Will, Part I

This is an obligatory 'why am I awake?' type thing. Why hasn't my brain shut down yet? Why? I guess I only got home from work three hours ago, so it's not unreasonable. Also, today involved coffee. Delicious coffee. Even though the coffee occurred nearly 13 hours ago, I shall blame it, in part, for my wakefulness.

I was just doing some commenting and realized, hey, I kinda feel like writing.

I LOVE NOT GOING STRAIGHT FROM ONE JOB TO THE OTHER IN RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC!

I just had to say that. I think the caps are justified. My love is deep & abiding, like my love of the postal service.

Maybe the reason I'm not ready for bed yet is that I haven't debriefed. Well folks, I'm here to debrief. When I got home from work, I was too busy shoving food in my face to talk to my rooomie in the brief moment before she put her sick self in bed. I think that's why I don't want to live alone. I guess I'd start calling people at bedtime if I did live alone. Actually, I need to start calling people more. Maybe I should live alone.

Tyka's near death experience has affected me profoundly. It's made me come to terms with the fact that I'm mortal and that I, too, need a will. I don't want any fighting when I'm dead.

If I preceed tyka to 'the other room,' she may have: my half of the red couch, all of the chocolate in the house, & any Nikki McClure artwork in my possession.

Toni shall have my red pants. For keeps. She's already got her some Nikki.

My letters & notebooks shall be in the care of Bee, to be compiled & published with her own in many many volumes after sufficient time has passed.

To Sophie, my tea collection as a tribute to many happy evenings.

My kitchenware can be fought over by my mom & sister, with the exception of the avocado slicer, which shall be in my mother's sole possession (just a tip, but it's not shaped like an avocado - it doesn't work!)

To my brother, I leave any electronics, to be disassembled and recreated as he sees fit.

To Maren, Laurel, Lis & Toni I leave the fruit bowl and the vacuum. You know why.

My picture books I leave to Q. Use them well.

Tyk has already tried to give away my guitar & Narnia books to her brother. He can have the guitar, but Q. has dibs on Narnia.

To Laurel, my bed, so that she call collapse on it any time she wants to.

[Back with more later - hold your breath!]

I lost my mom to a three-year-old

Let’s talk about my mom. She doesn’t know I have a blog. I think she would get a real kick out of it if she knew. She’d read it, and she’d talk about it to me, and ask me questions, and make fun of me (but in the most loving way possible). But I don’t know if I want that or not. Not because I’d come here and say nasty things about her, but maybe because I want to be able to come here and make fun of her (but in the most loving way possible). Also, the whole sharing how I feel thing? Yeah. Maybe some day. I think she’d enjoy it.

I worked with my mom for almost a year. That ended almost three months ago. Honestly, it was great. I’m not just saying that in case she reads this some day. It was very cohesive. It worked. We didn’t have to really think about what we said in front of our “coworker.” We had time to plan things and discuss things and be caught up. We could have a bad day and not need to be polite. I could say “let me ask my mom.”

When I left my old job location, on Friday, I got all sad in the car. Not because of leaving the location, or the people there, but because that was the place that I’d worked with her, and now it was really over. Now we were both gone. The End.

And I miss that. I feel like I have my best relationships with people when I see them regularly, without needing to plan a lot. All of the little, random conversations happen that way. Over dinner. In the car. While there are no customers. Walking in the blueberries after church. Times like that. So, a little tribute to our time together.

My mom is embracing her grandmotherly side these days. She doesn’t have any grandkids. I’m the oldest. Sorry Mom, no grandkids for you yet. Wait your turn.

She’s starting to find substitutes, like the three-year-old son of my sister’s roommate. We were at my sister’s place on Sunday, Town and I, and you should’ve seen my mom when she came through the front door. She made a beeline for A., presented him with an Easter basket/pail & shovel, and proceeded to drool over him. After a few minutes she looks up and sees Town, Lucy and I. “Oh, hi. Here’s some candy for you guys, too.”

I’ve lost my mother to a three-year-old. He’s pretty cute, though.

She came to test her with hard questions

Your turn, oh half-dead with sickness tyka, now that Town has answered hers.

1. To match Toni's question - what's your favorite thing that's green?

2. What's a book that you wish you could have lived in as a child?

3. If you could relive any day of your life, which day would you choose? (Either because it was great or because you'd change something.)

4. If you could be doing any job in the world right now, regardless of skills/education, what would it be?

5. Can you guess where I found the coasters?

Wanna be interviewed? Here are the rules:
1. Leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2. I will respond, and ask you five questions.
3. You'll update your journal with my five questions and your answers.
4. You'll include this explanation.
5. You'll ask people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

Questions for Town

1. If you had to make a forever decision right now, would you continue to eat chocolate or not?

2. You were writing down dreams (life dreams, not asleep dreams) the other morning. Care to share any of them?

3. What keeps you at your church? What makes you want to keep going?

4. What's your favorite thing about your new house?

5. Favorite thing that's purple?

Ask and ye shall receive

Questions from beege:

1. As a writer, I know that you savor the flavor of words. What is your favorite word? If I were being goofy, I would say 'seabiscuit.' Because it just rolls off the tongue in such a delightful way. Doesn't it? A more serious answer would be, say, 'loving-kindness' (and don't you dare tell me it's two words!) because a) it sounds good and b) it means good. It's all we need.

