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.

My Big Gay Life....

...or, can a Real Girl be a Drag Queen....?

I'm thinking of using that title--or some variation thereof--for some sort of autobiographical (yet funny/comedic) solo performance-type theatrical piece yet-to-be-created.

I think--no, scratch that, I know--I need to create this, because first of all, if I don't some other straight-yet-fabulous chick will, and I'll be sitting there fuming and kicking myself, wondering why I didn't strike while the iron was hot and creatively exploit my status as a Fairy Princess (of which, I might add, I am fiercely proud).



I also--most importantly--have the experience of a Life Lived Gay. Or Gay-ish. Or Gay-like.

I mean, how many 42-year-old straight women celebrate their birthdays at a gay club (having eaten sushi beforehand with primarily gay attendees--to whom my father fondly refers as "my court") in honor of World AIDS Day, get spanked by one of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, and win a raffle prize consisting of a Christmas Crafts Kit and an Anal Bumper ass dildo?

Together?

And who is now considering joining the Sisters in some capacity as a helper (apparently, straight women can do this)--if only to put my helpless energy around HIV/AIDS to some practical, altruistic and pro-active/productive good use??

I recently saw "The Nutcracker" and during the "Mother Ginger" scene, my mind drifted briefly but deliciously to an idea for a fantasy sequence in the piece I want to write wherein I am Mother Ginger, my face made up in heavy drag, and when I open my voluminous skirts, instead of a gaggle of merry children, out run a gaggle of Queens clad in tight leather shorts, harnesses and Doc Martins.



It would be so, so appropriate, you do not even know.

Well, certainly some of you do.

I'm sure one could go to town with a Freudian Analysis of such a scene, or of the very desire to create such a scene. That's okay. I'm used to the perplexed sidelong glances and random lifted eyebrows associated with my Haggish proclivities (from both straights & gays), and I no longer feel any compunction to explain myself. I had a friend in Minnesota say to me, "I hate to break it to you, but you're really not a gay man. You're an ally, and we need our allies."

My dreams of Honorary Queen-dom were smashed to bits; I was heartbroken and crestfallen. All this time, I'd really thought of myself as a gay man in women's clothing. In so many ways.



But then, I came back to Portland, and just last night, one of my friends said he totally disagreed with that assessment. He said, "You're not an ally. You're family. You get it."

I was flattered and touched and took it for the truly heartfelt compliment I knew it to be. This particular friend of mine would not say anything merely for the sake of filling dead air. He is not a gushy, superficially complimentary sort; that's why it was so meaningful to hear.

So I think it's time this Real Girl writes a piece about her exploits as honorary "family."

Starring, of course, ME.

Work it.

Am I Blue

I finally did it.

I finally got it about the phrase, "Someday, I'll.....[insert elliptical subject here, i.e., skydive/get a tattoo/find a date/write a novel/visit Tut's tomb/quit my job, etc...]" with the help of recovery, in that "some day" is not tomorrow, or next week, or next month or next year, but right now.

Cause who knows what might happen in 24 hours. So if all the elements are right, if the planets are aligned and God is smiling on you and the opportunity for whatever you've been craving yet studiously avoiding exists, right here, right now, in front of your face, then grab it. Do it. Go for it. Don't pussy-foot.

Carpe Diem. Seize the Day. You know.

Case in point: I've always wanted to see Blue Man Group. For years and years. In fact, I'd wanted to see them in Las Vegas when I turned 40, but for numerous reasons involving my lack of recovery and the assembled mostly-resistant attendees, that didn't happen.

I told myself that patience was a virtue, and in the interim, I contented myself with a Netflix DVD, though I get the distinct feeling a Blue Man performance would be vastly improved not viewed on a 13-inch color TV.

Recently, tickets went on sale for the Blue Man Group "How to be a Megastar" tour in January '08.



And I realized that here, in front of my face, at the Rose Garden Arena in Portland, Oregon, was my right now.

Birdnerd and I will be enjoying the Blueness together, and I can't wait. Patience may be a virtue, but the time is nigh. I get to party with The Men. Finally.

Carpe Diem.

A Can o' Whoop-Ass

I have been dressed-down.

Dressed down in a way that was--oddly--flattering, because it had to do with putting out.

Words, that is.

The other night, over sushi, a friend of mine who reads this blog regularly looked at me over his relatively untouched mound of Volcano Roll and said, "Why do you have a blog?"



