Things that go Bump.....

Last night was Halloween (or the more properly Pagan-y, Celtic-y "Hallowe'en") and Kyler and I decided to do something I'd never done before, cause as we all know, there's a first time for everything.

And quite frankly, I was tired of being a Halloween Haunted House Virgin.

So we schlepped out to the Washington County fairgrounds which had been converted--for the month of October, pretty much--into a presumably nightmarish and semi-Ray Bradbury-ish/carnivalistic "haunted" amusement park-type thingy. Sorta. In other words, halls that likely held assorted livestock during the Fair's Summer run had been converted into various depraved/creepy/sordid/migraine-inducing "haunted houses" (for lack of a better term), two of which were deemed PG or PG-13 and two of which were ostensibly more of a benign G, although those also elicited much frightened shrieking and howling and wall-shaking from the gaggles of jumpy, horny, parentally-free teen couples that wandered the grounds that night.

Upon arrival, we took stock of the creepy scene and hoofed it over to the first PG-13 scare, a hall called "Caged Rage" (nevermind that it sounds like a round of WWF Smackdown!). We got in line (admittedly, I was one of the oldest people "on queue") while a door slammed open and shut at regular intervals, a chainsaw ripped through the night air, and much screaming ensued. Yeah, I was a bit nervous and wondered what the hell I'd agreed to while trying not to watch the two filling-sucking teens in front of us obliviously deep kiss.

Finally, we were up to the door, and the "host" (another Zombie-esque dude) opened the door and let us in, slamming it with a loud thud behind us.

First thought? Disorienting. I was grateful I'm not an epileptic.

A fog machine filled the space with a thick haze while a strobe light flashed mercilessly (think 90's dance club). Kyler and I stood there for a moment to orient ourselves in the midst of a bunch of swinging pig carcasses and listened to the reverberating echoes of everyone else's shrieking. He waited for me to step forward and, hands out in front of me like Helen Keller, I took a step, then simply stopped. No can do. He would be leading this little expedition (and later he said, "I figured if I didn't take the lead we'd never get anywhere." So true, so true.) Although he remained a few feet in front of me at all times, all I could see was a vague shape, and so I followed that.

And off we went, slowly.

My second thought? Annoyance. And hilarity. It struck me as not only bizarre and terribly distracting, but really rather funny, and I'm not sure why. There's nothing intrinsically hilarious about dead pigs and being menaced by Zombies (remember, the actors aren't allowed to touch you), but it all suddenly seemed so silly.

So there we were, feeling our way through a twisted meat processing plant (well, aren't they all, really?) and being harassed by the occasional yelling, jumping Zombie, some of whom followed us for a bit ("Mostly college kids earning their beer money," as Kyler'd said) most of whom gave up when neither of us betrayed any fear at all. I pretty much laughed until my ribs hurt and by the time we got to the end--the only way out was past the chainsaw-wielding back doorman--I could barely say two words. He stopped Kyler, put the "blade" against his chest and let the thing roar, then lifted it and let him out. I sighed heavily, between laughing fits. He'd perform the same intimidation tactic on me, so I just stood there quizzically, and let him menace me. In fact, he seemed a little bored and, since I wasn't quaking/screaming/covering my eyes/shuddering or otherwise trying to flee, he also seemed to sigh, lifted the blade and out I stumbled, barely able to breathe from my laughing fit.

There were times when I wanted to just stop, stare at the actors and say, "Look, it wasn't believable, you know? Can you rethink your motivation and try that again? I mean, you're DEAD."But then again, I have an MFA in theater and I understand performance, not breaking the 4th wall, playing your intention, etc. etc. So I'm sorta jaded and not a good judge of what might be truly frightening for numerous others.

I do, however, find authentic haunted houses really, truly creepy, houses with a history, with known paranormal activity, etc. I've toured them, and I've been flipped out. But this? Just gross. And annoying. And weird. Really weird.

We walked over to the next PG attraction, something called the "Hall of Human Waste" (and they meant this both figuratively and literally, since there was a disgusting diorama of overflowing toilets and piles of odorless fake shit and I commented loudly as we passed, "Wow, it's like a really successful frat party!") which was considerably more "low-key"--if being menaced by paid actors can be considered low-key--than the slaughter house had been. In fact, we found ourselves wandering past many closed doors within the darkly-lit maze that I expected to fly open at any time--and which did not. The baby-eating Zombie nutjob was quite impressive, however--the actress who had the role really did her homework. She was crazy AND dead and seemed to be enjoying snacking on her child....I thought she was fake until she howled at a gaggle of screaming teens behind us, and when I turned in awe at her acting abilities (I looked back at her and said, "Man, that was GREAT!") she kept staring at me crazily, in character, moving her head around and looking, well, utterly, otherworldy nuts. And of course, very dead.

The last two attractions were staid by comparison, one a crypt with even worse strobe lighting than before, the other a basic haunted Victorian house with a trembly door attendant who seemed to be channeling my cat's hairball-hucking reflexes, and a sweet-sounding old lady who was still as a mannequin until she lept from her dining-room chair to cackle something incomprehensible as we passed by. Kyler and I and one other midlifer who'd happened along with us sort of paused briefly, wrinkling our brows quizzically in her general direction and then filed out quietly, none of us completely comprehending the sudden verbal ejaculation. The effect was, I suppose, much like dealing with someone's crazy aunt Millie at Thanksgiving: no one quite knows when she'll blow, but when she does, it's just kind of sad and annoying and a little bit piteous.

And that was that. So we returned to Portland and ended the evening with slices of pie at a Shari's.

I'd probably explore another faux-haunted house. And, while not exactly cathartic--I didn't really emerge feeling as if I'd survived anything significant (except being in the midst of a thick soup of teenage hormones)--it was still an oddly entertaining & distracting experience. Even for a cynical & opinionated theater person like myself.




Boo.

Sorry, Wrong Number Part Deux

Some time ago, I shared a "wrong text" that I'd inadvertently received on my cell phone.

This happens occasionally and I find it weird and amusing and sorta unintentionally voyeuristic, cause I know the text wasn't meant for me yet, there it is on my phone's little screen, all high-context-y communication and private and subtle and assuming that the eyes taking in all the electronic Prince and the Revolution-type shorthand is the right set of eyes, and then I feel a little guilty and a little intrigued and--depending on what was texted--a little titillated and naughty.