2. What book could you not live without (and if the answer is "the Bible" pick another one, OK? 'Cuz that's sort of a given.)? I probably use the dictionary more than any other specific book. Boring, huh? But true. It would frustrate me most to be without a dictionary.

3. So, um, when do you celebrate Easter? This year? May 1. Why? #6 is a decent explanation, but basically it's just damn confusing. Calendars are confusing. I think it's to remind us that we don't know as much as we think we know.

4. What gives you peace? You know that deep down peace that just gives you that serene glow, and absolutely no shit can touch you for just a little while. That kind of peace. A lot of things. Holding my god-daughter is a guarantee. A lot of times in church, like Friday night (#9). A lot of times when I least expect it. Conversations with friends where we really get each other.

5. What is your favorite article of clothing and why? Dansko clogs. Do those count? I say they do.


Wanna be interviewed? Here are the rules:
1. Leave a comment, saying you want to be interviewed.
2. I will respond, and ask you five questions.
3. You'll update your journal with my five questions and your answers.
4. You'll include this explanation.
5. You'll ask people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

Intentions

Reading Toni's post got me thinking about a couple things: what you reveal about yourself when you write (and specifically, when you blog), and what you intend to say as compared to what people perceive you saying.

Like many others, I suffer from hard-to-read disease. Which is part of the reason that I thought blogging would be good for me - forcing me to express myself publicly. Even so, I'm surprised at things I've found myself writing about. I'm constantly thinking "I didn't know I had THAT to say" or "I never thought I'd write about THAT when I started blogging." Like all the church stuff. Never part of my agenda. But I can't stop myself from writing about things like that, because that's who I am. I do realize, though, that because I choose what to write here, I could present a very skewed picture of myself. I probably am.

So I want to ask some of the same questions as Toni: what gets communicated in my blog? If you know me, have you been surprised by anything? If you know me but have never met me, does it change your perception? How?

I'm also curious because there are several people whose blogs I now read regularly who I also know in different online formats, and reading their blogs HAS changed my perception of them. Not drastically, but it has, if only because it helps me know them better.

How to end a 12 day work-week in style

1. Realize at 4 pm that it's your last day working at that location.
2. Try to find any belongings you might have strewn around in the past 14 months.
3. Drive home and have The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants bring a little tear to your eye.
4. Another tear springs to your eye as you and rooomie move futon to car in most inefficient style possible, squeezing yourselves and futon through door frame simultaneously. Laugh. Drop futon.
5. Spend Friday night at church (6:30-11 pm).
6. Begin service by watching grown men (the visiting bishop, a new reader) ceremoniously dressed in church.
7. Sing "Eis Polla Eti Dhespota"* (a special something you sing only when the bishop is there) which could mean "hey, thanks for coming," "mad props," or "it took a while to get you dressed! Look at that hat!"
8. Quietly sing alternate version of "Nespola, eti Nespola!" to self, which means "let's commemorate that visit to Genova when we at the mysterious nespola fruit and it reminded us of what we sing to the bishop!"
9. Feel all those little corners in yourself, the ones that felt kind of empty the night before, start to fill up. All those little things that felt missing? They're not anymore.
10. Return home to sweep, nap, and await Townpocket's arrival.
11. Stay up till 2 talking, reading storypeople.
12. Fall asleep talking.

*"Many years, Master" in (possibly?) Greek

Gmail

Despite various friends singing its praises, I don't have a gmail account yet. Here's why:

1. italics. Is it true that gmail doesn't do italics? Because, really, I can't live without them.
2. I'm happy with my yahoo account. Why be unfaithful if nothing's wrong?
3. (This is the biggest one) I can't think of a good name. An email account should have a name that's easy to remember, isn't embarrassing to give out to people, and is unique. The kind where your college calls you to ask for money and check your contact info, and the person making the call says "cool email address." Because that's where I'm at now, folks.

If someone gives me a good idea, I just might make the switch.

Waiting for a cake to bake

Not really. It's more like a pan of vegan chocolate chip bars (which received rave reviews from the women of the church! We're easy to impress during Lent) for the potluck dessert tomorrow.

Let's recap: I made these for the first time on Sunday, in a last minute panic when Tyka remembered we were supposed to bring a dessert to the gathering. A request was put in that I bring them to our patronal feast tomorrow. Okay, sure, I said. Then, as I ducked out of organizational duties for the next women's gathering, I managed to get stuck with another baking commitment. "Why don't you bring those brownies again?" our president asked.

That's 3. Three pans of vegan-ness. Plus the pan (new and improved! with cocoa and shredded coconut!) I made for us to eat this week. I'm swimming in these things. I think I have the recipe memorized. But really, unless you're vegan or pretending to be vegan, they're not that great. The secret's out.

I might have to go eat one while I wait.

For the record, coffee's starting to sound really good. We've been considering, Pocket darling, and we want to indulge in B&B on Saturday. I think we'll be able to pursuade you, but just for a little advance warning...