I fidgeted with a hangnail on my thumb.

I'm a writer. I have an MFA in playwriting. My family plays joyfully, indulgently, with words (and we all suck at math, badly). I have written plays, I have written short stories, I have written impassioned, emotional over-the-top fuck-you letters to former friends (many of which were used merely as therapy and were never sent, mind you, although the temptation to stamp 'em and drop 'em in the nearest mailbox was enormous). So it makes a certain sense that I have a blog. In hindsight, perhaps a better inquiry would've been, "How come you don't update your blog regularly?"

Well, oy vey. What can I say? Laziness? Some, but not just. Perhaps an overall momentary lack of creativity....it's like the whole Facebook thing: do I rate--and is it interesting, but really?--if I don't have, you know, 500 friends in 25 different networks and constantly post every little thought, twitch, burp, fart and bowel movement? I mean, must I? And does anyone really care that much?



Can there be such a thing as too much narcissism?

Well, you know. Yeah. But that's how this 24/7 online look-at-me-cause I-matter, Madonna-as-Eva-Perone-singing-You-Must-Love-Me low self-esteem-isolated-virtual-culture of ours works.

Anyway, it was weirdly flattering, albeit a mite confrontational, because the message was: my writing, my thoughts, my take on my life or life in general is actually interesting enough to check up on fairly regularly and I actually have fans and God knows one mustn't disappoint one's fans....



Okay, forget the navel-gazing deconstruction. Actually, I think it's cause I'm still recovering from having been spanked by a drag nun on my birthday. Ha.

Little bit o' this and a little bit o' that

Okay, I haven't posted anything lately, so I've decided to post a summary of what's been filling my time these last few weeks.

Without further ado:

Went 'round & 'round with the DMV over a case of, well, not "mistaken identity," exactly, 'cause MY identity was never really in question....but they'd somehow managed, in the 6 years I've been gone from Portland, to mesh the record of one "Clayton Clifford Willis the 3rd" (obviously a GUY) with my OWN, thus indicating that I was a no-show in court for some vehicular infraction or other, which totally held up the issuance of my new Driver's License and necessitated my calling Salem headquarters a few times to rattle the cage (helpful hint: NEVER, never, NEVER stand around passively if some Civic office that has fucked up YOUR information says they'll be getting hold of someone to straighten things out, who will in turn be getting hold of YOU at some vague date in the future with the ostensible outcome. You will grow old and gray and will probably die waiting for some kind of resolution. Grow instant balls, pick up that phone, and DO IT YOURSELF. It works. Take it from me) and finally getting some guy on the phone named "Mike" who stated the obvious right off the bat (something that had eluded the lowly DMV employees just a week earlier) when he blurted incredulously, "Well, it's obvious to me this is just a mistake on your record! I mean--you're a woman! I'm talking to you and even I can tell that!"

People!! Give this man a RAISE!!



So after a bit more pontification around the obviousness of it all, "Mike" worked his magic and sent me back to the DMV and I marched up to the desk and said, "I spoke to 'Mike' in Salem regarding my file and I will be getting my license today, and if you can't help me, I would like to speak to 'Shelly' (the manager to whom "Mike" directed me in the event of further mishegaas) to get this rectified once and for all."

The clerk smiled weakly, acknowledged that "Mike" was, indeed a great guy, opened my record, and--voila! The line item was mysteriously GONE!!! Seems that Clayton's Court Crap went back to CLAYTON, and I left with my temporary license, which has a lovely new photo of me in my new short pixie cut with a discernible scowl on my face. But that's to be expected.

So that's obviously taken up a lot of mental energy, but now I've gotten the damned license and no longer feel like a Woman without a Country. Or at least, a State. Phew.

What else: Last Sunday, November 11, (after house and cat-sitting for my Antarctic-bound BirdNerd buddy), I went to a Life Coaching open house at the Baraka Institute, where I'll be training in the Spring. It was called "Friends Free" and it's really practice for the current term's burgeoning life coaches. I had a great coach and I found the experience to be very energetic, intentional, focused, supportive and FUN--nothing like my experience of therapy, which mostly involved me and a box of Kleenex hunched miserably on a sofa sobbing out my life's woes while an MFCC scratched notes on a pad and nodded appreciatively as I got deeper in touch with my angst.

Now, therapy has its place, certainly, but Life Coaching is not therapy. And thank God. It serves a different, more pro-active purpose.

