Life is Sweet

What's a mom to do?

2011-03-25T07:20:00.000-07:00

I'm worried about Buddy. As you probably know, if you ever read this badly-neglected blog, Buddy was attacked by some neighbor dogs on Valentine's Day. Three weeks later, still recovering from his wounds, I had to board him with the vet so I could go on a business trip. When Rob and I picked him up, his front leg was bothering him. He was limping on it, and the vet could not determine why. A week later, as the symptoms grew and changed, we finally learned that the problem was an abscess caused by an undetected bite wound (from the Valentine's Day attack). Before he knew it, Buddy was back in surgery, back in the protective collar and on lots of heavy medication again.

Last weekend, we were finally able to take the collar of shame off of him, and Buddy is 95% healed from the trauma. But now he is acting like a different dog. He still enjoys a walk, but doesn't frolic as much as he used to. He is barely interested in his food. He is drinking plenty of water, which is good. But he seems content to sleep all of the time and I have to beg him to come up on the bed. This is just not the Buddy I know.

I really think that this may be a case of depression following the big event. But I'm not sure what to do for him. Do I just let him sleep and wait for him to start feeling better? Do I get the vet involved? I hesitate going back to the vet. I just don't know what they could do for him, and I don't want to traumatize Buddy any more.

I don't how people with human children do it. My hats are off to you. I would be a basket case if this were my actual child. Still, I am kind of basket case.

To the birds

2011-03-09T05:14:00.000-08:00

About six months after Rob and I met and started dating, he had his 33rd birthday. I decided I wanted to get him something really special, something that would symbolize the intense love that I felt for him. I was also starting to volunteer at PAWS Wildlife Center in Lynnwood, feeding baby birds, so I was a little obsessed with birds. I saw an ad in the paper for a pair of baby lovebirds and paid a visit to the seller. Despite Rob telling me that he didn't want a pet for a gift, I brought those two babies home and offered them up as his birthday gift.

From the very beginning, we knew these birds were a handful. Rob named the green one Spanky, because he thought she looked like she deserved to be spanked a lot for her naughty behavior. For the next few years, Spanky was the most productive little egg-layer I've ever seen. I tried everything to dissuade her from laying. One trick I read about was to give her a nest box, let her lay eggs, then take the box out after a week or so. I tried this, but failed to take the nest box out in time and that is how we ended up with Ickybird.

Sadly, Spanky's mate (Feebs) died about a year after the chicks hatched. But Spanky and Icky (mother and daughter) had each other for company and kept the walls of our house vibrating with their constant chatter. Yesterday, we said goodbye to Spanky. She was 12 years old, and had grown to be the "sweet one" of the pair (i.e., the one less likely to bite). She was an expert paper shredder, could be heard from across the street with all of the doors closed, and was our dear little friend. We'll miss you Spanky. You may not have symbolized love in the way that I meant all of those years ago, but you came to be a cherished member of our little animal kingdom. We hope that you and Feebs are flying around, enjoying the afterlife together.

To the dogs

2011-02-26T16:29:00.001-08:00

As those of you know who are friends on Facebook, two weeks ago my dog Buddy got attacked. Specifically, we had just taken our daily walk in the nearby forest preserve and were heading home. It was raining hard and cold, and Buddy was practically dragging me down the street to get home. I was wearing my hiking boots, and just couldn't walk as fast as normal.

Not two blocks from home and I heard a man's voice shouting. In less than a second, I knew he was shouting at his dogs, and I knew it was bad. He used that tone that included both anger and fear. I turned my head to see three large black dogs running across the street towards us. Before I could even react, they were on Buddy and I was being pulled in circles, in the middle of growling, barking and Buddy's cries.

The guy ran over and pulled one of his dogs back. Buddy was in the dog's mouth and he rose up from the ground as the man pulled his dog's collar hard. I'm pretty sure I was screaming. The dog let go and Buddy fell to the ground, bleeding and crying, and he started running towards our house. I ran for him and threw myself on top of him, as I looked up to see another of the dogs heading towards me. I kept screaming over and over again to this guy to come up and get his f&*#ing dogs. Finally, all dogs were gone and I was standing there with Buddy in my arms, not knowing how bad his injuries were, and frankly, in shock.

The story ends with Buddy getting stitched up at the animal hospital and me nursing him back to health. It has been almost two weeks since the incident, and he still has stitches, but he is otherwise okay. I, on the other hand, feel like something really important has been taken away from me: my sense of safety in my own neighborhood.

It has been a long time since I worked with victims of crime, and since anything really scary happened to me. It is amazing how easily we are lulled into a feeling of safety in our environment. I've had so many thoughts in the past two weeks, including, of course, realizing how I might feel had the violence occurred to my person. It was bad enough seeing my dog injured, but what if it had been me (bruises and scrapes from the dog attack not-withstanding). It brings fresh to my mind how difficult this world is for victims of violence. And I can't help but feel a little guilty for being so tuned-out all of this time.

So now Buddy and I both need to heal. I'm not completely sure how to proceed. Rob will be home soon and we'll all walk together and he'll be our alpha-male protecting us from the bad, scary dogs. And while I am comforted by this thought, I mourn the feeling of independence that I've always had, walking Buddy every day after work, alone and relaxed. I don't think I'll ever be relaxed again. And what is really sad to me is realizing that maybe I was naive to have been so relaxed in the first place.

Sweet Seattle Cinema

2011-01-11T19:38:00.001-08:00

Sweet Seattle Cinema, the relaunch of www.sweetseattle.com is live! I hope you enjoy it. I'd love to hear your feedback. There is a feedback link on the site, or you can leave a comment here as well. Thanks!

A new year, a new site

2010-12-27T18:36:00.001-08:00

I am a big fan of new year's resolutions. I prefer to call them goals, but whatever you call them, they are important. The first day of the year is my favorite holiday. I usually spend it with friends, and later, when the friends all go home, I think about what I need to do so that when it comes to the end of the year and I'm looking back, I can say, "Hey, I really did that!"

This year's goal just hit me like a lightning bolt as I was walking Buddy tonight. For a long time I've been feeling guilty and frustrated about my web site (www.sweetseattle.com). I created the site about eight years ago when I was first learning web design. It was what has since been replaced by Facebook - a place to put all of my photos, talk about my life with Rob, etc. But it's a ton of work to keep up, and well, now there's Facebook. Yet, I haven't let go of the site (or the awesome domain name!) and I've wondered what to do with it.

Then it hit me. I am going to start writing movie reviews! And as I started thinking about a movie review web site, I thought, why not throw knitting into the mix? For me, knitting and movies go hand in hand. I watch a lot of movies, and I'm usually knitting while I do it. So the site will be primarily movie reviews, with a side-bar link to my current knitting project (for all of those crazy knitters out there who would care to know such a thing).

I've never actually written a movie review. But I love movies, I watch tons of them, and I have really obnoxious opinions about all of them. I think I'll be a natural! More to come once I get the web site redesigned, repurposed and ready for public viewing. Look out, Roger Ebert, here I come!

Banality Unlimited

2010-11-27T08:29:00.000-08:00

It has taken me four long months to get off my butt to write a new blog post! I really do love the idea of having a blog, but most of the time I just don't feel like anything I write is going to be very interesting. (Which may be why my Mom is the only person who reads this thing!)

It is November 27 and we are now in the dreaded time zone between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I am doing my mental gymnastics, trying to work up enthusiasm for the holidays. Rob is in Portsmouth, New Hampshire and I have a lot of time alone right now. Why not spend it racking my brain over the Christmas shopping list. It's a worthy effort, though all I seem to be doing is bloodying my forehead and making a mess upon the wall. Kind of like that freaky hospital scene towards the end of "All that Jazz," which I watched last night. I had a completely different idea of what that movie was about. I kept waiting for Liza Minelli to show up. Wrong movie! But, I digress...

Four days ago we had a wicked snowstorm here, which is kind of strange in itself. But this storm brought snow, cold temperatures, and a fierce wind that knocked out power for tens of thousands of homes. Today, the snow is completely melted and we're back to a heavy fog of moisture so thick I can barely see the neighbor's houses. While I am terribly relieved to be rid of the snow and cold, there is something about it that drop-kicks you into the holiday mind frame. I immediately wanted to start baking and stringing lights all over the house! Now, I'm ready to pull on the rain gear and play frisbee golf again.

See what I mean about the boring post? Jeez, I have, like, nothing interesting to write about. The things that pop into my head that are kind of interesting are probably not fit for public consumption. So bear with me for another four months. Maybe I'll think of something by then!

Happy Birthday to me

2010-07-28T09:00:00.000-07:00

Today is my birthday which is conveniently located about midway through the year. I always find it an excellent time to reflect on my yearly goals. (Just one of the ways I like to punish myself on my birthday.) So far I have been falling very short for my goal of writing every day. This blog only serves to prove that point. My last entry was in May. Sheesh, that is embarrassing.

So this year I turn 41. I'm still trying to get use to 40 and now I have to deal with 41. I guess it's time to buck up and just deal with the fact that I am, indeed, in my 40s. There is no denying it. The good news is that a lot of decent things happened while I was 40. I got a new job that includes a bigger paycheck, I've found an exercise routine that I've been able to stick to, I've gotten a lot of big projects done around the house (thanks to my wonderful husband), and lots more. So maybe this being-in-your-40s-thing isn't so bad.

Like Riding a Bike

2010-05-21T09:54:00.001-07:00

Yesterday at 5:30 a.m. I was sitting at the stoplight at 11th & Warren in the pouring rain. The light turned green, and as I twisted the right grip to accelerate and felt the balance of two wheels beneath me, I had a flash of the first time I had ever felt this sensation of balance. (I will admit that for a moment I worried that my life was flashing before my eyes and perhaps I was about to get hit by a bus.)

