Sunday, October 11, 2009
Vicks vapor rub (for my feet - under socks - don't laugh, it works!)
Chicken & Rice Campbell's Soup
Garlic french bread (garlic chases more than vampires away!)
Carmex for my chapped lips
Drambuie (to go in my tea. it's medicinal. REALLY.)
African Nectar & Wild Sweet Orange tea (More's coming, Scarlet - promise!)
Claritin D (which needs a prescription here, thanks to the meth fiends)
Thanks for coming to visit. Now, go wash your hands - and take your vitamins!
Friday, September 18, 2009
She adjusts her collar, waits for the rumble of the engine
(when is that battery going to be charged?)
She turns to look and he grins.
Brushing out her hair before crushing it with her helmet.
Her one regret?
She knows she’ll have to arm wrestle him for the keys.
Check out G-Man's place for more and try your hand at your own 55.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
a story erupts
as a homeless man
crosses at the walk,
waiting for traffic.
I was at Naito at Harrison
or was that Harrison at Naito?
He reminded me
of how close I came
to being in his shoes.
Kids in tow.
Living under a bridge.
As usual, my 55 starts with G-Man. Check out his site to read more fiction, written in 55 words - no more, no less. I am blessed that my vision of a homeless Pheromone Girl and family is just that, fiction. Today, in honor of September 11th, my 55 means a little bit more. For every comment left on my blog, I will make a $5 donation to Sister's of the Road cafe in Portland, where people work or barter for meals to feed their families, their souls and themselves.
Please know how close I came to needing their help and think of those less fortunate than you are today, as a way to memorialize the victims of September 11 with ACTION. Comment. Please.
"...one in fifty children in America is homeless," said U.S. Senator Robert P. Casey, Jr. (Pennsylvania), chair of the Advisory Board to the Campaign to End Child Homelessness.
Peace to you all and may you never feel want.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Those that have done their duty - quietly guarding my world in a leafy canopy - are ready for the sudden drop in temperature and leaves.
The rain comes early here in my city and brings the realization that, although there will be plenty more sunny days, the nights have cooled and the air conditioning will be off now. Windows open to the sound of the rain, the sound of the breeze in the trees outside my garden gate.
It makes me live the wonderful moments of summer again (kind of few and far between this year, but they are there nonetheless) and it makes me look forward to getting out the fire pit on a rainy night. Having a nice, quiet evening curled up on my four poster with a quilt and a book and the smell of oak burning just outside my bedroom door. Candles lit to warm me.
Sometimes music will play in the background - a little Segovia, a little Talking Heads, maybe even some Franz Ferdinand, a new favorite. Peaceful times, happy times, and they are mine alone to savor. I bet everyone has a favorite song for a night like this. Are you ready to brush it off and bring it out?
You may wonder at the title of my blog. It has great significance and is rather silly, all in the same breath. It means I have made a major decision, a step in the right direction, and have decided to focus a larger portion of my energy on something important to me. After all, what kind of dream life fulfills everyone but yourself? This little number is a daily reminder of the efforts I make on behalf of me. It makes me realize that wishing for something is only half the trick. Wanting it but putting off the work it takes to get there is futile. So, today, I'm doing what it takes to get where I want to be. The words flow like the rain, always present, just sometimes not visible to the naked eye.
Have you every seen a cloud form? Watched a blue sky turn grey and stormy in a matter of moments? Felt the hair on your neck standing up from the electricity in the air? Today, I wish you that energy, the power of the clouds and the sky, and I hope it brings you clarity.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Tempted by the past,
I look out
to see the ghosts arrive.
They pay homage to the leaves
as they tumble from the trees.
But the ghosts are still and silent.
Uncertain, seeking purchase
tangled, perfect moments
pure and rare are on their mind.
Watching as the wind blows sweetly,
my trees bare their secrets.
Write a fictional story, 55 words long - no more, no less.
Go to G-Man's site (hi Galen!) and let him know.
Then check out the others.
'Scuse me, my wings need a little Feather-Brite...
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
what used to be her tree,
shadows looming high above her hair.