Take the text that came chiming in at 1:27 AM this morning, rousing--but not quite waking--me from my sleep, which read (sic): Can you just tell me why it matters babe C.R.E.A.M.

There I was at 6:45 this morning after I'd gotten out of bed, looking like a shorter, pastier version of Don King, pre-coffee, bundled in my robe, squinting through semi-crusted eyes, staring dumbly at the tiny Sanyo phone in my hand and trying to decipher exactly 9 words of backlit text and one cryptic acronym that wasn't even meant for me.

I wondered what mattered? Did they have lousy sex? Did they not? Did they fight? Did he sleep with someone else? Not share a secret? Maybe he winked at another chick? Or lost his job? Or she? Or he couldn't get it up? And what the hell was "C.R.E.A.M.?"

I momentarily worried that my not knowing made me woefully unhip, horribly prudish, ridiculously square or just plain ignorant. I Googled C.R.E.A.M. and came up with the lyrics for a song of the same name by the Wu-Tang Clan: "...a man with a dream with plans to make C.R.E.A.M. (Cash Rules Everything Around Me)......"

Ah. C.R.E.A.M. Now I think I get it.

Not sex, money. They were fighting over money. He's superficial, she wants more (or vice-versa). One of them is a Republican and one of them is a Democrat and perhaps theirs is a doomed, tragic sort of Romeo & Juliet-type love. Maybe one of them is a non-profit earth muffin type, helping homeless animals and starving children, and the other is hungrily climbing the corporate ladder, enjoying bonuses, perks and kickbacks. Maybe.

Yeah, that's it. An irreversible clash of ideologies. Obama vs. the MILF.

At least, that's the drama I fabricated for these two fictional characters, based off of 9 words of text and one acronym mistakenly sent to approximately one square inch of the wrong cell phone screen at 1:27 AM this morning.

Babe.

Feed me, Seymour

Zucchini grows in the night. Or, to bastardize/paraphrase a John Lennon quote (may the man rest in peace), "Zucchini is what happens when you're busy doing other things."

I planted 5 seeds--one each--in those little net-wrapped peat plugs a few months back; all of them sprouted, but I selected the 3 hardiest plants to transfer to the ground. I've never grown zucchini before; pumpkins, yes. Once, as a kid, as a sort of summertime experiment. You know the story--stick a few seeds in the ground, water once in a while, long-assed vines begin to travel hither & yon, and--bam! A few big pumpkins, just in time for Halloween carving.

So that, really, was the extent of my veggie-growing experience. This year, however, my roommate expressed that he wanted to start a garden, so we did. I requested zucchini.

I was warned.

Run, is what they all said. Very fast. And far.

I scoffed. Good Lord, it's a plant, after all. How much damage can zucchini do? Besides, I adore zucchini. I eat it every summer until I truly cannot stand the thought of ingesting even ONE MORE freakin' squash. Until the next year rolls around, at which point the addictive cycle renews itself.

So. We currently have 3 enormous Audrey II-like zucchini plants securely rooted in their patch of organic soil, soaking up the full sun and every ounce of water they get. Each time I go 'round back to check them, they've produced more. Now, I make every attempt to extract the zucchini when it's still small and innocent and pluckable and artily-fartily teeny-weeny-gourmet and easy to cope with, but regrettably, I've neglected this for a few days and just this afternoon, was met with some seriously overlooked Monster Zucchinis that more or less resemble the Hindenburg.

They are not zucchinis, they are naturally-occurring dirigibles. Yes, I know. I was warned.

And I laughed at them all. They're zucchini, I said. Surely, you jest.

Ah, but no.

Clippers poised, I went in.

I wrestled the thick, viney stalks and clipped them off, all of those two-days-neglected monstrosities, and brought them in. They're draining now, rinsed, in the sink; I just sauteed a few, chopped, with a little olive oil, salt, pepper & garlic and had it for dinner. But I barely made a dent in this latest harvest.

So right now, I'm on the sofa, recovering. And, when I recover enough energy to do so, I'm gonna hunt down a recipe for zucchini bread.

Feed me, Seymour
Feed me all night long
'Cause if you feed me, Seymour
I can grow up big and strong...

So close, I can almost touch it.....

Time to post. Time to let y'all know what's been going on with this chick.

Time to reveal the Semi-Big Plan I have for a second blog. To wit:

I'm very nearly--nearly--finished with my Life Coach training. Next Sunday, August 10th, is the last day. And my cohort is gonna par-tay. And drink wine and reminisce and try not to worry about Next Steps, of which--speaking for myself--there will be many. Like a business name. And an eventual business niche, though I'm not especially concerned with that at the moment (I think it'll evolve organically, depending on who I coach and what they bring to me to explore). And marketing tactics, and more articles to write and books to read and groups to attend and deadlines for this and that and an occasional conference or two, now and again. Or maybe more often than that. Depending.

And part of me feels like I'm being pulled along for one hell of a wild fantastic remarkable meaningful life-changing door-opening ride, and I'm hanging on by my fingernails, but I'm enjoying the hell out of it. In fact, my life is nothing like it was a year ago. I cannot emphasize
that enough--nothing. And I love it. Not because my life before--in Minneapolis--was so horrid, because it wasn't. It meant a lot to me to be there, to discover what I discovered about myself and my dormant-and-then-reawakened abilities. But I was just constantly aware as I was living it that it wasn't what I wanted until I died, to be blunt. I didn't want to stay there for the rest of my life, get married there, buy a house there...put down roots there. I did what I needed to do there, and then I was done. And I moved myself back here, back to Portland, and revved up my life in a whole different way, in a way I never could've been ready for previously. And now I am.

And I must be sending that Readiness Vibe out into the universe, because some good shit is bouncing back to me and the thing is, I'm noticing it. And appreciating it. And savoring it and just letting it glow on me, and in me, and around me, cause it feels so wickedly awesome. It sounds like I'm in love....and I guess I am, with what it is I'm doing. It's the coaching thang: there are very few as meaningful ways to spend my waking hours than by facilitating someone else's innate ability to find their Own Best Answers. It's just so cool to be part of that.