I can't say for sure how old I was, but I remember my sister teaching me to ride a bicycle. We were on 3rd Avenue, the street that lay one block west from our house, and had minimal traffic. There were no sidewalks on this street. The edge of the road simply butted up against the lawns, or lack of lawns, in front of houses. I was on what had been my Aunt Teresa's little green bike with the banana seat. One minute my sister was holding onto the back, and the next minute she was a half of a block behind me, cheering me on. I don't remember if I stopped myself or wiped out, but I do remember that first sensation of balance on two wheels.

As this memory came to the surface, I was filled with a rush of gratitude for my sister. What a wonderful moment in time. What an important thing she taught me. I was not the easiest of students, I was the kind of kid who was afraid of everything. It probably took a lot of effort for my sister to get me on that bike. For the rest of my life, the expression "It's like riding a bike" is a credit to this person I've always looked up to, in more ways than one, my big sister.

Stanley Cup Coma

2010-05-03T19:05:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here watching what is probably the 20th game of 200 of the Stanley Cup playoffs. For those of you who weren't raised on hockey, this is the World Series of the sport. And let me tell you, they love to drag this stuff out. The playoffs start with 16 teams that play the best of 7 against each other until two are left standing. As you can imagine, this takes awhile.

Having grown up in Minnesota, I am fully steeped in the sport of hockey. One of the only family vacations I can remember involved a road trip to the United States Hockey Hall of Fame in Eveleth, Minnesota. I suffered from car sickness, so was doped up on Dramamine for most of that vacation. What I remember most about the USHHOF was the ridiculously comfortable leather chairs they had. I snoozed like an old pro while my Dad reveled in what was his version of Mecca. My Mom and sister couldn't wait to get out of there, but I was happy as a clam on my little leather cushion, a much-needed reprieve from being crammed in the back seat of the car between my brother and sister.

Hockey was a fact of life in my childhood home. My brothers both played hockey as young men, and my Dad played on a league (the Augsburg Old Goats Hockey League, or AOGHL) until he was in his 40s. He only stopped after being severely checked during a game that resulted in a dislocated shoulder. In true badass hockey player fashion, he drove himself to the hospital and still has a big lump on his shoulder to mark the moment that ended his hockey career.

What I never realized until I grew up and got a little distance from hockey is that it a game like no other. There is nothing casual about being a hockey player. There's no flag-football in hockey. There is no quick game of H-O-R-S-E. The minute you invest in a stick and skates, you are required to get serious about the sport. And while hockey players may get a bad rep as meatheads, it takes some real skill to play. So while I may grumble about having to endure yet another game in the never-ending playoffs to the Stanley Cup, I continue to marvel at the amazing spectacle that is ice hockey.

The work that binds us

2010-04-15T19:17:00.000-07:00

This Monday marked my first day as a civil servant working for the Department of the Navy. I can't help but think of my 20-year old self and what she would have thought of this turn of events. I was so idealistic (and annoying!) then, swearing off meat and dairy, spending hours on street corners urging people to "Boycott GE!" and railing against the establishment. As most people do, I grew up, mellowed in my convictions, and realized that life is complicated enough without constantly screaming my head off at people about god-knows-what. Life is about the choices you make every day, in how you treat other people, the way you spend your money, and yes -- the work you do.

I started this blog writing about my work and I continue to find that I want to share with people what it feels like to work for the military. To me, it is a very unique experience. When I'm at work, on the Naval base, I feel like I'm in this very specific world that doesn't really include me. I feel very much like an outsider, as most people I walk by are in some kind of military uniform and I know they are living a much different life than me. The more I learn about their lives, the more I realize the huge sacrifices they are making for their jobs. They move around constantly, they leave their families behind at the drop of a hat, they are constantly being told what to do 24 hours a day. In a very real way, they sacrifice their own freedom to uphold the very idea of freedom itself. It is humbling to work around these people, yet they would probably laugh at me if I told them this. They don't necessarily see themselves as all that special. But if were asked to do the things they do every day, I would not rise to the challenge. No way, no how.

I just hope that, in the work I do each day, I can help make their jobs a little easier somewhere down the road. I've always been okay with being a "behind-the-scenes" kind of person. I don't need glory or kudos or a big spotlight. I just want to know that what I do makes a positive difference in the world. And I have to keep my focus on the people who sacrifice the freedoms we all take for granted as "civilians," for it is their lives that deserve to be made better, however possible.

The mischievous lagomorph

2010-04-03T10:01:00.000-07:00

Happy Easter, everyone! I have to admit, I wasn't raised as a Christian and I really don't understand the whole passion of the Christ and resurrection thing. But I have a lot of great memories of Easter. To me, Easter is a time of bunnies, candy, baskets of gifts, and searching for colorful eggs. It's a time to get dressed up and go to restaurants that serve overpriced buffet meals that cater to groups of 40 or more. I miss seeing grandma and cousins and aunts and uncles, all dressed in the Sunday finest, chowing down on ham and turkey and fruit salad.

One Easter, I think I was about seven years old, my siblings and I woke up to our overstuffed Easter baskets and commenced the search for our Easter eggs throughout the house. I, being the youngest, was still under the impression that a giant rabbit came to our house, delivered serious candy booty, and hid all of these eggs. My older sister and brothers kept up the ruse for my entertainment.

We had searched and searched and found all but one egg. We had the eggs memorized from having dyed them the night before. The deal was, the game wasn't over until you found all of the eggs. (I'm sure Mom didn't want some hard-boiled egg rotting in her house for weeks on end.) We finally became desperate and Mom suggested that we wake up Dad to ask him where that last egg might be. Turns out Dad had, you know, I-spyed the Easter bunny doing his thing. (This may have been the point in time when I was made aware of the fact that there was no Easter bunny. Thankfully, I've repressed that memory sufficiently and still like to believe there are Easter bunnies hopping around all night leaving gifts and making mischief.)

It turns out that the last egg required a stepladder to get to -- Dad had hid it inside the light fixture in the foyer at the front of the house. I'm not quite sure what he was thinking with that move -- none of us were tall enough to reach it, and who the hell looks in the light fixtures for hard-boiled eggs? But I'm sure he had fun hiding those eggs.

And to me, that is what Easter is all about. Hiding eggs in impossible places so children could never find or reach them. Days later, when everyone is choking on the smell of rotting eggs, we can all have a good laugh.

Makeover

2010-03-14T16:06:00.000-07:00

I decided to give my orange bathroom a makeover this weekend. This bathroom was one of my first projects when we bought our house eight years ago. I would get home from work at night (about 10pm) and lock myself in the bathroom prepping and painting. I did a terrible job, got orange paint everywhere. It's been kind of a novelty of a room, but I am very happy to see it go.

I was inspired by a rug I saw at Crate & Barrel (of all things) and decided to repaint with turquoise and chartreuse. Unfortunately, I didn't buy the rug so I had to go from memory. I let the paint guy at Lowe's talk me into going one shade lighter than the colors I wanted. As a result, I now have a "Tiffany" blue bathroom with an accent wall that is a muddier green than I anticipated. Overall, though, I do like it. Once I get my new furniture in place and pictures hung, I'm sure I'll like it even more.

I opened this post thinking that I was going to write about body image and my own mental makeover, but I'm not sure where to go with it. It's funny, I was feeling pretty good in my skin before our vacation. But after viewing the hundreds of pictures that everyone took, and seeing my giant ol' ass, I'm not feeling all that great anymore. I have always been fairly good about not comparing myself to the unrealistic societal expectations of beauty. Now here I am, 40 years old, and I find myself obsessively comparing myself to everyone around me. And what a losing battle it is. And an extraordinarily stupid waste of energy. But it's like my brain is under someone else's control and I'm fighting to get it back. Thank goodness I have a wonderful husband who tells me I'm beautiful all of the time. It's like having a boxing manager pumping me up for the fight every day.

It all comes down to perspective, doesn't it? And aren't we lucky that we have total control over the most important thing in this universe: our way of looking at it.

Back to Reality

2010-03-07T07:53:00.000-08:00

We've been back from Belize for a full week now, but my head is still somewhere in the clouds. It was an amazing week at Cocoplum, enjoying the sunshine and salty air with friends. We had perfect weather six days out of seven, which was better than I expected after having obsessively checked the forecast for days before we flew. Despite gallons of sunscreen, I got effectively burned to a crisp and am now peeling like a stinky ol' onion.

Book update: So my Near Death Experience book that I was so excited about turned out to be supreme bore. I was hoping for something a lot less biased and more straightforward in terms of presenting research and sharing stories. Instead, it was a presentation of a belief (that there is indeed life after death!) and a rehashing of the "evidence" retold to perfectly support the author's own convictions. How surprising! And disappointing.

My other vacation book, "Truth and Beauty" by Ann Patchett, did not disappoint in the least. It was a beautifully written tale about the author's friendship with poet and memoirist Lucy Grealy. I couldn't put this book down, and immediately bought Grealy's books once I returned home.

So, back to reality. Rob is fixing the shower in our main bathroom, and I've decided to take this opportunity to do a little poverty-remodel on the bathroom. Good'bye orange and blue and hello turquoise and green. I bought new rugs, towels and a little corner table to house extra linens. Next weekend I'll be painting up a storm.

I feel very fortunate to have had such a wonderful vacation. Now I just have to hold a little piece of Cocoplum in my heart, a little island bubble with the sound of gentle waves lapping the sandy shore and frigates floating overhead.

Anticipation Exhaustion

2010-02-13T08:17:00.000-08:00

Remember when you were a little kid and there was something exciting coming up? For me, it was often a visit to my cousin's in Wisconsin or a trip to my best friend's cabin. I would get so excited about it so far in advance of the actual event that, by the time the happy day finally rolled around, I would be exhausted, verging on depressed. Flash forward thirty years and I'm using all of my powers to hold anticipation at bay while I consider that in seven days time I will be headed to Belize for a week in the sun.