And to finish up, some words! More words! and phrases! that I have an inexplicable hankering to see used more or that give me great joy:

man-befriending
sprinkle me with hyssop
loving-kindness
secret eating, idle talking & frivolous laughter
repose from the burdens of our much toiling flesh
now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace
a desolate land, trackless and waterless

There's a great part in Barbara Kingsolver's Poisonwood Bible where one of the girls says that "mother had a pagan's appreciation of the Bible." And she lists all these phrases that her mother loves. I like to think that I have a writer's appreciation of the Bible, and church music. Sometimes it's distracting, most of the time I love it. I can't stop these things from coming out my mouth in unrelated conversations. All these words! Mine to use!

Bedtime

Every once in a while I get in this child-like mental space where staying up late sounds REALLY exciting. Like, oh my God, the best thing EVER! "What? It's 10:30 and I don't have to be anywhere in the morning? And even though I'm bone-tired I don't HAVE to go to bed? YES!"

Why all the CAPS? I don't know. Blame it on the tiredness.

I've never been a night owl. If I stay up late, my mental capacities go downhill quickly. In college, a last-minute paper turned out better if I got up at 6am to finish it, rather than staying up till 3.

I have really distinct memories of staying up late at as child:

1. When I had the chicken pox. (I've been revisiting my chicken pox memories lately because the kids I babysit have been taking turns getting them. They're not even on my body but goodness do I want to reach out and scratch them.) When I had the chicken pox at around age 7, we'd just gotten our first TV, but we only watched movies on it. But I couldn't sleep and so I sat in the living room watching mindless late-night stuff with my dad. TV seemed really boring then and it still seems boring now, but there's some magic in being up late at night. (Or being anywhere at an unusual time. The craziest thing about college? Having odd breaks when you could go out in the world in the middle of the day. It felt so forbidden! As though someone would stop you and say "why aren't you in school?")

2. Writing my first "big" paper in high school and I stayed up until (gasp!) 11:30pm. 11:30! I was such a tame, lame teenager. Not a rebellious bone in my body. Well, not that kind of rebellion, at least. At the time it felt like freaking oh-dark-thirty. Now I go to bed at 11:30 most nights.

3. There was also the time (slightly embarassing), maybe in 6th grade, when I woke up in the middle of the night, thought it was morning, got out of bed, got dressed, and went out to the living room. Imagine my parents' surprise when I emerged. Being the 6th grader that I was, I probably refused to believe them when they said it wasn't really morning.

I have this passionate fondness for childhood photos. I'm never quite sure why, but I can stare at them for hours. My dad took good photos when I was a kid. I wish he still did. It's this whole world that I (the me that I am now, as an aware adult) can never really know, not first hand. Both because of the people my parents were then (which everyone experiences) and because the world that they lived in no longer exists - it was a unique atmosphere, that cult. The mythology of my childhood, learned in stories over the dinner table.

Time to go to bed before I try to get any more philosophical.

Words words words

Are you ever overcome by the urge to record everything in writing? All those little details, and the big ones too, of each day? The ones that just slip away if you don't write it down now?

I'm sitting here with nothing in particular to say, but everything to say. Here are some of them:

1. I'm cold because the back door to the office is open. Why??
2. Townpocket will be here this weekend. THIS weekend! How cool is that?
3. I have a hankering for salt and vinegar chips. I might have to go get some.
4. Artichokes for dinner tonight - yum. Something to get me through the remaining 5+ hours of work.
5. I love to bake. And I love it when people love what I bake. And the room is full of love and baked goodness.
6. It's time for more tea.
7. My most-often-used phrase of the past 3-4 months would probably be "hacking up a lung." I know, I'm the first to admit it. I can't stop talking about my lung.
8. But for the past 2 weeks, the phrase would probably be "wretch that I am." Which has nothing to do with my lung.

I'm working on a list of words. Something to look forward to, yes?

Before I knock myself out for the night

Because, really, I've had enough with the waking up at 2:30...4:30...6:30...So before I drown myself in cough syrup, I remembered something I actually want to say, not just babble about.

Last night, as Tyka mentioned, our women's group had a little get-together. The topic was almsgiving, and we were talking about different kinds of almsgiving. (And I'll say now that the word 'almsgiving' really irks me - not the idea, just the word. It's clunky and doesn't remind me of what it really is).

Someone quoted a book or saint (could I be any more specific?) who said that one way of giving alms (other than money, time, talents, etc.) is to pray for others, to mourn with them, and to take joy in their joy.

And at first it doesn't sound like much. Pretty easy, right? Sure, yeah, I can say a prayer for that person. But if you really do that, if you really mourn with them and pray with them and rejoice with them, that's the work of a lifetime. That's community. That's your whole heart, not isolated but part of something bigger.

I've had times where it sounds like too much work, to really involve myself. But the times that I do - with my friends and people in my community - those are the most rewarding.

It connects in my mind with a conversation Tyka and I had about our god-daughters and our relationships with them. How we're there to help them and guide them - we're there for them. But more often than not WE feel like we're the ones benefiting from the relationship. I can't say how many times in the last two years (almost) I've been so grateful that I had this girl in my life. And we can't even have a conversation yet. It's incredibly humbling, in a way I couldn't imagine before she was born.