And that's the locus of my Semi-Big Plan: I'm gonna start a dedicated Life Coaching blog. The Hen House will continue to be a reflection of my irreverent, stream-of-consciousness day-to-day ruminations, as it has right along (like, what is UP with all these emerging X-Files? The "Montauk Monster?" Flesh-eating dudes hacking heads off on bus rides across Canada? Monkey-faced pigs? The mind boggles. But I digress.....) and that one will be about my own process as a Life Coach.

My own process. That's important to point out, because the work I do with my clients is confidential. But my own impressions of my own Life Coach journey is something I'm willing to share.....and so I will.

But first, I gotta finish. And next time I post--here, or there--I'll have "CPC" after my name.

Certified Professional (Life) Coach.

Sounds nice, don't it?

More notes from the hen house....

Do you know how many chicken-themed t-shirts can be had off eBay?

A lot.

I want this one:
Problem is, the shirt itself is unisex and if you're a curvy gal like me, they kinda tend to bunch up above the hips (cut for those narrow-hipped, wide-chested dudes), or if you get them BIG, you end up looking like a low self-esteem schlub with a lot to hide beneath a billowing tent. I've had too much recovery to go that route, however.

Neither are good looks and are to be avoided as vehemently as the Republican convention, lutefisk, anything by Bananarama or people who seriously use the word "dealio."

Someday, however, I am certain I will have a chicken tee-shirt, or two or three, and I will wear them with pride and glee and heaps of self-satisfaction.

Peep.

Better late than never...

...is what I always say.

Is my mantra.

Is, truly, how my generally in-many-ways late-bloomin' life has unfolded. Tonight is no exception.

I commute to and from work by bus and to pass the time (other than by staring slack-jawed out the window at the passing urban landscape since I'm tired BEFORE work begins and AFTER work ends), I usually stuff my ear buds into my ear canals and either listen to my mp3 player, or tune in the little radio it comes with and surf up and down the dial in search of an interesting news snippet or a decent song.

Recently, I've been hearing Blue Oyster Cult's (sorry, can't place the trademark umlaut over the "O") "Don't Fear the Reaper," got all into it (which only took about 30 years--it was released in 1976, to be exact--hence, the Late Bloomy-ness of it all) and just downloaded it for my continued listening pleasure.

It's all moodily existential in a collegiate emo-esque, my-parents-don't-understand-me-cause- I-am-brimming-with-ennui-and-read-Nietzsche/Plath/Sexton kind of way.

Personally, it makes me want to wear blowzy layered skirts of gauzy black fabric over torn fishnets with Doc Martens and bodices made of velveteen and wear my hair long and parted in the middle (this is sounding a bit goth, admittedly) and tattoo one of my boobs and wear too much black eyeliner and write lots of bad poetry and daydream about sex and straight razors (possibly together) and how nice it might feel to run my fingertips along the backs of the necks of all the equally tormented young dudes in my writing classes and convince everyone I know that no one--NO ONE--has ever felt love/pain/loss as deeply or purely or exquisitely as I have, ever, ever. Ever.

In the whole entire history of the world, from the very word go.

That kind of thing.

Luckily I'm well out of college, black looks terrible on me (and black eyeliner makes me look disconcertingly iron-deficient), I actually love my parents, and I don't daydream about sex and straight razors.

Well, not about straight razors, anyway.

Although, yes, I do find the backs of necks terribly sexy, I think Anne Sexton's poetry is sadly brilliant, and I do have a small tattoo, but it's not on my boob.

And I'm very content to listen to my thirty-years-too-late song on iTunes while I do the evening dishes.

And she ran to him/then they started to fly
They looked backward and said goodbye/she had become like they are
She had taken his hand/she had become like they are
Come on baby/don't fear the reaper....

All Work & No Play

Apparently, he just couldn't hack it.

The goatee'd SNAG (Sensitive New Age Guy) who riskily participated in my chick-heavy Tribaret (see the earlier post) belly dance class was a no-show by week 2 of the new 6-week session. Now, typically by the second week or so the class thins by roughly half, so his lack of physical presence was not completely unusual, though being that he was the only male person in attendance his absence was not only glaringly obvious, it personally provoked some wild speculation on my part.
It could merely be, of course, that something untoward occurred in the interim, such as a pulled groin muscle or a blown Subaru gasket or, God forbid, the unintentional ingestion of some manner of animal product which commenced to wreak bloody (perhaps literally) havoc on his pristine Vegan innards. Just something that might throw a major wrench into the belly dancing aspirations of a contentedly in-touch kinda guy.
Admittedly, and in spite of my personal observation that beholding his attempt at Snake Arms invoked more of a Joe-Cocker-onstage-at-Woodstock rather than a fluid, seductive, Dance-of-the-Seven-Veils kind of sensation, I'll never truly know, and like I said, this is all, of course, just wild speculation on my part anyway.
Of course, it's also feasible that he's not actually vegan, and maybe he didn't pull a groin muscle, nor does he drive a Subaru and maybe, in fact, maybe he's actually planning to show up next week, and the week after that, and the week after that for a little Yoni-vs.-Lingam dance-off.
Just maybe.
Though I wouldn't bet my taqsim on it.