For this vacation, I am bringing two books that I'm pretty excited about. The first is called "Evidence of the Afterlife, The Science of Near-Death Experiences." Let me back up and explain this one. I was walking from the gym back to work one day, thinking about people who have had near-death experiences (don't ask). And I started to wonder, is it true that everyone sees the bright light and dead relatives welcoming them towards a peaceful place? Or is that just an American experience? Has anyone explored stories from other cultures and found a consistent experience? And could it really just be a chemical process that happens in the human brain that produces this similar experience of near-death? As these questions rolled around in my brain, I knew that there I was certainly not the first person to wonder about these things. After a ten minute search on Amazon, I came up with this book, recently published by author Jeffrey Long, MD.

My second vacation book is "Truth & Beauty" by Ann Patchett. Just because I love Ann Patchett.

I recently finished reading "The Girls" by Laurie Lansens, a novel written in the style of an autobiography of conjoined twins Ruby and Rose. Rose is the real writer, and her writing improves with each chapter, the images becoming more alive and her stories more colorful. Her sister Ruby also writes a few chapters, and while her style is much more like a journal, she graces the story with a very different perspective, a great sense of humor, all the while innocently giving away her sister's biggest secrets. Lansens does an excellent job of bringing these girls alive and heart-breakingly real. A big thank you to my sister-in-law Michelle for this Christmas gift. It was a real page-turner.

For now, I anxiously await my next two books, which I'll soon read from the hammock of my cabana on a 15-acre island somewhere in the Caribbean Sea. Sweet, exhausting anticipation.

A love affair with February

2010-02-02T18:11:00.000-08:00

Here is it, February, and I'm just getting around to writing in my blog. I like February, and I'll tell you why.

1. It's only 28 days.
2. I am taking a week off from work.
3. There is a Federal holiday.
4. So I only have to work 14 days this month.
5. The Lost season starts this month (today, to be exact).
6. Groundhogs make predictions and we listen.
7. Rob's birthday is this month.
8. Valentine's Day means guilt-free chocolate.
9. Strangely, there is usually a good day to surf in Washington.

I was going to make this a top-ten list, but I could only think of nine. I hate to be a broken record from my last post (as well as my list above), but tonight is the season premiere of Lost and I'm so excited I'm ready to pee my pants. Last night I rewatched the finale from last season and pondered what it all could mean. Predeterminism v. Free Will. I would say Good v. Evil, but that seems too simplistic for the themes going on in this show. I love that it is this complex. I love that so many people have so many different ideas about what it all means. Damn it, I love this show.

But if you read my last post, you already know this, so I'll shut up now. I'm going to get crazy and try to stay up until 11:00 p.m. tonight, a full 2-1/2 hours past my bedtime. I'll probably be a complete zombie tomorrow, but I think it will be worth it.

I think it's quickly becoming obvious that I'm unable to think, write or talk about anything besides the Lost finale, so I'll just close for now. Perhaps my next post will be all about the season premiere. Aren't you excited!?!

Ready to Get Lost

2010-01-21T17:39:00.000-08:00

In less than two weeks, the two-hour premiere of the final season of Lost (the best show ever made) begins. To say I'm excited about this would be a grand understatement. This show has completely taken over my brain for a really, really long time now. I could probably write a blog entry with my Lost theories every day and not stop for a year. How freakin' pathetic is that? I promise, I won't bore you with that. But right now, I just have to express how happy I am that my favorite show is about to start again.

For those of you who have not gotten "Lost" yet, you might wonder why this show seems to drive people insane. I have watched five seasons (more than once!) of this show, and I still don't know what is going on. But the writers are amazing. They are creating this rich story with intersecting plot lines, themes, characters, etc. They are relentless in their story details. Some small thing from season one will show up again in season five, just as it was meant to. Nothing is an accident.

Lost has led me to learn more about the Bible, Egyptian mythology, various books, music and the process of writing. It keeps me guessing and gets my wheels turning, even in between seasons. It is addictive, engrossing, pure genius! And soon I will melt into its beautiful world again for 16 more glorious weeks! Don't look for me, because I will officially be Lost.

My four pound beer baby

2010-01-15T17:21:00.000-08:00

Well, dear readers, it has been 14 days since I've ingested a beer and I've lost four pounds. And I must say, it feels pretty good. I've managed to keep up the exercise routine for two whole weeks, and I have high hopes that I'll be able to sustain it.

I certainly don't want to drone on and on about exercise and my dietary habits. I can only imagine how boring that is to read about it. Instead, let me give you some advice that I hope you will carry with and share with others for as long as you shall live. You see this little bird here? There's another (green) one just under the light switch. These are called Lovebirds. Someone with a really sick sense of humor came up with that name, because let me tell you, there is not a lot of love in these little avian bodies. More like concentrated evil.

We've had Spanky (green) and Icky (yellow, Spanky's daughter) for 11 and 9 years, respectively. I'm fairly certain that even if I live to be 80 years old, these birds will still be around, trying to nip my fingers and making my house a noisy echochamber of birdcall. I bought Spanky and Feeble (Icky's dad, now deceased) for Rob as a birthday gift. It was a mere six months after we started dating, and I had rocks in my head. Not only did he NOT want birds, he specifically told me NOT to buy him birds. In true Homer Simpson fashion, I bought them anyway, because it is what I really wanted. It is a gift-giving faux pas I've had to live with for a very long time.

So my advice, dear readers, is don't be fooled by the name. Lovebirds are loud, somewhat mean, they breed like crazy and live to be 105 years old. But if you are really insane and just have to have them, I've got a couple of cuties that could be all yours for the price of a song. Even a loud, tuneless, Lovebird song.

Dreaming in Belize

2010-01-10T08:23:00.000-08:00

I am on the vacation countdown. It's still several weeks away, but since we started paying for this trip almost a year ago, it feels like it's just around the corner. We are returning to Belize, the same wonderful place we went last year. We loved it so much, we can't wait to do it again.

The destination: Cocoplum Caye located off the coast of Belize, a 20-25 minute boat ride across the Caribbean sea. The island is about 15 acres and has ten private cabanas, a dining area, a bar and on one side of the island, the staff's quarters. It is a little slice of paradise. Each cabana has its own porch with a hammock where you can lounge and read a book all morning. The water is a dozen shades of blue and is shallow enough that you can walk to the other surrounding islands.

Last year I spent my week at Cocoplum reading "What is the What" by Dave Eggers, the story of Valentino Achak Deng, one of the lost boys of Sudan. It was a pretty serious read for vacation, but put me in such a deeply mindful place of the diversity of experience and perspective in our world, it ultimately enhanced my memories of that week in paradise.

This is a week without television, computers, cell phones. It is a week of warm, salty air, conversation, quiet, interacting with this beautiful Earth, its ocean and those mysterious life forms within it. Nirvana.

Turning the Leaves

2010-01-08T16:24:00.000-08:00

Something happened to me with the turn of the year. I got motivated. I am not one to get all excited about those things I plan to do better just because the calendar has changed. Don't get me wrong, I love my resolutions (though I prefer to call them "goals"). But usually I write my goals, then think about them for months, sometimes without ever feeling any real motivation towards achieving them. But this year feels different.

The first thing I decided to do this year, though I haven't really said it out loud, is to eat healthier and exercise. I've started both this week, and I cannot believe how much better I feel already. I also decided, kind of without really thinking about it, to drastically reduce my intake of beer. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love a nice cold beer. And while I wouldn't call myself a heavy consumer, I am a regular consumer.

The second big thing I've "resolved" to do is to write every day. Oh, I know you've heard it all before. When I started this blog it was with the intention of writing in it every day. The problem is, with such a critical following, I feel pressured to write something fabulous every time I write. That is no small feat, my dear readership. No, this resolution is about writing what may someday be a book. So at least one hour per day will be devoted to said goal, and I really hope I can stick to it this time.

Twenty-ten. It's going to be an interesting year.

Once in a Blue Moon

2009-12-30T20:17:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow is the last day of 2009 and all I can say is, thank God! I don't know why, but I've always kind of hated odd-numbered years. I guess I have a bias against odd numbers in general. Don't even get me started on Prime numbers. Ugh.

So, like about a billion other people, I get really nostalgic and sentimental at the end of the year. And, in true American fashion, I create a huge list of goals for the coming year. I have learned, though, not to fill the list with ridiculous things like "exercise more, eat less." Why set myself up to fail like that? Instead I like to make goals like, "take care of your emotions" and "be kind to others." I figure these, I at least, have a snowball's chance in hell at getting somewhat right.

And how about that blue moon we're having? Cool! Though I was reading on The Seattle Times that a true blue moon has something to do with air particles being a certain size and colored red which makes the moon actually appear to be blue. And it happens like once in a billion years and usually only after 13,000 people die in a volcano eruption or something like that. But I'm okay with the common definition of a blue moon, which is a second full moon in one calendar month. Booya! That is super cool, too! Hey, does this also mean that I'll have my period twice in one month? I'm so confused.

Happy new year, everyone! Don't forget to write those goals and reflect on how bitchin' it is to say good'bye to stupid ol' 2009.

Holly Hunter Doesn't Know Me

2009-12-28T17:28:00.000-08:00

Today I was thinking about Holly Hunter. I'm not really sure why, but I love her to death. I try to see everything she has her name attached to, and even if it sucks, at least she was a part of it. Somehow my mind drifted off to "Once Around" (one of her films with Richard Dreyfuss) and I started dreaming about how wonderful Holly is, and (in true fatalistic fashion) what a tragedy it would be if something terrible happened to Holly. I imagined seeing a headline on my Google homepage about Holly dead in a tragic accident or something, and that thought immediately led me to the (also fatalistic) thought that what if it were me who was killed in a horrible traffic accident, and how sad is it that Holly Hunter would not even know! She has no idea who I am and how much I admire her! And what a pathetic loser am I that I would even have this thought!