Rusty

This cold has gone to my head and I can't think or blog straight anymore. Let's try to catch up, shall we?

Saturday was a veritable whirlwind of purchasing. I bought a bed off craig's list, dropped it off at home (blocking my closet), and proceeded directly to Sheets & Shit (otherwise known as Linens & Things) for my bedding needs. I spent more on bedding than I did on the bed. It'll be twice as much by the time I'm done. And why aren't I done? The shocking lack of decent duvet covers. Shocking. Really. I almost had a meltdown in Target - low blood sugar and no duvet covers are a BAD combination. Don't try it.

But it's all so exciting! Now I can work on hacking up that lung in the comfort of a double bed - a bed! with a mattress and a boxspring and a frame! - instead of in the discomfort of a five year old twin futon. I get to swing my legs out of bed in the morning! And sleep with my notebook on the pillow next to me! Well, it doesn't get a pillow, I use both of them. But you know, figuratively speaking.

I keep having dreams that could be real and I have trouble sorting out the truth from the dream when I wake up. This would be really great if the dreams were at all interesting or exciting, but they're not.

I combated squalor today by: cleaning the bathroom, doing laundry, clearing the dining room table, and making my bed. I also made it through both jobs without succumbing this plague I've caught. It finally occurred to me today that hey, I can take something for this nasty cold. I never take anything beyond some zinc and extra vitamin C.

Driving home

I wrote several blogs in my head on the way home from work. I don't remember any of them.

Actual, real life conversation. Tyka's boyfriend walks in the door. We discuss dinner. I say, "sounds good, but I'm going to church at 6:30 and I won't be back till 8 or so." He says, "okay, we'll save some for you." He calls and orders pad thai (one with chicken, one with "no meat! no egg!" He says, "see you in a few minutes." I say, "I'll be gone when you get back." He says, "where are you going?"

It's been a long day, apparently.

I LOVE Pre-Sancs. I really do. And I'm not being sarcastic and saying I love it when other people step on my hair during prostrations, or when I'm almost kicked in the head by one of the ungainly twins, or when we're served really disgusting, pointy, purple soup at the meal afterwards. I really love them. We only have these services during Lent, two nights a week, and this year I'll be lucky if I make it to 3 of them with my work schedule. The dark, candle-lit church, the special music, the prostrations. I'd better get ready and go.

Pictures are nice

Thanks to spell with flickr and Receptionista who led me to it.

Pinch me

No green. When I was a kid, I would put on this green felt shamrock pin before I left my room because I knew my siblings would pinch me if I didn't.

Did I mention I'm the oldest child?

I had a strong sense of self-preservation. I picked on them and I just knew they were going to try to even the score. Unfortunately, my sense of self-preservation doesn't extend to not getting sick. Because I am. Again.

I'm still doing better than the individual who just hacked up a lung right outside my window. He should welcome it back to the fold. He really should. I would.

I didn't blog yesterday. My day started well (babysitting some munchkins, watching them dance to bluegrass, and being laughed at by munchkins when I so much as tapped a toe) and went slowly downhill (huddled on the couch complaining that I felt like I was made out of modeling clay and was slowly hardening)(come on, don't tell me you've never felt that way!)

I enjoyed this article about blogging. It made me think. I might even have to read it again now that I have it up for the link. I don't agree with it 100%. Tell me what you think. I liked #3: "dont be afraid to do anything. infact if youre afraid of something, do it. then do it again. and again." (The grammar is his. Because, you know, mine isn't always perfect but I admire a well placed apostrophe.) I think some of my readers would especially enjoy #4.

Personal revelation for the day:

Lis and I have been talking about birth in our letters lately. As in, our births. Sorry Lis, I'm going to share what I just wrote to you, in a personal letter, with the Internet. Forgive me. I still love you more than the Internet. (And see, there, I just broke #5. But I like it that way.)

We've been talking about how we were separated from our mothers, for various reasons, right after we were born, and if/how that changes our relationship with them. Not having that initial moment of bonding. Lis was taken away to be tested and "cooked for a little longer." Someone else held me while my mom was taken to the hospital so she'd stop bleeding. (And yes, I'm still in favor of home births.) Not horrible, either of those separations, but neither of us ended up being super close to our mothers. I have a great relationship with my mom (we worked together for a year. I'd rather work with her than anyone else I know) but she likes to tell me about how when I was a toddler, I was anti-affection. I wanted to sit on her lap, and read a book or whatever, but she couldn't put her arms around me. There are pictures where my hand is on her arm. You know that tiny Jess is thinking "get your arm OFF of me and keep reading" and that my mom's tiny heart is breaking (not that my mom has a small heart, but you know, to continue the tiny theme. Continuity is important here at Garish & Tweed). So that's something I've had to work on as I grow up. Being pro-affection. Because I am. It just takes a little more effort than for those of who whose fathers didn't nearly fall out a window as your mothers were carried, bleeding, down several flights of stairs.

End of personal revelation. Discuss.