The woman who runs the program has the best haircut, too, and fabulous highlights. Good hair is a good sign. She rocked. I'm excited for the Spring.



I've also been learning to crochet. My roommate's mom has been teaching me, and aside from the fact the tension in the yarn is a little all over the place, I've seriously learned to wield that crochet hook pretty well! I'm up to my 5th row of stitches. Not bad, not bad.

Signed up with two staffing agencies. Was sent on an interview with a hyper, egomaniacal photographer with a stuffy British assistant who had an amazing stick up her Anglophilic little ass (when I asked her how long she'd been in the position she was now leaving, and for which they were interviewing, her mouth twisted into a tight little smile and she replied elusively and with a touch of chill, "A while." You'd think I was talking smack about the Queen or asking if bangers & mash make her fart or something else really inappropriate. I mean, really.) The studios were quite cool, though, and if I'd been right out of college, perhaps I'd've taken it, because it's sort of "altie" and "hip," but the pay was shit and the photographer (a Spaniard who made a habit of grabbing the stiff li'l Brit) was WAY high maintenance. So I thought, naw. Scratch that. Back to the drawing board.

I've been going to Al-Anon (I love this group; this one guy piped up and quoted a line from a book called From Survival to Recovery, in which it says, "hurt people hurt people." Yes. I have been hurt by hurt people. It's very simple--deceptively so--and very true), which always helps to center me when I begin feeling crazy.

I went to church here for the first time a few Sundays ago, too--St. Michael & All Angels, the Episcopal church my roommate goes to. Very hip. I liked it.

I recently had the dubious honor of being the first straight chick in my friend's hot tub which, up until the moment my naked ass took the plunge, had only had men in it. This came about because a female friend of my friend's partner--who herself would've been the first Straight Chick in the Tub--was too self-conscious to go starkers, and the tub's owners have a "naked-only" policy. I mean, dig--this IS the west coast. Clothes are basically optional here. That's how it goes.

So the Diva reigns, again. Of course. :-)

I got dragged onto FaceBook by a friend who "invited" me to be a friend, and the rest is history. What more can I say. There I am.

I bought my plane ticket home for Christmas. El Cheapo! $138 R/T! I've missed this....beats nearly $400 out of MSP every year. And I finally get to meet Olivia, the latest Williams Family Pug.



I've been doing stomach crunches on my recently-purchased, big pink fitness ball. It makes core workouts way more effective. I love it. The cats were a bit agog as I inflated the thing and beat a hasty retreat from the living room, but they've finally gotten used to it.

I've been indulging in Season I of "Ugly Betty" with a friend who has it on DVD. I'm not even watching this season's episodes until these are finished. Then I'll watch them back-to-back on DVD. No commercials makes a HUGE difference!

Getting ready for Thanksgiving, which I'm planning to spend with BirdNerd, who will no doubt be needing to recover from her 2 weeks spent birding at the bottom of the globe. I'll cook, she'll blog or chill or something. Low-key. The best kind of Turkey Day. And a week after that, my 42nd birthday! I'm planning to gorge on sushi and then dance my ass off. I can still bust a move.

As a friend of mine in Minneapolis said, "We're only in our forties, we're not DEAD."

And finally, let me end with a culinary tip: take a Delicata squash, slice into 1/4-inch rings, scoop & discard the seeds and toss with olive oil, salt & pepper, then spread on a baking sheet and bake in a hot (maybe 375) oven till tender and the skin crisps. This is a winter squash with an edible skin and an INCREDIBLE flavor. It blows mere acorn squash out of the water!

Total yum. It's my new favorite.

Why I love Portland, Part I

...or perhaps, why I love the West Coast, the first in what will no doubt be a series of short & quick observations.

I went to my Al-Anon meeting yesterday and, while the room was full and most of us sat around in folding chairs or on the sofa, one guy sat on the floor for the whole hour in the Lotus position. A chick came in a bit later and promptly kicked off her shoes and hoisted her ass into the Plow, audibly popping numerous formerly-compressed vertebrae in the process.



And none of us skipped a beat, involved as we were in sharing our respective Experience, Strength & Hope. I loved it.

Recovery, West Coast style.

Ice, Ice Baby

So there I stood at the counter at Macy's in Lloyd Center, a pair of "Cuddle Duds" wicking long underwear bottoms in my hand.