Callipygous

Yes, I know, 'tis been a while since my last post, and those who know me know why so I'm not even gonna bother with long woeful excuses. Here I am; now let's get to it.
I've been taking belly dance lessons since January of this year; it was a New Year's resolution--that I'd do something I've always wanted to do that intimidated me, that I'd take a dance class again (I love dancing--tap, jazz, even ballet in college, and of course, tapping my Inner Diva for an occasional spin on a downtown dance club floor), that I'd partake in forms of exercise that felt joyous and enlivening and celebratory, not punitive and chore-like, that I'd begin--after about 4 decades of constant berating, self-consciousness, dieting, restricting, resentment, all of it, to love my wonderful, powerful, curvaceous 42-year-old-female body the way I've never allowed myself to love it previously, and my outlet for all of this would be in a dance studio that offered "Tribaret" (Tribal/Caberet) belly dancing.
I'm happy to report I'm still showing up every Sunday at 5 PM (a successful resolution, I'd say!) and loving it, even though my Life Coach training schedule doesn't allow me to attend as regularly as I'd like to these days. But at this point, I've got some terrific basics pretty firmly under my belt, so missing a week here or there is no big deal--it's easy to pick up where I've left off.
We always start out with shimmies to loosen up our bodies (after which she leads us through some amazing pretzel-like yoga stretches) and we practiced a medium shimmy that really made the collective female flesh jiggle. It's fun to do, and her directions to us were to not clench our buttocks at all, cause we were supposed to feel that flesh flapping. Really. Flapping.
Is the word she used.
And I flapped. Indeed, I have a lot to flap. But the effect isn't unseemly or sloppy at all; it's exciting and kinda sexy to behold, even though it feels like you might shake your ass right off your bones.
Unless of course you're a guy, with no hips, no body fat, and nothing at all to flap--at least as far as butts are concerned.
Now, this being the hip West Coast and a mecca for equal-opportunity self-aware gender-neutral co-existent experiences, there was, in fact, a long-hair-parted-in-the-middle Portland Hipster guy with a goatee and chi pants and a long-sleeved tie-dyed shirt (he was apparently unclear on the "expose your midriff" concept) at Sunday's class, trying mightily to tap his Inner Goddess (bless his soul) and keep up with the ladies, but it didn't seem to be working much in his favor. Apparently deeply committed (judging by the deep furrow in his brow) he'd follow along for a while, piston his knees, thrust too much or too little, attempt a few hip shimmies, then shake it all off miserably and huff loudly, toss his hair around a bit and then try all over again.
I mean, seriously: A for effort. But my observations--and there were numerous--around this teeny bit of Belly Dancing Gender Fucking (let's not get into men who actually belly dance in other parts of the world; I mean, great, good, wonderful, zowie, but right now, I'm talking about one singular Sensitive New Age West Coast Guy) were that he was painfully straight, terribly inflexible, deeply mystified, and nowhere near ready to dump his Anglo surname for a singular belly dance performance moniker such as Parvana, the butterfly.
But, you know, good for him. Good for him for trying it out. He was still vertical when class ended, which was a terribly hopeful sign. Perhaps he'll be back next week; it remains, of course, to be seen, and the rest of the class--all women--didn't seem to mind his presence one bit. In fact, I sympathized quietly on his behalf; a roomful of deeply in-touch women is not easy to be a part of (take it from one who knows). That is some serious yoni-centric energy bouncing around (literally) and it could be dangerous for a stray male.
Wisely, he stayed far away from the harem-esque dressing room.
But otherwise, he held his own.
Even though he didn't flap.

Things that make you go hmmmmmmm.......

I attempted to go dancing last night. I love dancing, many kinds, although I'm referring in this instance specifically to club dancing; it brings out my inner (maybe not so inner) Diva and allows me to have my own little performance--even for just myself--over on a corner of the dance floor.

Little did I know it was 80's night at the club, and it all went to hell, quickly.

Now, I have a moderate fondness for 80's music (although it amazes me that, already, lots of the old videos and songs that informed my teen years are now referred to as "retro" or "classic" or "vintage," which makes me feel like a wizened old 20's flapper spinning prohibition yarns, or a stern, aged face in a sepia photograph, or, shit, a Model T Ford) but I can't dance to a lot of it.

Obviously, clubs have taken this into consideration, so they're not playing the actual old "vintage" radio versions of the songs themselves to which I dreamed and hummed and bopped along in the safety of my teenaged bedroom, no. They're spinning 80's chestnuts like John Cougar Mellencamp's "Jack & Diane" but remixed and set to a techno beat.

I cannot begin to emphasize enough just how wrong, in so many ways, this is.

I am aware that clubs love putting everything under the sun to a techno beat and calling it dance music (hello, Titanic.) If there's a beat, there's sure to be an ass--or two or three (goes the thinking, as there were last night a few enthusiastic straight couples working out what is probably an otherwise seriously repressed and rather vanilla eros in front of God and the DJ and a bunch of Queens, since this was, after all, a gay club) out on the dance floor.

This get-'em-out-there theory, in all its lame glory, failed last night.

I was one less ass out on the dance floor. I couldn't--wouldn't--move it to a badly misguided remix of Heart's "Barracuda." And, I mean, it's a hard song for me to like in the first place, although I don't dislike Heart at all; I'm impressed by the Wilson sisters and their kick-ass vocals. But remixed? So, so wrong.

So there I sat on the periphery of the dance floor at a table with a couple other similarly unimpressed friends listening to one uninspiring 80's remix after another. Even Dee-Lite wasn't enough to coax the Diva out, so we finally ditched the scene and, channeling my best Liza Minnelli, dropped in on the Portland Gay Men's Chorus cast party which was happening at a restaurant across the street.

If there was a positive outcome to all of this, it's that I downloaded the Tom Tom Club's "Genius of Love" the next morning. Not cause--blessedly--this one had been set to a dance beat, but because we'd heard it earlier while eating sushi, and I remembered that--vintage or not--I like it.

My Funny Valentine

I just had to share a few really funky virtual valentines I received today.

This one's from a friend in Seattle (a fellow Greener, actually) who recently adopted this adorable Corgi mix. I bring you "Cassie":









And then this touch of irreverence from a Minnesota buddy:


















And this, from my bro':


There's a canine-ish theme here, as well as the touch o' cheekiness. All facets of me. I'm feelin' the love!

Big Leaps & Deep Ahhhhhhs

The time is nigh; Life Coach training approacheth.

It starts Friday afternoon, March 14th and goes through Sunday evening, March 16th. This is the first of six courses; we take one weekend-long course once per month for six months, and they are:

Personal Mastery
Systems I
Systems II
Process I
Process II
Flow

Graduation requirements are as follows:

*Attend 100% of program hours (125 hours of coach-specific training);
*Provide 16 hours of peer coaching services (8 hours as a coach, 8 as a client);
*Pass the oral exam (passing grade greater than 75%);
*Pass the written exam (also greater than 75%);
*Attend 4 hours of after-hours in-person practice sessions



There is an additional certification process through ICF (International Coach Federation) which is optional and comes later; however, it's better--and more legitimizing--to be ICF certified, which is my plan, as is joining the Northwest Coaches Association (good for networking/shoulder-rubbing, etc.)