PS

I didn't really finish that story. Blame it on the headache.

So, I swore I wouldn't own a coffeepot and now I do. But I didn't buy it, I inherited it. And I only make good, strong coffee in it.

The whole reason I was anti-coffee at the time was that for me, coffee equaled parents' bad coffee plus bad diner-style coffee. The kind where they refill it after you've had a few sips and throw off the coffee/cream/sugar ratio. (I never said I don't have a sweet tooth.) So I don't feel like changing my mind about the coffeepot signals a deeper lack of conviction. I will say now, publicly, that I will never purchase a coffeepot that starts itself. You know, so it's ready the second you leap from bed straight into your first cup. I may end up in the same house as one, but I won't be responsible. I much prefer to get up and decide 'today is a coffee day.' And savor it. Or have the option to say 'today is a Constant Earl day' or a 'Gray Comment day.'

Wildest Dreams

If we had it our (the employees') way there would be a sign on our door right now reading: "Closed due to lack of interest."

My headache hasn't gone away. But then again, I haven't really done anything about it other than massage my temples and worship at the water cooler.

Lunch

This is my brain. This is my brain on a lunch break:

Email. Must check email even though I just checked it five minutes ago. Okay. Which blog shall I read over lunch? Oh yeah, lunch. (I eat, I read) Oh, computer, you're boring. I need my book. (I maneuver book onto the tiny amount of desk space not being used by two (2!) computers, a TV, a phone, a dead plant, a stack of things a coworker was working on, my lunch, and my water bottle.) Did I bring anything else to eat? Should I check my email again? Should I go to the store and get something else to eat? What could I get? Lunch is too long. I'm bored. Oh, there's that orange, I guess I could eat it. What? Lunch is over? I'll stay on break a little longer and eat away at my overtime. Because all off a sudden I have something to blog about.

Sorry. I bored even myself writing that but I'll share it with you, in the interests of full disclosure. Because we're like that, right? We call tell each other anything? And you won't hate me?

Ahem. Add a headache to my list of complaints. Maybe because there is currently no Batdorf & Bronson in my life at the moment. But that's sad, isn't it? Let me tell you a story about my coffeepot.

In 2001, when I was a wee young thing, I didn't much care for coffee. Especially drip coffee. I never made it. My parents drank weak-assed coffee and it disgusted me. I claimed (in writing!) that I would never own a coffeepot. It was just one of those things that I could never see myself doing. I'll never get a tattoo. I'll never make my children go to Catholic school. I'll never perform blood sacrifices.

Fastforward to the 2002-2003 school year. The year of the Enormous Drafty House, in which we could have performed blood sacrifices if we'd wanted to. Because there was a suitable slab of concrete in the basement. But rather than abandoning that principle, I came to love and enjoy a miniature Mr. Coffee. It had passed through many hands, and I believe it's belonged to each of the five of us at some point. Anyone want to remind me of the details?

Mr. Coffee kept us company for many brunches. He only made "4" cups at a time, which we quickly learned meant "2 regular cups" or "4 tiny cups if there's company." So we spent a lot of time refilling him with coffee grounds. And oh, those brunches. They got us through our senior year of college like nothing else.

I ended up with the coffeepot at graduation. Laurel wanted it but she didn't want to pack it and take it with her. So now it's mine, and is proudly home to B&B.

Except for now. While tyka and I take a break from cream. Good bye, cream. We'll see you again soon.

Ides of March

Beware!

1. my car needs fixin' (well, it did before but let's attribute it to the ides, shall we?)
2. my throat hurt when I woke up this morning.
3. because I'm incapable of drinking properly, I spilled some throat coat on myself.
4. I wore my glasses today (instead of contacts) and feel extra clumsy.
5. I have to open and close at work today.
6. the thermostat at work is sneaky. You're too cold. You turn it up 1-2 degrees. It's suddenly the Sahara. You turn it down 1 degree. The tundra.
7. bad hair day

We'll stop there because 7 is a cosmic number (thanks Mom!)

To balance it out:
1. sunny
2. time for a shower this morning
3. new CDs from Kara
4. Gillian Welch sang me to work today
5. egg replacer. It's my friend. We'll go for a while without talking to each other, but it's there when I need it. (Oh my God, am I the needy friend??)
6. I thought of a story to tell. I'll be back on my lunch break.
7. I'm not Caesar.

Sleepy Q 

Look, no sling! 

Worse than a beast

Dialogue from this morning's 1st and 2nd grade Sunday School class:

Me (in best teacher voice): Can anyone tell me about Lent?
Kids (in best Greek chorus voices): It's when you don't eat cheese, or milk, or meat...
Me: And what are we getting ready for, children?
Kids: Pascha! And then we get to sleep in church!

Yes, children, then you get to sleep in church. The highpoint of the church year, the Resurrection, otherwise known as "getting to sleep in church." All that other stuff? Secondary. They know what really matters.

I proceeded to conduct a minor experiment in torture. While they constructed flowers from coffee filters (a spur of the moment inspiration, lest I be accused of planning lessons or, God forbid, crafts, ahead of time, I read them Boxes for Katje. This is a story about hungry Dutch people receiving boxes of food from America. The characters savor a bar of chocolate. And most of my students hadn't eaten breakfast yet.