But seriously, hero worship, it's an interesting thing, isn't it? I mean, our whole culture seems to be centered around worshiping Hollywood stars and starletts. And no matter how aware we try to be of the whole phenomenon, we find ourselves drawn like children to the candy aisle to those People and Us magazine covers. My favorite thing about getting my hair cut is getting to pour over, without guilt, all of the Hollywood mags. It's the only place I ever let myself truly indulge in all the glory of my twisted Hollywood hero worship.

It's a shame that somehow this doesn't get to be a two-way street. Why can't I be friends with Holly? Why can't I call her up after seeing her latest movie and say, "Holy shit girl, you were the bomb!" No sir, that is simply not allowed. There is no way on this green Earth that I will ever be friends with Holly. And it may be a pathetic sentiment, but I'm really kind of sad about it. Because for some reason, I'm pretty sure I was supposed to know her in this lifetime. But now she is all rich and famous, and I am just this sad little drone, my sadness deepened by the knowledge Holly is lucky enough not to have -- that we will never fulfill our destiny of being galpals, forever best friends. I am doomed to forever worship her from afar.

How can I miss you if you won't leave?

2009-12-26T20:05:00.000-08:00

Does this happen to anyone else? You have a day coming, which you know will be free of plans. So you begin to imagine everything you will accomplish in that day. You will finally get around to backing up the files on your computer. You will clean the entire house. You will spend at least three hours writing and another three hours reading. You will bake bread. You will make a dozen phone calls you've been putting off for a week. You will write a song.

Then the day finally comes and you spend the entirety of it wasting away in front of the television watching movies. All of a sudden, your motivation to do anything else is flushed down the toilet along with the remains of your last beer. And it's not that you've forgotten The List. Worse yet, you remember it very vividly. You even remember the excitement you felt when dreaming up The List, the swelling of pride at all you would achieve in that glorious day of solitude. This memory just adds to the feeling of worthlessness, disgust at your own endless capacity for sloth.

Thank goodness I avoided having this kind of day, for now I am writing in my blog. So I may not have spent three hours writing today, but 30 minutes isn't so bad? And I may not have made those phone calls, but I backed up my computer files. You see, sometimes you have to lower those expectations and just get comfortable with your own laziness. And I know, if I just had one more day, I'd get the house cleaned.

Happy Christmas

2009-12-16T17:56:00.000-08:00

I'm thrilled to say that, after not writing in my blog for days, my fans are coming out the woodwork to ask for a new post! Okay, the fan in question is my Mom, who has always encouraged me to write, but still ... I'm happy to be asked! Okay, now I have to figure out what to write about.

I guess I could write about Christmas. It's that time again, and it feels a little weird this year, mostly because of the weather. We were having really chilly weather here the last couple of weeks, but it was clear and crisp. It actually felt kind of Christmasy. Then it warmed up and started to rain. And I'm talking torrential downpour. Now it just feels wet and soggy and Christmas lights seem oddly out of place. Last year at this time we were getting snow, which really irked me, but did solidify the Christmas mood of the place.

Boy, pretty exciting stuff here, talking about the weather. I probably shouldn't even be attempting a post right now. I'm totally tapped, feeling a little stressed out and not feeling at all articulate about any of it. I'm ready for a little down time, maybe even reflection. I've really wanted to get creative lately too (in the form of making music or painting) but just haven't found the time and energy for it. Perhaps the quiet time around the holidays will provide the space for such endeavors. It's funny to say "quiet time" in reference to the holidays, knowing that, for most people, the holidays are anything but quiet. But being far away from family, there isn't much chaos in our holiday week.

I'll be trying to write more in the coming days (thanks, Mom!) but for now, for anyone who may be reading, I hope you are having a wonderful week before Christmas, week of Hanukkah, etc. Be safe and celebrate.

Not Knowing

2009-12-03T18:42:00.000-08:00

For those of you who might have read my last post, I am happy to say I'm feeling a bit more cheerful. I think the extended period of gray and rain finally got to me and the world seemed like a very bleak place. But we've had several days of sunshine (and moonshine!) and my spirits are slowly lifting.

I was cheered a bit more yesterday while listening to the recent interview Bill Moyers did with Jane Goodall. Jane is, of course, a living legend and I think every animal lover the world over has envied her extraordinary experiences living among and studying the chimpanzees of Gombe National Park. During her conversation with Moyers, Jane commented that sometimes we don't need to always be trying to answer the big questions. Sometimes it is just okay to not know what it's all about and just be comfortable in not knowing. Boy, was that a nice thing to hear! I felt my spirit instantly relax into the idea that just breathing in and experiencing the beautiful world around us might be enough. Perhaps the answers come to us in those moments, and then again, perhaps we all go to the grave not knowing a damned thing.

I guess, like most people, I've always expected that the older I got, the more I would know. But I find that is not nearly the case. I may have more information in my tiny little brain, I may gather more knowledge per se, but I don't really feel like I know any more than I did when I was 20. In a lot of ways, I feel like I know less. I had the cocky self-assurance of my convictions back then. Now I know better -- my way of looking at the world is no better or worse than anyone else, nor is it any more true or valid. We're all just scratching our heads, trying to figure it out. Perhaps "wisdom" is just getting comfortable with this inevitable fact of life.

The Anti-Thanksgiving

2009-11-28T16:44:00.000-08:00

My friend Di gave me the book The Elegance of the Hedgehog (Muriel Barbery) for my birthday this year and I've begun reading it while vacationing in Tofino (Vancouver Island) over Thanksgiving weekend. The self-professed child genius, Paloma, enters the story with the following,

Apparently, now and again adults take the time to sit down and contemplate what a disaster their life is. They complain without understanding and, like flies constantly banging against the same old windowpane, they buzz around, suffer, waste away, get depressed then wonder how they got caught up in this spiral that is taking them where they don't want to go. The most intelligent among them turn their malaise into a religion..."

I'm somewhat frightened to read this and realize how accurately it reflects my own sense of the world. I'm not sure where this story is going yet, and what will become of our young Paloma, but is it really possible that my view of the world is so stark?

As I read everyone giving thanks on their little Facebook posts, and remarking on how "blessed" they are, I just can't help feeling terribly cynical and judgmental. I mean, really ... blessed? Or is it just random chance that you weren't born in a mosquito-infested mudhole in Sudan? Are you blessed because God likes you better than those poor souls suffering under the crushing weight of a tyrannical militia in some far-off country whose name we cannot even pronounce? Is there any real reason behind any of this, other than whatever meaning we randomly assign it? I am inclined to think that the only real meaning in the universe is what we decide for ourselves.

Ironically, I do not say any of this without gratitude. For I do wake up every day wondering how I got so goddamned lucky to have been born in this beautiful place with ample opportunity and access to those things I need to be comfortable. And I want other humans to have just as much, if not more, than what I have. It makes me sick that there are people suffering and dying in places like Darfur because, basically, humans are sick horrible creatures that can do these things to other humans. But I guess, rather than clasping my hands together and thanking a God that is likely just a manifestation of my own brain's chemical reactions, I am just exhaling in the general direction of random luck, not really knowing how to express the relief I feel at being dealt such a lofty hand in this life.

I hope that someday I can be a better human being, that I can help others get what they need and have a better life. Maybe the only true path to happiness is to give away everything you were given and know what it is to stand naked against the force of the world. Will I ever be brave enough to do this? And if I am, and if I do what I think is right, perhaps then I will truly appreciate what it is to be thankful.

Positively Maniacal Sistah

2009-11-24T17:11:00.000-08:00

This is probably the last thing you want to read about right now, and I apologize for the content of this post in advance, but I am compelled. Today I have raging PMS. I know, go ahead and check out now if you don't want to hear about it, because I am here to testify.

If you are a man and still reading, PMS is no laughing matter. For me, it involves being in an almost constant state of rage for about 24 hours. But the rage, especially if turned inwards, can quickly become a huge cry-fest and frightening shame spiral. And sometimes it is just plain depression. Feeling like the world is closing in, and you are such a pathetic loser that it doesn't matter if the world crushes you and you disappear forever. Sounds neat, right? I know!

Here is the what really scares me: From what I understand, menopause (or, to be technical, perimenopause) is like basically years of really bad PMS. Years! While trying to cheer me up, my Mom was forced to admit that her symptoms lasted like seven years. Okay, so after one day of feeling like a raving lunatic, I'm wondering how I will possibly survive menopause for even a week. I will probably lose my marbles, my husband, my dog and possibly my job before my body winds down. Holy hell!

Of course, what better thing to think about while you're having raging PMS but something even worse, like PMS that won't go away for a decade? Perhaps it's time to crawl under the bed and wait for these 24 hours to pass.

Facing the fear

2009-11-19T05:17:00.000-08:00

The saga of the head pain continues. It has now been about six weeks since I started having headaches of varying nature and I've seen one dentist and one doctor thus far. Today I embark on a journey with dentist #2.

The appointment is seven hours away and I'm already starting to freak out. What is it about going to the dentist that scares me so much? Well, that is probably a question loaded with obvious answers. The drills! The sharp metal instruments! The smell of ... whatever that smell is! But I'm trying to be an adult, I'm trying to be brave. And above all else, I'm going there today with my voice intact.

You see, I am one of those people who completely loses her voice when she is at the mercy of anyone who could do her harm. That includes doctors, dentists and even a hair stylist. I psych myself up before each appointment, prepare my list of questions/demands/requests. Then I get in the chair (or the exam table) and I go mute. It's completely pathetic.

But today I vow to go forth and tell this new dentist exactly what I want and need. I will speak truth to power! I will face down the sharp tools and the drills and I will prevail! So help me God.

