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.