I'm a tyrant.

But I can put my god-daughter to sleep like magic. "Church?" she says. "Oh yeah, that place where I nap. And eat bread."

Home again, home again

We're back. I'm still all salty from that sneaker wave, and my scalp is covered in sand. It was incredibly windy. We danced on the sands giddily.

Right now our washer is performing its ecstatic duties. You would think it just loved doing the wash. It's very well suited to its job - we should all hope for such joy. Sometimes it's so excited that it throws itself around the laundry nook and disconnects from the wall. We like to think of it as a reminder to mop the floor.

Speaking of, my standards have been seriously slipping lately. We left the house a mess, thanks to the mad rush to get out of town when I got off work. Just tonight I managed to fold the laundry I did earlier this week. And the counters are clean, and the dishwasher is doing its business. All is well now.

Hopefully tyKa (who reminded me, as we wrote in the sand, that the K is capitalized and not the T (and then we proceeded to come up with crazy apostrophe additions to our names, like ty'Ka and J'ess)) will add some fun and crazy photos from our adventures. I think my nose got burnt. In March, people. In Oregon. I apologize if you're suffering the pangs of jealousy. I can't help it. Your turn will come.

Can we all breathe a collective sigh of relief that comments are working again? Sigh.

I think I'm going to go wash the sand out of my hair. And then, a wild night on the town (ha).

The sea, the sea

In keeping with the record high weather, we are heading for the coast tonight. I shall rush home from my labors, I shall pack up my layers (this is still Oregon), I shall pack up my letter-writing materials (never fear! If you graced my mailbox with a letter, you'll hear from me in an intimate, personal, and inky way soon!), I shall pack up my beach reading and I shall depart to the land of third-wheel-ness, back seat riding, waves, sand and salty skin. I shall bare my glowing white skin. I shall numb my feet in the Pacific. I shall pray that Tyka's giggling remains under control. I shall frolic. I shall not want to come back.

Vitamin D

Our living room window faces directly onto the street. A lot of people walking by stare in our windows and we've got this thing going now where we'll stare back and wave enthusiastically. Most people don't notice us wave, but we enjoy it.

Just a moment ago, a car pulled up into the parking spot directly in front of me as I sit here reading blogs. A young, shirtless man was in the car. Maybe he was trying to get his daily quota of Vitamin D, who am I to judge? I watched as he pulled on a t-shirt and a hat (if you've just been driving around topless, are you really concerned about how your hair looks?) He got out, beeped his car locked, and walked off. At least he managed to put on pants before he started driving this morning!

Then he reappeared in my line of sight, got back in, and drove off. I think he kept his shirt on this time but I was distracted by trying to type up the incident as it happened.

Multi-tasking

Currently watching: To Sir, With Love (and rewinding because I keep missing key moments. What the hell just happened? And are these kids really British? Because they don't sound like it.)

Drinking: a glass of red wine poured by drunken rooommate's drunken boyfriend.

Doing: attempting to burn CDs. Computer is uncooperative.

Quote from movie: "No man likes a slut for long."

Goal met today: milkshake. Chocolate.

Where I want to be

Outside, in a little nest of blankets, laying in the grass. It's warm out, but the blankets would be there in case it gets chilly. I'd have a book to read, and a milkshake to drink, and some fruit to eat. Strawberries, and maybe some watermelon. Grapes. And I could just stay there for a while.

Okay, this is as close as I can get on my lunchbreak - an Odwalla smoothie, my book, and the patch of grass outside the back door of our office. What I wouldn't do to realize my dream...

Isn't it crazy how we have to rush around and do all these things and all the time our bodies are saying "No! Put me in a little nest of blankets, surround me with good things, and leave me alone!" But we're supposed to ignore that and just keep on working. Obviously, one shouldn't resort to blanket nests all the time, but there are days when that's what one needs.

Don't drink and drive

Don't even get into your car with a beverage in hand. Even when it has a lid. Especially if you're Jess "Clumsy Hands" Marie.

Today, I craved a milkshake/sweet yummy cold goodness. And even though I have to rush from one job to the other on Mondays, I decided to risk a quick trip to Starbucks (being the only coffee shop at an intersection with a light that I can risk in my rush hour rush).

I should have known it would end badly when I had to wait in line.

I blame the results on one or more of the following things:
a) giving in to a craving
b) putting my timely arrival at risk by making an unnecessary stop
c) patronizing Starbucks

Tyka thinks it must be b) or c) because she gave in to her cravings with no adverse effects.

One minute I'm getting in my car, caramel-y goodness in hand, and the next minute my lap is covered - covered - in aforementioned caramel-y goodness. I frantically scoop as much as possible back into the cup, using the lid. Because we all know that the only thing worse than having frappucino all over your lap is not having any left to console you.

The clock is ticking as I run back into Starbucks, change out of my fun, summery, coffee drenched outfit back into my uniform for job #1, and race home to change.

After all that, I needed two frappacinos. I thought that would be too risky, though, don't you think? I'd better go to Coffee People next time I need a fix.