Waking up to war

2009-11-14T07:38:00.001-08:00

I just finished reading The Forever War by Dexter Filkins. I'm pretty sure it took me several weeks to finish this book, and it was a huge relief to get to the last page.

Filkins was embedded in Afghanistan for two years, and Iraq for five, covering the wars there. He doesn't write about politics, or even the ethics of war. He reports what he sees, he explains the complexities of the cultures there, he draws a clear and brutal picture of what the wars are doing to the people who live in those countries. It's the kind of book that requires deep breathing on the part of the reader.

Towards the end of the book, Filkins begins to reveal his own experience in terms of what being around the war has done to him. The numbness, the feeling of invincibility (as so many others around him are getting blown up), the fatigue. This is not a guy who was staying in nice hotels and just popping out during the day to interview world leaders and military officials. He ran with the Marines, he got to know the Iraqi guards, he worked with people on both sides to try to locate and rescue kidnapped Americans. He was, as they say, in the shit.

What struck me the most from his book was the disparity between the amount of violence happening in Iraq and Afghanistan and what is regularly reported by our media. To live in the US for the past eight years, you would think there was hardly any real violence going on there. Of course, we see the bottom line of how many soldiers have been killed, but what is it really? Just a number. And compared to wars past (particularly Vietnam), those numbers don't really seem that bad, right? That has been my perspective thus far.

Filkins opened my eyes and cracked the shell of my own protective ignorance. I'm not sure what to do with this information. It's even difficult to know how to feel, other than outraged and deeply heartsick. But my awareness is raised, my nerves are firing, and I'm paying attention.

Reason #47 why I don't have kids

2009-11-09T19:00:00.000-08:00

Buddy and I were making our way home from our walk tonight. We have a really great place to walk that is a nature preserve and Buddy gets to be off leash while we're there. But once we hit the street again, it's on the leash he goes for the three block walk home. About a block from home we saw a cat crossing the street up ahead. Buddy starting pulling on the leash and getting really excited. I jerked him back and gave him a couple of commands. We got home and he still seemed a little frisky, but no more so than usual. It was garbage day today so I needed to bring the can up from the street. I headed through the gate onto the back patio where we store the can. I thought, I'll just let Buddy off his leash now, walk around to the front of the house by myself, and come back for him via the back door. Apparently Buddy had other plans.

He went tearing out of the gate and was gone. I yelled after him and immediately thought that he probably just raced to the front door. He always gets fed when we get home, so he was probably just excited to get in the house. I ran to the front door, but he wasn't there. I headed towards the street only to see him doing his little roe deer jumps around our neighbor's yard. I realized quickly that he was probably going to head for the general area where he saw the cat cross the street. I started running towards the main road, which is really busy that time of day (despite a 25 mph speed limit, the average driver goes about 45 mph down our street). Sure enough, there he was bouncing around and running in the busy street. I yelled after him again and he started running towards me. He didn't stop, however, he ran right past me and towards the house. Rob had heard the commotion and had come outside. He was able to grab Buddy before he bolted for the neighbor's yard again.

In the few steps it took me to get back to the front step, I was ready to strangle the life out of that little dog. I didn't, of course, and logically I know striking a dog (or a person for that matter) would do no good. But I was red hot with anger. I realized not long after this moment of rage, if I could feel this pissed at my dog for disobeying me, how would I feel towards an unruly child? If I had children, I'd probably be on the evening news in no time, "Mother goes crazy, throws child from roof" or something awful like that. It's a wonder any of us survive childhood. Mother's Day & Father's Day just isn't enough to show our appreciation for these people who put up with our sassy-pants selves. Thanks Mom & Dad, you are braver souls than I.

'Self-diagnosis' or 'Only the Weak Go To Doctors'

2009-11-04T16:33:00.000-08:00

So I've been to the dentist, who convinced me that doctors don't really know any more about what is going in my body than say, I don't know, a saltine cracker. Perhaps I should ask this snack in front of me what is wrong with my head. So last night I decided that my own self-diagnosis is most likely the correct answer in this mystery called a sometimes-there, sometimes-not headache that is sometimes in my teeth, sometimes in my ear, sometimes in my brain.

My diagnosis: A tension headache exacerbated by grinding really hard on an ill-fitting nightguard while asleep. There you have it; I just saved myself $40 in co-pays.

In other news, Buddy returned to the vet today to receive a clean bill of health, and me a sweet $50 charge. I was blown away by the fact that they charged me for a follow-up visit. Aren't those supposed to be free? I mean, they listened to his chest and gave him two treats. I bet the vet and the dentist are having dinner at fancy restaurant right now laughing their asses off at me.

Gifts from my father

2009-11-02T18:45:00.000-08:00

I've been in pain for awhile now. It started as an occasional throbbing in my lower jaw, the result of some dental work. The dentist warned me that it might hurt for awhile. But the occasional throbbing has begun to morph into a dull stabbing inside my ear, sometimes traveling up the side of my head to the tippy top of my brain. Sometimes it travels into what I can only imagine is my sinus cavity, sometimes it goes into my throat. I've been kind of ignoring it for awhile, but it's gotten bad enough that I'm stepping foot inside the dentist's office tomorrow to start the lovely process of figuring out what is causing this (now constant) discomfort.

Of course, I have to admit, I am imagining the worst. While it is probably the result of an ill-fitting nightguard (that thing I bite down on while I sleep to prevent wearing my teeth away), I have already convinced myself that I probably have a brain tumor. I owe this amazing talent to my Dad, who has the most wonderful, fatalistic imagination I know.

It may sound like I'm poking fun, but I rather appreciate this ability. Sometimes it probably keeps me rather safe. For instance, every single time I get on my scooter I imagine getting slammed into by a big truck and flying fifty feet to my death. The result, I drive incredibly defensely and am always on the lookout for the driver not paying attention to me.

I remember fondly being tucked into bed at night by my Father. "Okay, Julie," he would say, "You wake up in the middle of the night and the house is on fire. What do you do?" My first answer, of course, is to run downstairs to find Mom and Dad. "No! No!" he says, "We are burned up already. Think about it! What do you do?" I, of course, have no idea where he is going with this, but eventually he explains that I should jump out of the window (despite the fact that we're on the second story) and don't take anything with me, not even my piggy bank or my stuffed animals. Just get out, and fast!

Despite his best intentions, I still don't know what I would do if I woke up to a burning house. But I have no problem imagining the many horrible things that may be going on in my body, in my neighborhood, even in the world as a whole! If only I had grown up in a spookier part of the world, I could have been the next Stephen King.

Day of the Dead

2009-10-31T09:04:00.000-07:00

This is the fourth attempt at writing a blog post in the last week. Will it be the one that sticks? The one I actually publish? God, I hope so.

I'm not sure why, but I just can't wait for October to be over. Each time I've looked at the calendar for the past couple of weeks, I just can't believe it is still October. Not that I am wishing time away, nor is there some incredible thing to look forward to in November. I really don't know what it is, but I am delighted that today is October 31.

Unfortunately, today is Halloween. I used to love this holiday when I was a kid. Who didn't? You got to dress up, gets loads and loads of candy that you could trade with friends and eat for weeks. It was awesome. I'm not sure why (yet again! I seem to not know myself at all) but I've really lost my love for this holiday. I don't want to dress up, I don't want to go to a party, I don't want to have to deal with the dog barking hysterically every time a new group of kids comes to the door.

Pictured: My Halloween costume from 2003. It's an authentic sailor uniform. Unfortunately, showing up dressed like this to a Bremerton party is like going to a hoedown dressed as a cowboy. No one would even know I'm in costume.

My husband has not lost his joy for this holiday. Most years I deny him the thrill of getting dressed up and going out to parties to be goofy with friends. This year, he is twisting my arm very painfully behind my back to accompany him to a friend's party, one in which I will have to arrive disguised. And whether I were to wear a costume or not, I will know almost no one at this party.

Which leads us, really, to the heart of the problem. I hate going to parties where I don't know anyone. Why is this? I mean, the answer couldn't be more obvious - most of us prefer the familiarity of friends and friendly faces. A party of unknowns is just that - how will I know what kind of people they are, and are they kind people at all? It shouldn't really matter that much. I mean, either you'll make new friends or you won't. Either you'll enjoy yourself or you won't. It's only a few hours out of a lifetime, right?

I'm not sure this fourth attempt at a blog post is worth the space. If I could hold a thought in my head for more than five seconds, perhaps. But I seem to be meandering all over the page. I hope you'll forgive me and come back again sometime. Today I am lost in the Fall colors, overwhelmed with the task of finding a costume for tonight, and reveling in the fact that there are only a few more hours left in this month. Though, we set our clocks back an hour tonight, so there is an hour longer to endure than there should be. But soon it will be November and all we'll have to think about is mashed potatoes and turkey and dressing.

Dog Days

2009-10-22T16:46:00.000-07:00

I am stunted. I've started, deleted and restarted at least three blog posts this week, only to hit a brick wall. Why is it so hard to find things to write about? I think my brain is in some kind of reboot cycle or something.

I realized, as I was sitting in the hot tub drooling over the latest Crate & Barrel catalog, that I've hardly even noticed the beautiful maples in my yard going through their Fall wardrobe change. I've had my nose to the grindstone and haven't looked up long enough to breathe. Enough already.

I took Buddy to the vet yesterday because he's had a somewhat persistent cough. They won't even let you bring your dog into the building if you say he has a cough. They immediately assume infectious disease and force you to either stay in your car, or in our case (since we always walk there) stand outside and wait for the vet tech and vet to visit you on the lawn. It was an awkward feeling, loitering outside the front door, being careful not to let Buddy near any of the other visiting dogs.

When I explained to the vet that Buddy's cough is limited to moments of excitement, she immediately started talking about something called tracheal collapse. Okay, so it is just me, or do vets always come up with the worst case scenario on the fly and within moments have you convinced that your dog has an untreatable genetic defect? He coughs three to four times a day for about five seconds and all of a sudden his trachea is collapsing? Sheesh.

