change, or political asylum.
I will not risk being beaten, or killed for the color of my skin, or my sexual orientation, but I don't want to turn back the clock and live in a world where people are afraid over these issues.
In my heart of hearts I want to believe that people voted for Trump, because of economics, and not because we are a country of hate filled bigots.
I want to believe that their motivation comes from trade agreements and not some creepy desire to overturn Roe VS Wade, but it's easy to be afraid.
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
I've been waiting eons for this day to arrive, or I suppose more accurately, for this day to end.
This election cycle has dragged on and on and left me weary.
I'm not at all interested in national politics, and I have no faith in the system.
Mark is terribly interested in politics and has a lot of passion for the system.
He gets cranky and ranty about all of the hubbub around politics, when I know in my heart of hearts that the whole thing is rigged, and that nothing short of a revolution would create real change.
When I say that, Mark gets even more cranky, so over time I have learned to keep it to myself.
When we first got together he would become irate when I said I didn't vote.
That I refused to participate in the sham of our political system.
He said that I was part of the problem.
I had been fairly content to be part of the problem, for a good long time before I met him, choosing to focus my energy, smugly, on these of greater value, like social service volunteerism and working in child care, things that in my opinion really change the world for the good.
When I had a son, and when George Bush started all the war, I voted, not that it really changed anything.
I am disappointed by the Obama Care, not that it's Obama's fault, the concept was ok.
We need to run the insurance industry out of town on a rail.
We need to tar and feather it.
We need to hang 'em high, boys.
All that old western movie stuff, we need to do that.
If we could have decent health care, and decent child care, and decent maternity leave, and decent education, then I might be less cynical.
If old people and mentally ill people could count on not eating cat-food from a cardboard box under a bridge, I might give a shit.
We can't count on a god damn thing, not even an epi-pen, for an allergy, if you haven't got the dough, not even a humble college education, if you are smart, which guts me.
I have worried about the dragging on wars, and all the heaps of money they cost, and all the good that could have been done instead.
It used to keep me up at night, the worry over the draft, over war.
Now I worry that my grown up child will not be able to realize his full potential, because we have such a ratty country that doesn't value people. That what little is left for social services, is sprinkled over the lowest of the low, and everyone else can just go to hell, or work themselves to death.
I worry about not being about not being able to support myself in my old age, which has some to do with our political situation, but my vote isn't going to change much about that, one way or another.
So I imagine Mark will be glued to the TV tonight, pacing around with a 7-UP in his hand, while I knit some do-dad in the kitchen, listening to John Prine and planning a dinner party.
This election cycle has dragged on and on and left me weary.
I'm not at all interested in national politics, and I have no faith in the system.
Mark is terribly interested in politics and has a lot of passion for the system.
He gets cranky and ranty about all of the hubbub around politics, when I know in my heart of hearts that the whole thing is rigged, and that nothing short of a revolution would create real change.
When I say that, Mark gets even more cranky, so over time I have learned to keep it to myself.
When we first got together he would become irate when I said I didn't vote.
That I refused to participate in the sham of our political system.
He said that I was part of the problem.
I had been fairly content to be part of the problem, for a good long time before I met him, choosing to focus my energy, smugly, on these of greater value, like social service volunteerism and working in child care, things that in my opinion really change the world for the good.
When I had a son, and when George Bush started all the war, I voted, not that it really changed anything.
I am disappointed by the Obama Care, not that it's Obama's fault, the concept was ok.
We need to run the insurance industry out of town on a rail.
We need to tar and feather it.
We need to hang 'em high, boys.
All that old western movie stuff, we need to do that.
If we could have decent health care, and decent child care, and decent maternity leave, and decent education, then I might be less cynical.
If old people and mentally ill people could count on not eating cat-food from a cardboard box under a bridge, I might give a shit.
We can't count on a god damn thing, not even an epi-pen, for an allergy, if you haven't got the dough, not even a humble college education, if you are smart, which guts me.
I have worried about the dragging on wars, and all the heaps of money they cost, and all the good that could have been done instead.
It used to keep me up at night, the worry over the draft, over war.
Now I worry that my grown up child will not be able to realize his full potential, because we have such a ratty country that doesn't value people. That what little is left for social services, is sprinkled over the lowest of the low, and everyone else can just go to hell, or work themselves to death.
I worry about not being about not being able to support myself in my old age, which has some to do with our political situation, but my vote isn't going to change much about that, one way or another.
So I imagine Mark will be glued to the TV tonight, pacing around with a 7-UP in his hand, while I knit some do-dad in the kitchen, listening to John Prine and planning a dinner party.
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Self Serve
It's been a long week.
My troubled child has been trouble.
My sleep has been scant.
My work has been excessive.
I have a small cold and a frog in my throat.
Last night I left work thinking of strategies for behavior management after a stupid conversation with the Early Intervention lady left me enraged.
Those well intentioned folks really only have one speed.
Behavior challenges?