Lest you think I'm getting too serious

The wine at Edgefield was good. Not fantastic, but I managed to get a little tipsy. Ahem.

(Kinda looks like amen, doesn't it? You know what else I like? Wine at church. On the Saturday before Easter. When all you've eaten in a good long while is some dried fruit and nuts and freshly baked bread, and you have yourself a little glass of port while sitting on the steps to the altar. And everyone's a little tipsy and goofy and it's almost Easter. Good times.)

An FYI for the general public: I may be getting all churchy on you, but I'm still crazy. Proof? Lent hasn't even started yet! Preacher Beege might try to tell you otherwise, but believe you me, Easter is on May 1 this year. I thought I'd put that out there because the fact that we haven't started Lent yet has caused enough confusion already.

Home

Few things in this world look as much like home to me as this does:


Like your family, you spend a fair amount of time making fun of it (see my Fr. Magoo post) but you don't know what you'd do if it wasn't there.

Storytime! Gather round, kids.

When I was about 13, our youth group (mostly kids that I'd known since forever) went on a camping trip to Sand Lake, on the Oregon coast. We swam, we frolicked, we ate strawberries. We played Pictionary - was that when Katy drew the flamingo? (You know, one of those Pictionary moments that goes down in history). We wore really really dorky clothing, as befits camping 13 year olds. I wish I could show you a picture. You'd laugh.

But then the story gets sad, and I don't think I can really do it justice. It sounds melodramatic, but our church caught on fire. Yup, the one in the picture. The log cabin church that we had moved across town to our gorgeous wetlands acreage. Someone set it on fire. And we got a phone call, since the priest was with us. We packed up and left early and drove back. When you're driving down the highway, you can catch a glimpse of the church before you turn, and we had no idea what we were going to see.

It turned out that only the wing, with offices and Sunday school classrooms, had been burnt and needed to be rebuilt. The body of the church was mostly untouched. Although, as the story goes, that didn't stop one man from diving in to rescue icons.

When we pulled up, it seemed like everyone was there. I don't know if it was the same day or later, but I remember helping to clean and organize in the half-burnt basement. I don't even think about this much anymore, except when I said 'you don't know what you'd do if it wasn't there' I thought of this story. Not the blog entry I had planned.

Story Number Two

We had a funeral at church a month ago. I almost didn't stay for the reception afterwards (in that same basement) because I was supposed to be at work, but I did stay. And here's why I'm glad.

There are a lot of people around my age, people I grew up with and went to gradeschool with, who've left the church. They come a few times a year, for Easter and Christmas, and I've always assumed that they just don't feel connected. But a lot of what this is about is beyond any doctrine or organization.

So, at the reception, people were telling stories about Michael, the man who'd died. Isaac, one of these twice-a-year guys, got up and told this story, nearly in tears.

Michael, he said, had always been like a big brother or uncle to him. When we moved the church, we built on the porch. We had our school next door, and one day everyone gathered to help hammer on the steps as a community. Michael was helping Isaac, and he said to him, 'One day I'm going to walk up these steps when I get married, and when your dad dies we'll carry him down these steps, and when I die you'll carry me down these steps.' Isaac finished his story, "That's what we just did. And you can still see the hammer marks in the wood."

Evening out

Currently: skipping vespers, watching Strangers with Candy, and about to go the winery at Edgefield. It's all about the wine in these parts.

While I was at work this afternoon, I missed the treat of hearing our neighbors get in a yelling match. Apparently it was pretty intense and one neighbor threatened to take a baseball bat to the other for - get this - accidentally putting a bike in a garden area. Wow. So much for the quiet yuppie neighborhood. Although the streets outside Grand Central Bakery were swarming with toddlers this morning.

Today was another apple pancake day. Those are happy days in our kitchen.

Top 7 Things I Wish I Could Have Done Today Instead of Working:

1. Gone to the beach.
2. Gone to the gorge.
3. Cleaned the hous (yes, really).
4. Taken a walk.
5. Baked up a storm.
6. Finished the scarf I'm knitting
7. Written letters (Toni, Lis, Bronwen, Sophie, Amanda, Tyler...)

Peace talks

Today, my various managers/supervisors have in essence signed a peace accord. After some negotiations that made me feel like an international peace keeper, it has been determined that my jobs shall continue, and for the moment they shall not overlap, and no one is pissed off or firing me. Amen.

Let's get all journaly, yo

Dear diary,
Here's the ever thrilling scoop on my life lately.

Tyka brought me home a marionberry cream cheese bar yesterday. We can't find a recipe for anything like these little slices of heaven. They come in apricot, too. Help us out here. Allrecipes failed me.