Well, two hundred dollars later it looks like he has bronchitis. Rob and I are having to tag team the little 19-pounder to force the cough syrup into his mouth. We felt so bad for him last night he got to sleep on the bed. Lucky little bastard.

I guess I should be glad that the tracheal collapse did not pan out in the diagnosis. Now I just need to give Buddy some pills and keep him away from the cigarettes for awhile.

Give Peace a Chance

2009-10-17T07:56:00.000-07:00

I've been reading The Forever War by Dexter Filkins, a journalist's perspective on the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in light of how these events have affected the people of those countries. It is a heart-breaking, fascinating book that I think should be required reading for every American. Additionally, I've been catching up on the last several editions of Bill Moyer's weekly journal podcast. He has had some thought-provoking discussions on the war in Afghanistan with political players, as well as journalists who have spent time there covering the war.

It is a tricky thing to live in America and have an opinion about these two wars we are fighting. If you raise your voice against them, you are not supporting the troops. If you are supporting the troops, somehow that means you support war. But one of Moyer's guests made a comment that struck home with me - he said that Americans have a duty to not put our troops in harm's way without just cause. In other words, it is our moral duty to question the purpose, means and ends, of these wars we are fighting. What do we hope to accomplish? And what is the cost, not only to our country and people, but to those who live in those countries for which we are carrying the torch of democracy?

I remember sitting in my crappy little apartment back in 1991, banging away on my typewriter, writing about the Iraq conflict. I had friends over there. They had been sent over when it was still Desert Shield, and were still there when it morphed into Desert Storm. That was 18 years ago. And I feel just as powerless now as I did then. I feel like the only thing I can do is to continue to educate myself about what is happening there, about who the people are that live there, and hope that we can begin to not only imagine, but fiercely practice, tolerance and humility in this small little world of ours. Yes, there are fundamentalist terrorists. Some are in Pakistan and Afghanistan, yes, but some are right here in our own country, pounding on their Bibles and teaching their children to be God's warriors (for more on that, check out the movie Jesus Camp). But most of us are just run-of-the-mill folks with run-of-the-mill expectations for our lives. Given the choice, we'll take peace over war.

How do we choose peace?

Vampire Town

2009-10-05T18:57:00.000-07:00

I wrote a song about the freak we met at the campground a few weeks ago. Here goes.

Sitting on his worn-in barstool
a quiet night in a vampire town
A long-haired dude named Hippy
talking about how he almost drowned
Johnny saw the sheriff out of the corner of his eye
Somehow he had a feeling he knew why

Come with us, son, the sheriff motioned
their way out the back door
Johnny knew everyone was watching
though his own eyes were on the floor
He shuffled out of sight while Hippy
let out a sigh, the coast was clear
the time was here to light up and get high

They took Johnny to the station
set him under a microscope of bright light
"Where did you take the girl?" they asked
But in his mind he wasn't right
"They took my gun in Texas," was all he
managed to say, but they kept him under those
hot lights until morning the next day

They couldn't get a confession, or even
prove he was insane
So they drove him back and dumped his
tired body in the rain
Johnny looked up and down the empty street
and decided to move on. Forks was no longer
a friendly place, it was a cold vampire town.

The death of imagination

2009-10-01T17:01:00.001-07:00

Sixteen years ago I was sitting on a bench at the San Diego zoo with my friend John. "Do you know what killed the dinosaurs, Julie?" he asked me. I'm thinking a meteor, lack of food source, something obvious like that. "Lack of imagination!" John pronounced triumphantly. He was hot on the topic of imagination back then, probably feeling (and rightfully so) that he had an overabundance of it where others had so little.

I was reminded of that moment while watching the HBO miniseries John Adams this week. The brilliance of the Declaration of Independence is not only inspiring, it is awe-inducing when you stop to consider how revolutionary its ideas were in its time. The series got me thinking about all of the incredible leaps that have been made since then in industry, technology, medicine, etc. These thoughts swirled and bumped into each other in my brain until yesterday at 5:30 a.m., while waiting for my scooter to warm up, I considered, "What if all of the great ideas lie in the past?"

Could John, from 16 years ago, be right in that the human race will suffer the same fate as the dinosaurs for the very same reason? Are we doomed by our own complacency, our own comfort in what is easy and obvious? I mean, shit, I can't even figure out how to fix a leaky faucet, and yet there are people smooshing three gigabytes into a phone and analyzing your psyche based on your last ten thousand credit card purchases. Are there enough people still out there dedicated to the craft of imaging something that does not yet exist? Or perhaps seeing the connections, and the possibilities of connections, in what does exist and tying it all together to make something even more brilliant?

I just hope that whatever digs up our bones 60,000 years from now will stop to consider how great we could have been. Perhaps they too will make movies where they imagine bringing us back from the dead on a magical island, where we eventually rip them from limb to limb with our enormous teeth and breed without the benefit of a sperm in sight. Perhaps our future is bright, after all.

Anti-Dentite

2009-09-23T18:58:00.000-07:00

Another way in which I am a very common American is my fear and dread of the dentist. I mean, really, who likes going to the dentist? Probably no one. But I go into some kind of convulsions every time I'm there.

My current dentist is a pretty concerned guy. He prescribed me valium for my visits. Hoorah. I do believe this helps to some degree, but I find when I'm in the chair, my entire body still shakes and I cannot unclench my fists until it's time to go.

Like most people, I've always had the fear of the drills. The vibration, the sound they make - it's all rather hair-raising. But my new fear is the anesthesia. Has it taken effect yet? They always give me the gum-poke test, but somewhere in my mind I could swear I'm still feeling something. So I get the second shot, which results in not being able to keep saliva in my mouth for about four hours. But damnit, I do not want to feel anything, thank you!

Remember that scene in "Castaway" when Tom Cruise had to remove his own molar with an ice skate? I swear, I would prefer to do that sometimes rather than visit the dentist. Giving me valium was really the only way my dentist could ensure that I would ever come back for treatment.

Mid-Life Crisis

2009-09-20T07:18:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was on the return leg of a three-hour round trip to the airport to drop off our house guest and I was thinking about Flannery O'Connor. I recently purchased everything Flannery ever wrote and have a pile of books on my nightstand, waiting for me like a terribly attractive new friend. Flannery died at the young age of 39 and seemed to have lived a rather solitary life. She lived with and was friends with Robert Fitzgerald and his family. She accomplished many worthy goals and will forever be known as one of the most influential southern writers of the twentieth century.

As fleeting thoughts of Flannery and her intense talent for the written word were fleeting through my transom, I was filled with the grim realization that my life bears almost no significance to anyone other than the handful of people who know me, and of course, myself. I mean, honestly, we're all in the same boat here. Most of us won't be remembered for anything really wonderful and significant a hundred years from now. Most of us will get up each day, eat our Wheaties, go to work, do the best job we can, come home, do whatever we do there, go to bed, wake up and repeat. We'll do some exciting things along the way. Hopefully, we all do some things in our lives that terrify us, excite us, make other people happy and better off, maybe even grow humans of our own and hope they grow up to be decent human beings.

As these thoughts of insignificance weighed down upon me, and I felt myself sinking further into the seat of my Jeep, my hands gripping tighter upon the wheel, I considered, "Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?" And if so, does that mean that on the other side of this so-called crisis is a feeling of comfort and acceptance of this realized insignificance? I can only hope. And perhaps once I'm able to relax into my common life, I'll find the space to do my best work.

Getting Small

2009-09-12T10:37:00.000-07:00

My evenings this week have been spent scouring, scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming, etc. my filthy house in preparation for a visitor. I find that cleaning is one of those tasks that frees the mind to think of all sorts of things. Most of what meanders through my transom is very uninteresting indeed. But one thing I have been thinking about is why it is so hard to sit down and write. And I don't mean in this wonderful little blogosphere. I mean, like, real writing.

For me, one of the first requirements to writing is having the time and focus to pay attention to details. For example, eavesdropping on people's conversations and paying attention to the way they string their words together. What do they choose to share with others? What is it about them that makes them unique?

If I can pay attention long enough to either remember these details or write them down, the next step is what I like to call "getting small." It has to do with having a quiet space and no interruptions. And in that space, it is having the ability to curl your mind up into a tight ball and hold inside of it all of those details and images and eventually, find the words spilling out onto the page.

I know he meant something else by it when he said "Let's Get Small," but Steve Martin was clearly onto something.

Let the cleaning begin!

2009-09-08T16:54:00.000-07:00

Thus starts the first of several days of cleaning, in preparation for our special houseguest. I'm taking this opportunity to do that type of cleaning you maybe only do twice a year. Getting in the corners and the crevices and rooting out all of the dirt. I am bracing myself for spider encounters, as I'm sure there will be a few. Wish me luck, as I go forth in search of that which must be removed.

Into the Great Outdoors

2009-09-07T07:57:00.000-07:00

Despite a forecast of 100% rain, and a strange sense of impending danger, I ventured out on a camping weekend Saturday morning. We got lucky and had a day of sunshine and few raindrops along the Strait of Juan de Fuca. But my spidey-senses began tingling anew when we ran into a hopeful fisherman at the Lyre River.

"Have you heard about the cougar sightings?" he asked. I immediately thought of the reports of a Cougar in Discovery Park in Seattle. But no, he meant right there, less than a mile or two from our campsite. "She crossed the river from over there," he said, pointing in the direction of where we had parked ourselves for the night, "and she has been sighted five times in the campground going after small dogs." His eyes immediately pointed at Buddy who was splashing through the shallow water of the river, oblivious to this new peril.

We headed back to our side of the river, my head filling with images of cougar eyes reflecting the light of our campfire from the nearby trees. How would I defend myself? Throw a camping chair at it?