Feelings Cards
Family going through divorce?
Parent dies?
Loss of a pet?
Autism?
Leprosy?
Feelings Cards
We are a pretty evolved and well trained staff, we coach children brilliantly on expressing feelings.
I have a lot of tools in my toolbox, when it comes to feelings.
Long story short, I was very tired and distracted.
When I fired up Sherman, a big electronic display popped up saying
My troubled child has been trouble.
My sleep has been scant.
My work has been excessive.
I have a small cold and a frog in my throat.
Last night I left work thinking of strategies for behavior management after a stupid conversation with the Early Intervention lady left me enraged.
Those well intentioned folks really only have one speed.
Behavior challenges?
Feelings Cards
Family going through divorce?
Parent dies?
Loss of a pet?
Autism?
Leprosy?
Feelings Cards
We are a pretty evolved and well trained staff, we coach children brilliantly on expressing feelings.
I have a lot of tools in my toolbox, when it comes to feelings.
Long story short, I was very tired and distracted.
When I fired up Sherman, a big electronic display popped up saying
DIMINISHED ENGINE PERFORMANCE!
Which startled me, and made me scared that we had another big car repair bill in our future (I am still paying off the last one).
As I drove away from the school, my nerves frayed and my mood soured and I felt sick inside, I also noticed I was dangerously low on gas.
So I drove home up 52nd Street, and stopped at Duke, for cheap gas.
Duke Street is part of old skanky Portland.
Ungentrified and funky.
The unpleasant gas fellow took my card wordlessly.
I buy gas from him each week and each week his scowls at me as if I were doing something terribly wrong.
He also never tells me when he is done pumping my gas, instead, does a little banging thing on the roof, the way you would spank the thigh of a horse to say "Giddyup!"
Last night, he was even more sullen, and cranky than usual, and I pissed him off more than usual by dropping my credit card when I handed it to him.
I was feeling nervous, because it is one of those gas stations where the traffic flows both ways, with no rhyme or reason, and there was a guy in a pickup pointing in my direction waiting for my spot, who looked like he could be kin to the attendant, same scowl.
Instead of going around and taking a spot in line behind me, he had pulled right up almost bumper to bumper with me, and looked down disapprovingly, as I waited for my gas.
After a few minutes, the gas fellow walked by and handed me my credit card, and did a little tapping on the roof of the car, and the pick up guy, backed up and off to the side, which in my mind indicated that our time together was through and I could leave.
So I drove off, slowly, because it was a jumbled mess of cars parked willy nilly, and as I did my little turn to get onto the side street, I hear the attendant banging on the passenger door and yelling, so naturally I stopped and asked him what the matter was.
He screamed "GIVE ME YOUR DRIVER'S LICENCE!"
No feelings card was necessary to know that he was furious, but I couldn't figure out why, until he said "YOU DROVE AWAY WITH MY PUMP!"
Which made me burst into tears and feel nauseated.
So I parked the car, and went inside, where a slightly less weird guy behind the counter made a copy of my insurance card and my driver's license.
Then I went home and cried for two hours and worried.
I worried for a very long time.
I worried through dinner.
I skipped TV to worry.
I chatted online with my friend Tamara, who assured me that I was not going to have a nervous breakdown, "because who would make the nametags for Thanksgiving?" which made me feel quite a bit better.
I worried a bit more, and wrote a haiku in German, which Rolf said was pretty correct, which made me feel even a little more better than the name tag thing.
I worried though two cups of tea and once glass of Calms magnesium drink, and chatted with my friend Doug, who said that it was an accident and that he was sorry that I was upset, which helped me feel yet more better.
Then I went to bed, and slept for two hours and work up really worried at midnight, about the gas station guys having a copy of my driver's license and was back to square one on the worry.
Mark agreed to call them for me in the morning and talk to the manager, to see what the procedure is when you are a super big dummy and break the gas pump, because your are overly stressed and tired.
Right in the middle of circle time today he phoned me to say that he had spoken with the manager of the gas station and that he was a nice guy.
It seems that driving away with the pump still stuck in your car is not terribly uncommon and that the manager thinks he can just reattach it, and if not it's just a matter of buying a new part.
Mark told the manager we would follow up in a few days to see where things were.
I feel much better, but not completely better.
Thursday, October 20, 2016
I lay awake the other night, writing a brilliant essay in my head about open-ended art for young children (at least it seemed brilliant at 4:00am).
My goat had been gotten earlier in the week, when my boss sent me links to a gift project.
Some lovely Pinterest thing, that would require a lot of prep and supervision, and would spark very limited interest in my two and three year olds.
Oh they would be thrilled to paint, and glue, and cut, and glitter,
but to keep the project gift level beautiful, I would have to censor and monitor their work.
In the end the project would become my work, not theirs.
Anyone that knows me, knows that I am craft queen.
I've never met a project I didn't love.
Glitter flows in my veins, but as an early childhood educator, I know that it is the process, not the product that is meaningful to young children, if you are doing it right.