I had a playdate yesterday with Q, my god-daughter, and K, her mom. I've known her mom since we were about two. Q is now closer to two than one. Crazy, huh? Some stories from the childhoods of K and I:

1. I once accused K of having "curly toes." Fact: she does. They scrunch up more than mine do, anyway.
2. Jenny (one of the older, "cool" girls (although "cool" was no part of our vocabulary in the cult, circa 1985)) started a club whose members were distinguished by not buttering their bread to the edges. Being the 4 year old rebel that I was, I continued to butter mine to the edges. I believe it was this nonconformity that led K to ask me to be Q's godmother.
3. There was a bump in the road on our way to swimming lessons. We begged to be allowed to unbuckle our seatbelts while we went over it.
4. I got the boxed set of the Chronicles of Narnia for my 7th birthday. K lived up the street and I woke up her family to show off my treasure.
5. We had a code language for a while. I recently discovered a copy of it, with a quarter firmly taped to it. There must have been some mystical significance to that quarter.
6. It was the fashion (along with pig latin) to invert letters in our names. I was known as "Pessalynn" briefly and the "J" was attached to my last name. Since my name is crazy enough already, we stopped after not too long.

Yours,
"Pessalynn"

Dead Russian Composers

Now HERE'S a good quiz

I'm Dmitri Shostakovich. I took it twice and I still am.

I'm at work. Can't focus. No creative juices. Bemoaning 9am-7pm work schedule. Eating too many cookies. What movie should Tyka and I see tonight?

Fess up

Who did it? Who figured out how to put a blogroll on here? Because I sure as hell didn't! Damn, now I need to go update it and all...

Spring

Of course, as soon as I decide it's time to run errands, I think of things to write about.

It's spring, apparently, here in Portland. It's a little freakish, I'll admit, and I'll include a caution to those of you living in snowy/cold climates at the moment: proceed at your own risk. Intense feelings of jealousy/inadequacy may result.

Feeling brave? Good for you. Last night one of my oldest and dearest friends called from the snowy region known as Rhode Island. I could literally hear the snow crunching underfoot as she walked home, and the gloved hand holding her phone was painfully cold. Nevertheless, she persisted. I, on the other hand, had just returned home from a pleasant, although slightly drizzly (this is Portland afterall) walk to the friendliest grocery store in town with a light sweater as my protection against the elements. Earlier in the day I could be found strolling to the mail box with an ice cream bar in hand, short sleeves and all.

The air smells good. The trees are all crazy pink and blooming.

Speaking of pink and blooming, I had the pleasure last night of changing my calendar to March. Normally I hate that moment - time passing and all that - but ever since I first welcoming Nikki McClure into my home I get so freaking excited about the new picture each month.

Habits

One of the things that make people (as a whole) so interesting are habits.

Doesn't that sound like a dull beginning to a 5 paragraph essay? But seriously - when you stay at someone else's house, you see all that stuff. You set aside some of your habits (if you're a social chameleon, like yours truly) in order to blend in with their life, or you have some things you cling to. I'd imagine that there are people out there, who, no matter where they are, have to have a certain morning routine, or the same thing for breakfast. If you're an eggs and bacon person, and you're offered cereal, or waffles, do you ask for eggs and bacon? Do you insist on getting in your run, or having cream in your coffee?

That's not where I thought I was going with this. I'm more curious. What are your habits? At home, at work?

I'm a creature of habit in a lot of ways. I usually do my morning/evening routine in exactly the same order. I always brush my teeth in the same pattern. But that just stops me from forgetting a step. I'm not that picky about what I eat - if I'm visiting a friend I usually let them make the food choices.

Hmm, boring?

Check out Town's daily photos
Poppy and the long arm of the law
Beege has some powerful writing
Lunasea has some stories that had me in tears, laughing.

Let's talk about names, too, can we please? Two topics in one post? You might get a good laugh here.

Behave yourselves today, kids. Okay?

Tea

As I mentioned before, I love tea. And at the moment I'm feeling some withdrawal. Because I have standards, folks, and they must be met. The rules are these (yay, another numbered list!):

1. water must be boiling. Not microwaved, not just really hot, but boiling. Bold for boiling.

2. the tea must not be fruity. If there are fruit flavors along with real tea, that is a-okay. As in, orange spice. Or constant comment. Green is okay, herbal is great when you're in the right mood, but as a rule, black tea is preferred.

The other stuff, you know, I'm flexible. I prefer honey, but brown sugar or even white will do in a pinch (or in the library breakroom). I'll even drink it plain. Milk - take it or leave it. Lemon - nice, but by no means essential.

The problem is that there is no way to boil water here at corporate headquarters. We have 2 coffeepots (for 3-6 employees), 3 containers of sugar, a jar of teabags, 5 kinds of coffee, mugs, non-dairy creamer, even half-and-half if you're lucky, a microwave, and a water cooler that dispenses 'hot' water.

I've tried it. I've tried lowering my standards. I've used the dispenser. I've (God help me) used the microwave. And I can't even get halfway through the cup, because it tastes like lukewarm, lightly flavored water. If I weren't leaving this location within the month, I'd dig out my electric teakettle (let's hear it for dorm rooms!) and dust it off.

Actually, I'm not sure why I'm ranting about this right now. I've been 75% okay with it for the past 13 months. Maybe it's all these pistachios I'm eating that are going to my brain. Straight to my brain! Which reminds me, I should tell the "straight to hell" story someday. But for the moment I'm going to walk away from the computer and go find a source of nourishment...like, say, something sweet (don't worry folks, I already ate my peppered turkey/cheese/pita sandwich and my over-ripe banana!)