Each piece of this journey requires one focused step at a time, or I'd get utterly overwhelmed. But I'm totally excited, and I filled out my application today, which felt momentous. When I get my tax refund, a portion of that will go to the application fee, and the rest will be put into savings....for future payments toward my training. It's all sitting in a neat & tidy pile, waiting to be copied off and dropped in the mail. And since it's such a small program, the application is pretty simple; it's mostly just a placeholder. I've met the woman--a totally animated ball of fire--who runs the program and have spoken with her over the phone; she's great at getting people (me!) to focus, a great energizer and a great motivator. Well, she's a successful working coach, so she should be all of those things....

So that's that. More as it happens with my exciting career preparations!

As for the "Deep Aaaaahhhhhh's.....," that's how it feels when I dunk my hands into the fragrant, warm, melted, soothing paraffin wax bath I was given (or "Paraffin Spa") for Christmas by a friend's mom--one of these initially curious, semi-random gifts I'd never think of purchasing for myself yet find myself absolutely ENAMORED of and loving and totally blissed-out by and completely thankful for (how's that for a preposition-rich sentence?)

It was given to me to soothe my arthritic hands (something my poor joints developed the last few Winters I was living in Minnesota) and soothe it does, not to mention soften and generally beautify (I've always maintained a certain level of Cuticle Vanity, I admit). I can't wait to try different kinds of scented wax--lavender, peach, whatever....I've read there's even a chocolate wax on the market, somewhere. Now THAT would be something!

Aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...........................

Back on Track

God is home; we are in the far country. --Meister Eckhart

I have been in the far country for most of January. My impatience brought me there, and when I'd had enough of stringing myself out, I packed up and came right back home.

I was chasing after something I thought I wanted, or needed, or both, and when I finally woke up again, I realized neither was true; I had my chosen path for the next year or so: Life Coach training (and then indefinitely thereafter, practicing as a Life Coach). However, I am sometimes easily distracted, and so found myself distracted by the possibility of a job with a large, local Episcopal Cathedral. When I initially queried them, I was met with an enthusiastic "Yes, please forward your resume! I am really looking forward to speaking with you!" And speak we did, on three separate occasions and with a different panel of people each time.

So I cleared my temp schedule. I was keeping my eyes on the prize, I told myself, and couldn't be distracted by short-term nonsense. But day after day, the prize never materialized; key decision makers at the cathedral were perpetually gone, and a hiring consensus was not being reached.

I admit, I can be impatient, and I often criticize timelines that aren't my own (hell, I criticize a lot of things that aren't my own, something I continue to address in Recovery, but I digress.....) I was doing that here, but the lack of a concrete decision also provided me with a lot of time to think. The last communication I received, via email--after the third interview, when all pertinent ground had been covered and more could not be said and I allowed myself the brief fantasy that the hiring manager would turn to me, smiling, and say, "You've got it!," thus making my weekend blissfully happy--was that everyone at the Cathedral was being "prayerfully discerning." I'd been told I was the final of two candidates, that I was at the top, still on the radar; I'd been hugged by one of the hiring managers, a warm gesture I interpreted as a very positive sign; and I'd been winked at by another person on the second panel who said to me in passing, "I think we'll be seeing you again."


All roads pointed to a forthcoming offer. And while I waited--and waited-- for that offer, I regretfully turned down other work. Then developed a bad case of insomnia and an anxious stomach. And started crying a lot and generally being a pain-in-the-ass around my roommate, who did his best to talk me off the curtains. I meditated, and it didn't help. I hiked for miles. I ate chocolate. Desperate for a mood-lifter, I snuggled on the sofa and watched "Miss Congeniality" (it helped). Desperate for sleep, I stayed in bed all of last Saturday and read. This emotional investment was not good. In fact, it was becoming utterly dysfunctional.

I felt like my life was not only off-track, it was completely on hold, and I wondered if all this trauma-drama was worth it. As a former self-professed Drama Addict, I do my best to avoid drama now; I don't want it or need it to remind myself that, yes, I am alive. But apparently, I am still an expert at creating it. Buckets-full.

And then I got this gentle reminder from my future Life Coach teacher:

".....remember your path. The force is with you....."

I'd come to Portland to be a Life Coach, NOT to throw in with an indecisive non-profit. My heart is in non-profits; I believe in them, just as I believe in public schools....but ironically, my experiences at both have never, ever been positive. Still--bafflingly--I persist in my thinking.

I knew, finally, what I had to do. I wrote the hiring manager a kind, thoughtful email full of thanks and gratitude, letting her know that I, too, had been prayerfully (more like restlessly) discerning, and that I'd be withdrawing from their consideration. I ended up making my own decision, and once I hit send, it was like a huge burden lifted instantly. It felt right.

I let my temp agencies know I was free and willing. I am planning to send in my application for the Spring Life Coach program ASAP, which starts mid-March. I am sleeping better, and my stomach has calmed down. I am no longer anxious, nor am I morose. My roommate--who heard the brunt of my anxiety around all of this--was disappointed that I'd made the choice I made and wondered why, after all the spent energy and the positive feedback, I didn't continue to just stick it out, to wait.

Because I've been waiting, I said. Dormant, almost. Frozen. By choice, yes, but....I lost my focus, and it began to gnaw at me. I gave them what they wanted, and in the end, they still needed to pray....and I finally needed to move on. It was okay that he was disappointed; I'm entitled to change my mind, even if my choices seem to not make sense to those around me, even if I risk disapproval by doing so, even if I still develop those old, unnecessary feelings of letting someone else down.

Most of the other people around me, friends and family who'd also heard me question and analyze and complain and wonder, were happy that a decision--any decision--had been made.

As am I. I am, contentedly, back on track. I've learned a few things about expectations and impatience and surrender. And I am no longer, in this instance, in the far country.

Welcome home.

Sorry, Wrong Number

Someone in the universe thinks I am someone who I am not.

When I got home from my belly dance class last Sunday I glanced at my cell phone, which I'd left charging on the table and saw that I'd gotten a text message.

It read:

"R U having fun with Aunt Jackie? Lv u, Miss Lou."

Now, I don't know a "Miss Lou," (which sounds like a character from Faulkner, or maybe Tennessee Williams) nor do I have an "Aunt Jackie." In fact, this person's benign, thoughtful, totally random little inquiry--all written in uber-modern Prince & the Revolution text-y shorthand--had been, sadly, lost on the absolute wrong recipient.