Later that evening, after we had eaten dinner, Rob wandered down to the water to watch the incoming swell. I could hear him, just down from our campsite, chatting away with someone. I immediately thought he must have bumped into a surf buddy. The sun went down quickly and I found myself alone with Buddy at the campfire. I began taking a mental inventory of all of the things around me that I could throw at the cougar that was sure to show up any minute while Rob was away.

Eventually, Rob came back with a friend in tow. He introduced me to "Rick" and I assumed this was someone he knew and liked. Rick followed us back to our campfire and began chatting away. I quickly deduced that Rob didn't know this guy from a can of paint and we had ourselves a little campfire crasher.

About five minutes into the conversation, Rick asked, "Do you want to hear something really freaky?" Still obsessed with the idea of cougars popping out of the bushes, I assumed I was going to get a scary animal encounter story. "Sure!" I say. "It's really freaky," he warned. Like I was going to say no now! "Go ahead," I urged.

"Did you hear about the little girl that went missing in McCleary?" I had a vague recollection of a news story. "Well," he continues, "I got picked up by the cops and questioned about that. I was a suspect."

Every red flag in my brain popped up in full alert. The cougar suddenly seemed like small potatoes. I cautiously asked more questions about the circumstances, but Rick's details on the story were confusing and vague. Something about being in Alma (which is not terribly far from McCleary), but then about being in Forks when he was questioned. Apparently, he decided to bail out of Forks directly after being questioned, which was, by the way, about three days ago.

My head was swimming, and my visions of cougar attacks were quickly being replaced by visions of being hacked to bits by psycho boy in my sleep. Who was this freak? And why was he sitting at my campfire?

Rob and I headed to bed very early that night in an effort to escape Rick's company, and I hoped that the cougar would get Rick before he got us later that night. The next morning, we woke to a downpour and were staying dry in the camper when the crasher came to call once again. Rob succeeded in giving him the brush-off, but I was sure Rick was memorizing our license plate number while he loitered in our space once again.

We decided to head home early, not only to escape the rain, but also the predictable return visit of our unwanted guest. The great outdoors left me pining for the safety and comfort of the tidy indoors, where only housecats lurk in the shadows and the criminal elements are all on TV.

One last salad for Babou

2009-09-04T06:24:00.001-07:00

My story with Babou begins with a case of mistaken identity. Rob and I had just found our little dreamhouse, and while touring the house for the first time, we noticed the owners had two pet rabbits stacked in separate cages in the workshop. It was sad to see them hidden away like that, and not even sharing the same space. One was white with black spots - he looked like a miniature dalmation. The other was a lop-eared all-black rabbit. When we entered negotiations with the sellers, we offered to take one of the rabbits and their foosball table in exchange for them not having to finish some work on the house. We never met the owners, and all of the negotiations were handled through our Realtors.

When the day came that we got the keys and showed up to our new house, we found that instead of the little dalmation bunny we had requested, the sellers had left us the black lop-eared. We immediately moved the bunny into the house and named him Babou. He had a permanently grumpy look on his face and was as shy as a rabbit could be.

With time, Babou began enjoying his trips out of his cage. He would hop around the living room and eventually take up residence under the enormous parrot cage that houses our two small, evil little lovebirds. If we let the birds out at the same time as Babou, they would often get into little boxing matches. The birds would harass Babou and he would lunge at them with his front paws. We understood his frustration.

Babou was a complicated little being. I never knew what made him happy or what pissed him off (other than the birds). The only thing I knew with absolute certainty was that he loved a good salad. Every morning I piled fresh greens, carrots, broccoli, berries and every once in awhile, his favorite garnish -- bird seed -- onto a little plate and Babou would relish every morsel until it was gone. Rob always joked that the rabbit often ate better than we did. But it was always the one thing I could do for Babs that I knew made him the happiest bunny for those few minutes while he munched away.

After we had been in our house for six years, and Babou was about seven and a half years old, we had to make the big decision to move him outdoors. Rob's allergies had escalated to a frightening point, and we knew for certain that rabbit hair was the major cause. We purchased a really nice, brand new hutch for Babs and moved him right outside the back door, under a protective canopy. He still got his salad every morning, and spent precious summer moments hopping around the front yard while we hung out in the hot tub and checked the skies for predators.

This morning I made a really great salad for Babou. A large romaine leaf, topped with two half slices of fresh tomato from our neighbor's garden, a carrot and three raspberries. But when I delivered the salad to Babou, I discovered he had passed away in the night. Luckily I had a chance to spend some time with him last night, and I could see that he was having trouble moving around and had turned into a little old man. I'll miss making Babs a salad each day. He was a quiet, peaceful presence and will be remembered as an important member of our family for the last seven and a half years. Rest in peace, little bunnyman.

The expanding self

2009-09-02T19:47:00.000-07:00

I just have to be a chick for a moment and write about, what else, my body. Around the time the clock struck midnight on my 40th birthday, a funny thing happened. My jeans got a little tighter. A few days into 40, I discovered how much I love wearing skirts. I don't have to feel my flesh straining against seams that are becoming too weak to hold back the avalanche that is threatening. The avalanche of my expanding self.

I have to stop right here and say that I have always had a fairly healthy body image. I don't sit around comparing myself to anorexic supermodels in Cosmo and Vogue. I am more realistic than that, and I appreciate lots of things about my smoking hot body. But the smoke and the heat are doing little to burn away the squish that is now taking over my womanly form. And I'm feeling a little freaked about it.

What's funny, though, is how being freaked does not neatly lead me towards feeling motivated to do something about it. I take my 2-3 mile daily walk with Buddy, but that about encapsulates my daily workout. I think about the Pilates book I got for my birthday. I think about lifting weights while I watch TV at night. Have I done any of these things yet? No, not really.

But I have rediscovered all of my silky nightgowns that so comfortably allow my expanding self to relax in the evening. And I'm hoping beyond hope, that before I turn into the blob that ate Bremerton, I will find my exercise muse again.

Blogs are boring tripe

2009-09-01T18:24:00.000-07:00

I cannot think of one damned interesting thing to write about today. I just made my first peach cobbler. Boring! I am getting my hair cut tomorrow. Yawn! Who cares, anyway? My life is only really interesting to one person, and we all know who that is.

I was recently talking to a friend, who also happens to be my old boss at the newspaper where I once worked, and he was saying that he just doesn't get this whole blogging thing. After spending his life in journalism, I am sure that blogging looks like a lot of tripe to him. But I guess, to me, it's the next stage of journal writing. And reading other people's blogs is sometimes like reading their private diaries, depending on the writer.

I started my first journal when I was nine years old. Mr. Peine, my fourth grade teacher, made us keep a spiral notebook of all of our thoughts. I was instantly hooked. I still have every journal I've kept since then, and they could fill an entire bookcase.

The problem with keeping a blog is that you can't really write everything you could in a journal (unless you want to risk being put in the loony bin). And there are days like today when nothing interesting really comes to mind, so you end up blathering on and on with a bunch of crap no one wants to read anyway (and probably no one is reading this anyway, so who cares!).

I think I've successfully managed to write a whole post without saying a goddamned thing. Go me!

The unspeakable punctuation

2009-08-31T18:30:00.000-07:00

Most women spend 25% of their time dealing with it for more than half of their lives, yet we still feel embarrassed mentioning it, sometimes even in all female company. Years ago I determined that between pre-menstrual symptoms, post-menstrual symptoms and the glorious week itself, I get about nine days a month that I actually feel good. How messed up is that? Yet, unless just the right “mood” is set for the conversation, I don’t really discuss this with anyone. I even get a little red in the face discussing the details with my doctor.

Feminists, of course, have joked about this subject for years, while rallying against the establishment that has tried to keep us quiet and ashamed. In her essay, “If Men Could Menstruate” Gloria Steinem quipped that they “would brag about how long and how much.” And she was probably right. And it seemed that for awhile, women were much louder and prouder about claiming their periods as a valid facet of their femininity. But it doesn’t feel that way any more.

Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like if you talk about it openly, it is considered in very bad taste. And if you complain too much, you are just being a wimp. Somehow it feels like we’ve backslid, and I’m not sure why. I would think we had come to a point (“we” being the female gender) where we could easily walk into work and say, “Yeah, my period started last night and I feel like crap!” and not have every woman and man cringe with embarrassment. But it feels like “the period” has entered the category of disgusting bodily functions, like passing gas, that is just “unmentionable” in any company worth keeping.

Personally, I’d like to be able to pronounce, without shame or embarrassment, that Auntie Flo is visiting and ya’ll better watch out!

Marriage and anniversaries

2009-08-27T17:44:00.000-07:00

Today is my wedding anniversary - eight years of marital bliss and 11 years of togetherness. And every day, at some point, I find myself in awe of the fact that I found such a perfect person with whom to spend my life. From our first unbelievable date to our three years of living in sin and eventually, good ol' law-abiding wedlock, we've been a ridiculously happy couple.

Rob is the kind of husband who tells me I look "even skinnier" in my jeans. He makes me dinner, and while the food is cooking, plays me an original song on the piano. Rob dives headfirst into life, as if it were the biggest waterpark known to man, and he the biggest kid.

There was a time in my life when I thought I would never get married. Then I went to my friend John's wedding in Orange County. When I saw him with his bride, it changed me. He adored her so much, and I realized that to be loved like that would make marriage an obvious choice. Once I saw what I was missing, it was like the universe manifested Rob out of thin air and said, Here - go love her like that! Less than a year later, we were meeting at the Pioneer Saloon for our first date, and neither of us ever looked back.

So today I thank my lucky stars that I met such a wonderful man. We laugh together every day, we take care of each other, and tonight, we celebrate. Everyone should get to feel this way during their lifetime.