I must digress a brief moment to share that this quest for long underwear (long johns, base layer, whatever) has been ridiculously difficult and drawn-out, probably because, at least to a certain extent, I've made it so myself, and I didn't need to.

I have come across other long underwear in the last week or so, but simply haven't liked them; I don't care for waffle-weave, I DO appreciate wicking, I don't want black, and I obviously need them to fit.

And while I value my warmth, comfort, and ability to be "wicked" of sweat, I don't really want to have to take out a sizable loan to achieve this state of outdoorsy coziness. Decent long underwear isn't cheap; it's ridiculous.

But, so: I found what I needed, and was paying for them at the counter when the formerly youthful and very skinny, frost-haired saleswoman who rang me up noticed that my driver's license still said Minnesota, and suddenly disclosed that she was from St. Paul (the "other" twin of the Twin Cities). It was enough, it seemed, to bond us as Sisters of the Far North; she chatted me up and tried to get me to open a Macy's account (apparently, I already have one, according to all three of my incredibly impressive, filled-with-green and zero negative ratings credit reports that I checked when I got home).

However, just moments before I proffered my license, she'd been doing the Tilda-Swinton-as-Ice-Queen-in-"Narnia"-routine when I initially accidentally pulled out NOT my debit card and driver's license simultaneously, but TWO debit cards instead (just a spacey moment on my part). I slapped my forehead and gave her my proper I.D.



But the license changed everything, and she went from pinched to pleasant (though artificially so) in less than 60 seconds.

As has been my ongoing issue with Minnesota, I experienced her new-found jocularity to be painfully superficial, at best; she had previously been ready to write me off completely, to draw & quarter me for my innocent oversight. But then, deciding I was somewhat tolerable because I'd spent some time in her former neck of the woods, she immediately backed off and offered me complimentary pink (in honor of breast cancer awareness) Frango mints and bottled water, and when the transaction was finished and I gathered my things to leave, she waved me off with a chirpy "We Minnesota girls have to stick together!"

I thought, no we sure DON'T. I'm not there anymore, I'm not and never was a Minnesotan, and I didn't just leave 'cause the weather dips to -40.

"Minnesota Nice" is not a concept I created, nor is it something I fabricated; it absolutely exists, and I experienced it in numerous ways, shapes and forms for six years. I found the instant changes in warmth and receptiveness, grim-to-grinning-in-60-seconds totally confusing and difficult to deal with among the natives. And I got a little wee taste of "home" again today when this saleswoman just about had a fit because I'd initially offered the wrong combination of plastic to pay for my purchases and then did a complete 180 in front of my eyes.

I think I must've looked utterly dumbfounded by her sudden garrulousness. What could I possibly say?

I find Lutefisk utterly repulsive and a total, complete culinary joke.

Man! Frozen lakes scare me! Guess it's this irrational fear of falling through!

So, why do you "Minnesota Girls" fry your cheese curds, anyway?


I just said nothing, grabbed a few more pink mints and beat a hasty retreat.

There are two things I'm pretty sure of: if you're older than 20, you're not a "girl."

And it's not just the winter in Minnesota that can be icy.

The Novelty Aspect

So, there are items--food items, specifically--I am coming across at the Fred Meyer stores here (a PNW chain the locals like to refer to as "Freddie's") that I fondly remember from past years spent in either Olympia, Washington as an undergraduate or Portland, Oregon as a post-grad.

I am referring specifically to Tim's Cascade-Style Potato Chips.

I am not on my cycle, nor am I particularly craving salt and/or fat. I was in Freddie's today, doing a little banking, and when one's bank is situated handily within a grocery store, one usually always finds something AT said store to pick up for a future meal or two (various items are suddenly "remembered" or "needed").


As I did, both "remembering" and "needing" (for no real reason other than sentimentality) the potato chips.

And since it occurred to me that I had not yet bought nor consumed the "Welcome Back to Portland" bag of Tim's Cascade, I decided it was high time.

Even though they are a good 2 bucks MORE than the leading national brand and even though it didn't occur to me to read the ingredient list, which includes MSG, a somewhat headache-inducing no-no if consumed in certain vast-ish quantities.
So I try to avoid this flavor-enhancer whenever possible, but sometimes, I simply space it, as I did today, blinded as I was by an impromptu trip down memory lane.

So I bought a bag and threw it in the cabinet and I'm not sure when I'll rip it open and consume a few chips, but there it is. My bag of Tim's.

Guess I'm back. As if I couldn't already tell.

Yum.