There is a delicate dance of indifference and detachment the adult must do, to empower children to create, without preforming.
That means you hand them the materials and step back.
You do not stand behind and ask
What IS it?
or exclaim
G O O D J O B !
You do not take their adorable little hands, press them in paint, and craft reindeer and seasonal fowl.
You resist the urge to stop them from mixing all the paint together into a giant shit colored blob, and your bite your tongue when the drawing veers suddenly from charming to rubbish.
I attended a very good training in winter (which is unusual) and the best take away was
The child that has not been molded by curated art projects, will paint for the joy of it.
She will paint with focus, and abandon.
She will be carefree, and careful and she will paint for herself.
At two, a child will not know what it is, because it is the act of doing which holds meaning, rather than the act of producing.
At three a typical child will tell a story about their painting, but the image on the page will not be representational, in the way we adults like. The image will twist and turn and change with layers and scribbles and lines overlapping.
At four a child will draw and paint more concrete images, and will often make things for a recipient.
Two year olds are gleefully narcissistic, three year olds paint for themselves, unself-consciously, with delight.
When adults impose their values on the art of young children, the outcomes shift.
They often stop painting and drawing all together, or they become the children that ask me 100 times, "do you like it Miss Heidi?"
Do YOU like it ?
I ask them.
My boss is a nice lady, with a great understanding of all of these things, but parents really like all those paper-plate projects, the googly eyes, the hand-print turkey, the cotton-ball Santa.
On Wednesday we made autumnal wreaths from paper-plates, because I sometimes try to be a team player, even when it's against my nature.
My goat had been gotten earlier in the week, when my boss sent me links to a gift project.
Some lovely Pinterest thing, that would require a lot of prep and supervision, and would spark very limited interest in my two and three year olds.
Oh they would be thrilled to paint, and glue, and cut, and glitter,
but to keep the project gift level beautiful, I would have to censor and monitor their work.
In the end the project would become my work, not theirs.
Anyone that knows me, knows that I am craft queen.
I've never met a project I didn't love.
Glitter flows in my veins, but as an early childhood educator, I know that it is the process, not the product that is meaningful to young children, if you are doing it right.
There is a delicate dance of indifference and detachment the adult must do, to empower children to create, without preforming.
That means you hand them the materials and step back.
You do not stand behind and ask
What IS it?
or exclaim
G O O D J O B !
You do not take their adorable little hands, press them in paint, and craft reindeer and seasonal fowl.
You resist the urge to stop them from mixing all the paint together into a giant shit colored blob, and your bite your tongue when the drawing veers suddenly from charming to rubbish.
I attended a very good training in winter (which is unusual) and the best take away was
The younger the child, the bigger the paper!
The child that has not been molded by curated art projects, will paint for the joy of it.
She will paint with focus, and abandon.
She will be carefree, and careful and she will paint for herself.
At two, a child will not know what it is, because it is the act of doing which holds meaning, rather than the act of producing.
At three a typical child will tell a story about their painting, but the image on the page will not be representational, in the way we adults like. The image will twist and turn and change with layers and scribbles and lines overlapping.
At four a child will draw and paint more concrete images, and will often make things for a recipient.
Two year olds are gleefully narcissistic, three year olds paint for themselves, unself-consciously, with delight.
When adults impose their values on the art of young children, the outcomes shift.
They often stop painting and drawing all together, or they become the children that ask me 100 times, "do you like it Miss Heidi?"
Do YOU like it ?
I ask them.
My boss is a nice lady, with a great understanding of all of these things, but parents really like all those paper-plate projects, the googly eyes, the hand-print turkey, the cotton-ball Santa.
On Wednesday we made autumnal wreaths from paper-plates, because I sometimes try to be a team player, even when it's against my nature.
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Scan feast
In early October, I did a Scandinavian themed dinner in honor of my friend Jackie and we ate a lot of meatballs and had a gay old time.
She wanted to make a yogurt cake that she had enjoyed in Iceland, and that alone seemed like a good enough reason to have a little party.
Her cake was fantastic, and was eaten ravenously before I thought to take a picture.
I made a gingerbread tart tatin with apples and gooey caramel that was fantastic.
Menu:
Swedish Meatballs
sweet and sour red cabbage
buttered egg noodles
cream gravy
assorted pickles
cucumber dill salad
Gingerbread tart
Skyrcake
She wanted to make a yogurt cake that she had enjoyed in Iceland, and that alone seemed like a good enough reason to have a little party.
Her cake was fantastic, and was eaten ravenously before I thought to take a picture.
I made a gingerbread tart tatin with apples and gooey caramel that was fantastic.
Menu:
Swedish Meatballs
sweet and sour red cabbage
buttered egg noodles
cream gravy
assorted pickles
cucumber dill salad
Gingerbread tart
Skyrcake
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| I never use red, but it worked for this Swedish theme |
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| ginger tart tatin |
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