I stared at it. I wrinkled my brow. I felt, briefly, invaded by strangers, and then suddenly didn't. I felt a twinge of concern that the "U" in question would not be able to let Miss Lou know that things were just swell with Aunt Jackie (I wondered if it was a slumber party and pictured sheets of cookies being baked, toes being painted candy-apple red, questions about sex and icky periods and deep kissing being bandied about) because the message had been routed to an entirely other phone. I tried to picture Aunt Jackie, Miss Lou, and "U," and various characters popped into my mind's eye, including a gaggle of enormous drag queens in curlers and housecoats, ala Divine in just about any John Waters movie.

Well, it's a possibility. You know.


And then I decided I needed to take a bath and go to bed and stop cogitating on a random wrong number. A random wrong text.

So I deleted it.

The Kindness of Strangers

So there I stood, waiting in the bus shelter down by the dollar store on Broadway near Lloyd Center, making idle chit-chat with a woman in a wheel chair who was waiting for a different bus than I.

Or rather, she was making idle chit-chat with me; I don't often strike up conversations with strangers first, but will (most of the time) engage them to pass the time, especially if they seem harmless and not particularly annoying.

I rarely spoke to her face-on, since her chair was turned towards traffic; I mostly saw a quarter-view of her cheek, her right ear, her wiry brown hair, her eye. She was from Tillamook, she said, speaking her words into the damp air that hung between us, and had spent the last 3 days in the Big City of Portland and was good and ready to get home to her cranky husband (her description) and her cozy wood-burning stove; I understood that woodsmoke was a smell she loved, and currently missed. I listened, nodded, and uttered a few words of polite affirmation to this complete stranger, speaking mostly to the back edge of her right ear.


And then, just as her bus approached, she turned her head around to look up at me, and I politely returned her gaze and noticed as I did so that her mostly bored, placid expression changed dramatically. Her eyebrows arced up as her jaw dropped open, giving her a look of utter surprise. She cocked her head slightly, still staring up at me, and said, with a note of awe, "You have beautiful teeth....are those yours?"

For most of my life, I have been fairly self-conscious about my teeth; while they are all uniform and pretty straight and, thankfully, very white, they are large, and I've never worn braces to correct my overbite; I realize, in sharing this description, that I probably sound as if I look like one of those Hillbilly hand puppets with the big crooked overbitten teeth, which would be not only an extreme, but an inaccurate embellishment. And, while I do like my big grin, I don't spend a lot of time actually talking about it.


But now I had a complete stranger gazing up at my chops in wonderment, and I was ridiculously, sweetly flattered. I had to laugh, bearing my teeth even more, and just before she boarded her bus I assured her that they were, indeed, all real and all my own.

And then I thanked her for the compliment and she was gone, headed back to wherever it is her cranky husband would meet her to take her back to the cool ocean mist of Tillamook and the good-smelling wood-burning stove, and I, in turn, boarded my own bus, me and my big, real, impressive teeth, and headed home.

Oldies but Goodies

I have recently been on a vintage Sesame Street kick; I'm not sure why, exactly.

Kinda like when you get a "worm" stuck in your brain--a song snippet that replays itself, over and over, which you find yourself compulsively singing and humming while going about your daily business of toothbrushing, dishwashing, cooking, sitting idly on the bus, whatever, wherever.

And there it remains, like a nervous tic, stubbornly, fixedly, and you simply cannot rest until you find the full version of the song and then replay that, over and over and over, infusing your psyche and satisfying the annoying, cloying appetite of the "worm" that squiggled its way into your brain and planted the song snippet in the first place.

It's a little addictive, a little obsessive, a little repetitive; yes, yes, yes.

And this is the state I have been in over certain vintage Sesame Street animations that I can recall from my kid-hood, specifically, an orange that rolls itself out of a countertop fruit bowl and sings the "Habanera" from Bizet's "Carmen....


...and a many-armed yogi that sits in full lotus and counts to 20 accompanied by sitar music & a woman's voice, which is a total, utter and complete "Hey, kids! It's LSD!" kick-ass psychadelic mind-trip (good for the commune-reared child or, hell, just the Berkeley-reared child, like me).


And now, I can say with great relief that this particular gnawing worm has been satisfied, thanks to my roommate (who initially found the singing orange for me) and YouTube.

The Wisdom to Know the Difference...

Okay.

I rarely write about pop culture on this blog; I mean, I rarely write about CELEBRITIES on this blog, more precisely.

But I think the news of Heath Ledger's untimely and way-too-young sleeping pill O.D. (and whatever else) at the tender age of 28 is just tragic. He had his whole life ahead of him....

This on the heels of coming back from an Al-Anon meeting today and hearing some extremely heartbreaking stories mingled with Experience, Strength and Hope....yet, people do go on.


Still, I really feel that we have a profound problem in this country with substance abuse and untreated depression and other mental illness. Look at poor Brit, that bi-polar addict surrounded by enablers. She'll self-destruct, too.

Sad, and so unnecessary.....

Inner Crunch

I am just a wee bit crunchy, and I admit it.

One evening last week, a friend of mine and I strolled past an imports shop in Portland's old town, and I pointed to the funky--I don't know, Nepalese? Bolivian?--knit caps, the cute, whimsical kind with ear flaps that tie beneath your chin (which are typically left to dangle) with a pointy crown topped by a tassel, and I commented that perhaps I should buy one cause they were so cute.

In a crunchy sorta way.

To which he replied with just the merest hint of bemused pain, "Don't be that girl."

And I had to laugh, cause I knew exactly what he meant. I went to Evergreen with a LOT of That Girl, the blowzy, make-up free, patchouli-scented Hippie Maidens that stared, grinning and blank-eyed and probably tripping or at least terribly iron-deficient in their Indian skirts and trail boots and leggings and bulky Salvadoran-knit sweaters and long, straight hair, exuding their earthy, I-run-naked-through-the-woods-and-use-reusable-menstrual-pads sexuality, and the men they attracted--while also classified as "hippies" or, at least "hippie-ish" or "hippie-wannabes" or probably more appropriately, "nouveau hippies" 'cause, in spite of the let-me-experience-poverty metaphors many of them adopted, still hauled ass to various Rainbow Gatherings or Phish concerts in the brand-spankin'-new Honda Accords bought for them by Mumsy and Daddums, but I digress--were generally totally cute and so, I admit, I wanted to be That Girl for a while, I wanted (I thought) that whole dreamy metaphor, if only cause it was, it seemed, an idealized externalization of whatever it is I thought I valued and wanted to become.