The day the music died

2009-08-26T18:44:00.000-07:00

I've been listening to The Moth podcast during my walks with Buddy, which consists of people telling stories to a live audience without notes or script. Most of the stories are wonderful, and many are about the time(s) in a person's life when they are most down. And oddly, these times are often paired with a flourish of creativity. What is it about struggle that floods us with brilliant ideas? I look back on my own most creative moments, and they were always when I was broke, alone, lonely as hell, scared and lost. Good god, do I have to go back to that state to find my muse?

These are the people in your neighborhood

2009-08-25T18:00:00.000-07:00

Today we had an earthquake drill at work. An automated voice came over the loudspeaker and said, "This is an earthquake drill. The building is shaking. Please take cover under your desk." And wouldn't you know, I wore my brand new $120 skirt (which I got for a song!) and had to crawl under my desk onto the filthy floor where all of my Pringles crumbs and god-knows-what-else resides.

Then, to add insult to injury, we had to evacuate the building and mill around for a half hour outside. We mustered outside the building, waiting to be counted among the living. My fellow contractors and I were pleasantly surprised that we were actually on a muster list, and someone cared that we were not caught underneath a collapsed ceiling tile in the imaginary earthquake.

While we were standing there, I found myself looking around at all of the other faces of those people who work in my building. I've been going there over two years now and I couldn't name more than 20 people out of probably 120. Then again, I don't know the name of my neighbor, and I've lived across the street from him and his mysterious band of gypsies for seven years. I suppose I could have used the muster time to mingle and get to know my work neighbors, but instead I ran off with the girls to the nearest espresso vendor to get jacked up on caffeine. Priorities!

Why I hate grocery shopping

2009-08-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

1. It's something I have to do at least once a week.
2. Every time I am there, no matter what time of day, there are too many other people there.
3. While I love all of the choices, do I really need 2500 kinds of dog treats to choose from?
4. Yes, I move at the pace of a game show contestant while shopping, but does everyone have to pull right in front of me moving at a crawl?
5. They sell beer and wine at the grocery here. It's a love-hate thing.
6. I feel like a spoiled whiner that I even complain about grocery shopping. I should be grateful I don't have to grow/kill my own food.
7. Whenever I am particularly snarly and probably have the death-look in my eyes, I always run into a neighbor or former customer, then feel like a raving bee-atch.
8. My grocery store also sells clothes, lawn furniture, trees, barbecues, bedding, flatware. Good'bye paycheck.
9. They sell reusable bags (which is great), but the platform the clerk has to use to bag your groceries isn't big enough for them.
10. No matter how fast I blaze down the aisles, I always lose an hour to the weekly drudgery of shopping.

Riding against the law

2009-08-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

Riding a two-wheeled vehicle on the Naval base comes with rules. We learned these rules in our safety class, but at the time I considered them more like guidelines, or great suggestions for safety. Little did I know, these were hard and fast rules which would be enforced by the on-base police force. I'm not talking about speeding or running stop signs or anything like that. I'm talking about small things, like wearing an orange safety vest over dark-colored clothing, wearing boots that are higher than your ankle and full-fingered gloves. Jeez, didn't these people realize I had been riding my scooter in skirts for the past seven years?

When it came to the orange safety vest rule, they have this color wheel to determine if a vest is required. If your jacket color falls on the wheel, then you don't have to wear a vest. Well, my periwinkle rain jacket was clearly on that color wheel. Or so I thought. One very busy day I was leaving work and being waved through the intersection by a local traffic cop, who quickly pointed to me and yelled, "You -- pull over!" So, with cars piled up behind me, I slowed to the side and stopped. I imagined some important diplomat was behind me and the guard was just trying to get me out of the way. Oh no, she was enforcing The Rules. "Put on your safety vest!" she yelled at me. There was no way she was going to hear anything I said through my giant helmut, and then there was the fact that she was standing in the middle of the intersection with cars whizzing by her. So I just shrugged my shoulders in defeat. "Get off this base and don't come back until you have a safety vest!"

That was first run-in with the law. Then there was the time I tried to drive on base wearing sandals. The guard was actually pretty laid back and simply said, "I don't think those meet the footwear requirement." I smiled and said, "Oh, really?" He let me on base. I got more daring with my footwear, convinced no one was ever looking down that far. Until the Mary Jane incident. I have these adorable Franco Sarto mary janes, black with cute little cutout designs all over them. When I wear them with black tights, it practically looks like I'm wearing boots! Or so I thought. I had been pulling this stunt for awhile, then one day I drove on base like any other day. But when I drove off, they were waiting for me. I'm pretty sure my full description was posted on a board in the guard shack below the words "STOP THIS UNLAWFUL SCOOTER DRIVER." I was coming around the hairpin turn towards the guard shack/exit, when the cop came flying out towards me and beckoned me over. He reiterated the boot law and I gave him the eyelashes and gee-I-didn't know routine. He let me go. The next day he pulled me over again to yell at me about not having gloves on.

I've finally given up trying to get away with disobeying the rules. It is kind of fun having all of that law-enforcement attention, I admit, but after awhile you just want to get home already. And once I cross the base line, I can peel off those gloves and enjoy the summer heat on my bare skin once again.

Safety First!

2009-08-20T19:30:00.000-07:00

My "experienced rider" class was a full day on base at Keyport, which is about ten miles from my home. At the time I was driving an 80 cc Honda Elite which, on a good day, went 45 on a straight-away. My drive to Keyport included hills and a 55 mph speed limit. Lucky for me, there was no one else on that road and I had a leisurely drive there.

I arrived to find several young guys standing around their sport bikes and a well-seasoned, short and stocky man pacing around purposefully collecting information from everyone. Our instructor, we'll call him Bill, was a surprisingly cheerful fellow who had been teaching this class for longer than I've had my driver's license. I popped my scooter up on its center stand and tried my best to look cool leaning against it. No one even looked in my direction. Bikers continued to trickle in, some of them older guys, some very young. Then, last but not least, came a red Ducati, with its rider in full Red leathers. Everyone watched as he parked, took off his helmet and took us all in. He was the first person to speak to me. "That's not a motorcycle," he said pointing at my scrappy little yellow scooter, "that's a murdercycle." I gave him a slack-jawed look. Was this guy for real? He is driving one of the fastest bikes made and he is giving me shit? "You're going to get yourself killed on that thing."

I'm not sure what kind of look I had on my face, but I hope it accurately expressed my disgust. I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. The class got started, we rode around in our circles and dodged cones, rode over obstacles in our path, listened to our instructor talk about safety and proper rules of the road. As Bill gave me more thumbs-up and smiles, the other riders warmed up to me. They soon discovered the advantage of having a scooter -- going slow. Everything on a training course is slow, slow, slow. Getting up to 20 mph was going fast. Most of the guys were on sport bikes, which don't know how to go slow. They struggled, wobbling unsteadily around hairpin turns, putting their feet down on the u-turn challenge. By the end of the day and the big test, they were all looking at my scooter with envy.

We lined up for one of the first tests where you have to get going about 20-30 mph, then stop quickly inside of a box. It was the only test that really scared me, mostly because I wasn't sure I could get up to speed before I got to the box. But I did, and all was good. Those of us who had finished lined up behind the instructors and watched others taking their test. When Big Red came screaming down the line and stopped inside the box, his back tire popped about three feet off the pavement. Bill and his co-instructor yelled out, "Whoa!" and started examining Big Red's bike more closely. Turns out his bike had been tampered with and the rear brake disengaged. Big Red swore that he bought the bike as is, and I secretly prayed he would fail the test and suffer the humilitation of walking home in his full red leathers. After Bill passed him, I couldn't resist confronting Big Red, "Talk about a murdercycle! At least I have two brakes on my scooter!" He just glared at me.

With my laminated safety card in hand, I made my way home. It had been a perfect 80-degree day and I was fortunate enough to spend it outside, pretending to be one of the guys and riding my scooter around all day. And the biggest prize -- I could now pay the $25 for my endorsement and begin riding on base. Little did I know, the base cops would have it in for me from day one.

A New Direction: My Daily Life

2009-08-19T19:13:00.000-07:00

I've decided to change the focus of my blog and, surprise, actually begin writing in it again. Knitting is no longer the focus of my world (though it is still a main player), and I have vowed, at the ripe age of, ahem, 40, that I need to get serious about writing. So my blog is going to be my daily (daily?) commitment to writing. It may not be the incredible, eloquent, super-fantastic writing that I hope to be doing someday, but it's a start.

And what will I be writing about? (you may ask) Well, how about everyday life. Isn't that riveting? As the saying goes, write what you know. So here goes.

For the past two years I have been working on the Naval base in Bremerton. When people ask me what I do, I usually give the short answer of "software support." But to actually explain what I do could take a few blog entries. The more interesting thing about my work, to me, is where I work. Driving onto the base every day is like entering a different culture. There are rules that you follow, and if you don't, you lose your privileges to be on base. Or maybe, if it's a really important rule and you break it, you get a bullet in the ass courtesy of a well-trained US Marine. (By the way, did you know that the Marine Corp is a branch within the US Navy? Yeah, don't tell any Marines that news. They get a little cranky about it.)

One of my first challenges to working on base was just driving in. There is no parking privileges on base for contractors (that's me!) except, and boy is this a lucky coincidence, you drive a motorcycle or scooter. As anyone who knows me knows, I have been a scooter commuter since 1999 (My Op/Ed in The Seattle Times). But riding on base is another privilege you must earn. Just like they teach dogs in obedience training, nothing in life is free! First I had to sign up for the military-run motorcycle safety class. No problem! Oh, except in order to register for the class you have to have your permit (or endorsement) and proof of insurance, neither of which I possessed. Off to the Department of Licensing I went, and after a week of studying the little booklet, I passed my permit test. Another $100 for a year's worth of insurance and I was ready to sign up for the "experienced rider" class.

Tomorrow...the motorcycle safety class at Keyport