Luckily, people grow up.

I'm not and never could be a true Hippie Maiden, in spite of my Berkeley pedigree; I can't wear all those bulky layers and the idea of washable menstrual pads totally grosses me out, no matter HOW down with Reduce, Reuse, Recycle I am. And I've gotten my borderline anemia under control.

But this is not to say that I'm not, deep down, That Girl.

Yes, I wear make-up, my favorite scent is a perfume by Carolina Herrera, I can actually walk in heels higher than an inch, I love costume jewelry, and my alter-ego is a drag queen.

But I also wear sensible shoes, I've baked my own bread, I was raised Unitarian, and when I get lazy I let my leg hair grow. Acupuncture needles have pierced my skin, numerous times. I meditate on a pillow in front of a candle in the lotus position. And I've referred to my cat as "My Familiar."

Oh, yes. I have.

Add to this, I grow alfalfa sprouts on the kitchen drainboard, in my new-ish "Sprout Master Triple Mini" sprouter I bought with an Amazon gift card I got for my birthday, along with 2 pounds of organic seeds.



I think this brings me back to my Berkeley childhood; my mother used to grow sprouts, but she used a huge Co-op Old Fashioned Peanut Butter Jar, rinsed and shaken daily until the seeds sprouted. Mine is a bit easier, and the sprouts are delicious--I stuff them into quesadillas or pile them on sandwiches, the same way you'd use lettuce.

So, okay, maybe NOT so deep down.

So, while I think I can probably refrain from buying an imported cap with ear flaps and a tassel, I'm never giving up my sprouter.

I'm on batch #3.

Peace out.

Even MORE Namaste...

I blogged so enthusiastically about my first belly dance class last Sunday (I have been practicing the bun isolations while doing dishes--seriously, individually clenching first one buttock and then the other is harder than it might seem....) that Birdnerd expressed an interest in doing it, too, and will now be joining me starting this Sunday!



We've got our respective yoga pants and our spaghetti-strapped tank tops (and I've been searching out a spangly hip scarf to shake, as well), and I gave her a lesson last night after dinner in isolations and posture and relaxed knees and all that.

We also indulged in a short-lived bout of forwarding bellydance mpegs from YouTube to one another, but she prefers the more traditional form whereas I dig the Tribal/Gothic/Fusion sort...(my point being that the traditional sort reminded me of every Berkeley art fair I'd ever attended as a kid; not a bad thing, necessarily, but....)

And, when I finally get the Belly Dance DVD from Amazon that was recommended by the instructor, perhaps she and I will have an occasional mid-week practice session....

Will there be a recital in the future?

Who knows!

Fun!

A Little Namaste

It has occurred to me--as a burgeoning Life Coach--that, in order to coach well, I must practice what I preach. I can't encourage my clients to grab the world by the balls, so to speak, if I'm unwilling to do so; how hypocritical would that be? I mean, "Go and try what scares/thrills/titillates you the most, while I sit back, hide out, and merely TELL you to try what scares/thrills/titillates you the most--oh, and that'll be $65 for the privilege......?"

Hm. That doesn't work for me, and I doubt it'd fly with my clients. I need to practice what I preach, and tonight, I did that.

Belly dancing falls into the want-to-try category for me, and I've wanted to take it for a long time. In college, I took jazz, modern & ballet. In high school, it was tap. I love moving my body, although I've often let my own biases stop me. This, I decided, would be another (forgive me) EMPOWERING step toward eradicating my negative body image issues.

So tonight, I had my first class. The instructor was great, tiny, beautiful, and completely supportive and encouraging to her room full of beginners. The class itself consisted of about 10 or 12 women of all ages, shapes and sizes, and we just let it all hang out. I decided that, if I was gonna do this thing, I was gonna commit fully, me and my belly--and arms, ass and tits, because there are a LOT of isolations in belly dance and each area kinda snaps. The most difficult part, I can see, is putting it all together.

Trust me: it only LOOKS easy.



And it's so, so, SO fun, I cannot begin to TELL you. The entire studio was an homage to femininity (right down to the complimentary menstrual pads and tampons tucked on a shelf in the dressing room next to the incense burner), and even though I walked in solo and didn't know a soul--something that is very, very difficult for me because I can be shy and self-conscious--I felt very comfortable as soon as I opened the door. The lighting is soft, the costumes are beautiful--I wanted to buy some better, more elaborate dance clothes. And I will.

And the music was wonderful, too. I really wanted to cut loose and work it, because it's quite rhythmic, but of course, I had to follow the instructor closely. I'm sure my arms are going to be sore as hell tomorrow morning, but it'll be a good sore.

And, wow. I've never done butt isolations before, one cheek at a time. Wild.

So there it is. I can put a check mark by that item on my list of goals for 2008, although I'm by no means finished; I bought a card of 12 classes for a ridiculously low price. Personally, my goal is to perform, and once you're at an advanced level, there are many opportunities for performance.

I followed through. I can be afraid, notice it, and go do "it" anyway, whatever "it" happens to be. I doubt fear will ever NOT be a part of new experiences for me....but it certainly doesn't have to STOP me.

So that's what I can share with my clients: that I know walking the walk can be intimidating and scary, but it's a lot more gratifying than merely talking the talk, which is just that: talk.

I can't wait for NEXT Sunday!

Namaste....

Glam Cats

Check out this page, sent to me by a friend.

For the Glam-Diva-Drag-Queen-Zsa-Zsa kitty in your life, or someone else's.

Enjoy.

I {Heart} Goodwill

I'm talking about the store, not the omnipresent disposition most commonly associated with Christmas.

Now, I'm sure some people shudder at the very thought of buying or possessing used (or "pre-owned," to get lofty about it) items, but I don't. Goodwill is, to me, a delicious treat of a store full of serendipity, cause I just never know what I might come across.

The best Goodwill stores in the entire universe are, I'm pretty sure, right here in Portland, and I missed them terribly when I lived in Minnesota. They had a few anemic resale shops there, but they were hard to get to (generally somewhere in the 'hood), small and, I think, not even Goodwill. Maybe Salvation Army. But there wasn't the same Resale Romance there like there is here. I think we're proud of our Goodwill stores here, and rightly so: in a nutshell, they rock.
I mean, clean public bathrooms--AND a cafe? And really decent shit? For real.



And it appeals to my need to live more simply and to search out treasure, which I love doing. I love rummaging around in other people's stuff (literally AND metaphorically, actually), especially their cast-offs. It seems voyeuristic to me, but legitimately so. Everything has a story--as a gift, an impulse buy, a souvenir, a thoughtful purchase, something. And then these same items--some of them perhaps once highly esteemed--were eventually discarded, shunted aside as useless.

And really, there's nothing better to do on a rainy day, of which we have many in Portland, which is perhaps why Goodwill does so well here. I had the pleasure of wandering around an enormous Goodwill this evening with a friend, and here are the items I came away with:

A great lighter-weight Columbia Sportswear women's anorak, practically new, in some of my favorite shades of light blue, $24.99. I've been needing one for a long time; in fact, I really could've used it for my recent New Year's Day birding trip.

Cutie ceramic cat food dish with little paw prints all around it, .99. Time to graduate the tabby from her purple plastic bowl to something a little nicer...

Box of large cat pan liners, .99 (total steal, since these are like four bucks retail; cat shit maintenance can be a costly proposition....)


3 smaller-sized nesting stainless steel mixing bowls (this size is handy for, say, whipping up eggs or making frosting or holding a bunch of grated cheese), $1.99 for all 3 (Williams-Sonoma, BITE me....)

Awesome and BIG stainless-steel insulated to-go coffee cup, obviously unused cause the lid was sorta dusty (needed for rainy commute days), .99.

Grand total: $29.95.

If the definition of neurosis is the inability to accept ambiguity, then wandering the tchatchke-stuffed aisles of Goodwill is one area of my life where I am, blessedly, NOT neurotic; ambiguity, in this circumstance, is part of the fun.

Or as the saying goes, One person's trash is another person's treasure.

I'm all into it.

Another Auld Lang Syne

So:

This is the third time I've edited this particular New Year's post. I started one, got too tired, then saved it. I revised it and got all philosophical and existential and navel-gaze-y and all this shit, and then saved that; now I'm back with revision #3, having deleted most everything I'd written before, all this sentimental pap about the hopefulness of a new year and how bloodless and fresh and unblemished it all seems and how excited everyone is to let the days and weeks and months unfold until we find ourselves dragging through December and wiping our brows with exhausted relief the following January 1st that ANOTHER year has finally come and gone, and hoo-boy, isn't this NEW year gonna be SO much BETTER!

Ah, the return of Caitlin Cynicism!

Okay, okay, I'm actually really glad it's 2008 and I have some new things on my own plate to look forward to and I'm really not a Grinch at heart, I swear it. Just a bit of residual grumpiness today, for no real reason.

Chalk it up to my period, thanks. Or the fact that I went to an Al-Anon meeting today and even though--most of the time--I leave feeling refreshingly re-grounded and relevant and completely able to cope with life, I left today instead having wanted to bitch-slap pretty much everyone who spoke because they seemed annoyingly, well, neurotic and self-righteous and just so pathetically sorry for themselves, mostly young women who blathered on, one after the other, and all in that "You Oughta Know" Alanis Morrisette vein of angry you-done-me-wrong-and-I-WILL-tell-all bitched-out chickie narcissism which I simply cannot stand (as if you couldn't tell).



Whew. Now, I realize the above rant is terrible PR for recovery, and I certainly don't mean it to be. Like I said, recovery has been an enormous gift in my life for so many reasons; but on the rare occasion, a meeting simply doesn't "take." Meetings are comprised of people, and sometimes I just don't like being around people very much. That's how it goes. There's always another meeting.

Just like there's always another year, which is the whole point of this blog entry. Here is my list of resolutions--or, preferably, goals, because "resolution" sounds too restrictive and diet-y to me--that I want to carry out for 2008, and which I initially jotted in my new Day Planner, which seemed as good a spot as any for jotting such things, being a calendar and all.

Without further ado:

~Continue to practice intuitive eating, because diets simply do not work. I've had what I consider to be moderately disordered/fixated/compulsive eating and a very strained relationship to food for a lot of my life and I blame the diet mentality for most of that. And I've known so many people (me included) who've gone off and on so many diets and they're still heavy...if they worked, it'd only have to be done once. And there wouldn't be so many of them out there!

~Stop what I call "elliptical thinking"--in other words, no more "Someday, I'll....." If I want to try something, the time, I'm seeing, is RIGHT NOW, not next week/year/decade. Belly Dance lessons falls into this category, and I plan to start this Sunday. With the future potential to perform. Now that would be something. Not to mention, fun as hell.



~Never say anything negative about my physical appearance again. I've done it for a lot of my 42 years, and have let up considerably in the past few years that I've been in recovery. There's no room for that sort of self-criticism in my life anymore. Enough. I am who I am, and have been for 4 decades.

~Eat more "power foods," such as salmon, kale, blueberries, legumes, and green tea (I had sauteed kale with dinner last night, and I'm drinking my daily mug of green tea as I write this).

~Walk 10,000 steps a day for at least 4 days a week. This is easiest when it begins staying lighter longer, since I hate exercising in the early morning. And in the rain. But this IS Portland, and you can't have everything.

~Date. For fun and practice. Without being neurotic. Maybe one of those 3-minute dating things again, since I don't cotton to the online approach. Or try some live singles things that seem interesting. Something.

~And, of course, continue on my religious/spiritual path, continue with my (occasionally vexing but mostly blessedly satisfying) journey of recovery, and prepare for Life Coach training.

There it is, in a nutshell. If I add too much more, I'll short out like an over-lit Christmas tree and won't do any of it. You know the saying: The journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. Life is all about first steps, many of them, over and over and over. Until we die.

So let me toast you and your own list of goals for 2008 with my anti-oxidant mug of green tea.



Happy New Year.