Amazed that she used to be so little,
she traces her initials
now overgrown with moss
and wonders at the need
If only she had known
she would never have been afraid of wings.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I have always had a fascination with cemeteries. There are so many stories here and I'm a storyteller, so I feel right at home. I often make up stories while I wander on the dry grass, on the lush lawns.
The old markers, covered in moss and lichen, are my favorite. I love the less tended spots. I don't, as people often ask, have the urge to clean them up. This is the way they are supposed to be.
Meet Phoebe Hall and Frances McDonald. Phoebe and Frances stand alone a little bit from the rest. Phoebe was older. I wonder why they are so close together and apart from the rest? Were they friends, siblings, something more? Why is Frances leaning so distinctly toward Phoebe? Is Frances a he or a she? I sense a love story with these two...
This was a most beautiful spot. But there was an odd sense of unease as I sat here. It occurred at three different points of the cemetery. Was I letting my mind play tricks on me, or do I sense, just like I do with living people, unhappiness and pain in a place like this?
I don't think this was the best photo I took, but there is something ethereal about this statue of Mary inside one of the crypts. The sun behind her, the reflection of the woods behind me, all add up to an interesting moment. You can almost see me in the shadows.
Ah, Father Sullivan. This, after all, is a Catholic cemetery. Many large and sometimes gaudy headstones show the final resting place of men of the cloth. The sisters got a very plain headstone with their nun name (is that what you call it?) on it. Not their birth name. I found that rather sad.
I couldn't help but wonder how many of the priests had trouble getting through those often mentioned gates to heaven, based on their behavior on earth. But Father Sullivan gave me a different vibe. It looks, at the base of his tombstone, like someone has paced, around and around and around. Like he is the guardian of the good souls, protecting them from whatever else gave me the unsettled feeling on more than one occasion.
The incense left with these flowers was still burning as I passed. It overpowered the smell of the flowers, but not completely. I felt peaceful and restful and calm.
This is the most beautiful cross I've ever seen. Obviously Gaelic, it has carvings of amazing creatures all over it. The bas and walls of this monument are covered with Celtic and Gaelic carvings and sayings. Many of Portland's famous Catholic families purchased stones to celebrate family. I loved it that it was in the middle of a cemetery but was celebrating the living and life.
This marker says, "Devoted mother and Queen of Everything." Her name, by the way, is Linda Love.
Every time I took a picture of this door, there was a sunspot in the upper right corner. Funny, the sun was behind me and there was nothing that could be reflected upon.
Everything in the cemetery is old, except for the cell and radio towers in the background. It makes for an odd combination of peace, solitude and a feeling of still being in the city.
I'll end with a collection of statues. I am drawn to these especially when they have not survived the weather or the hi jinx of people completely intact. Besides, I like wings.
By the way, Bob & Ed are a way of saying you have butterflies in your stomach, along with an elephant or two. Bob the Butterfly. Ed the Elephant. I haven't come up with a good name for the feeling you get when the hair on the back of your neck stands up and you feel goosebumps...yet.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
I'm taking a cue from my friend Rich and skipping the blog for a couple weeks, maybe months, maybe forever. Call it exhaustion, too many irons in the fire or something more basic - feeling I can't write anything without having to explain myself. Maybe a blog is finite and mine has run its course.
Hmmm. Or maybe it's just time for Pheromone Girl, the girl in me, to take her leave and allow someone new and different to come along. My own personal metamorphosis.
Did you know Dragonflies spend most of their lives in the larva stage (up to three years, depending on the species)? The adult, winged stage only lasts a few weeks. So when you see a winged dragonfly, you know it's toward the end of its lifespan. Sad but true.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
I am so much prettier now than when I was in high school. Maybe that's why I didn't feel the need to go to my 20th reunion a couple years back. I'm self assured, relatively successful, have a house full of monkeys and a heart full of joy most days.
I know, I know. Shut up already! "She's one of THOSE people, always happy..." Well, sue me.
Why would I want to spend a momentous occasion - the reminder of 20 years removed from gym class, popularity contests that I never won and straight A's? - with a bunch of people who weren't very nice to me the first time around?
So I didn't go. But that doesn't mean that I don't celebrate things in my world. I'm not big on anniversaries and spend most of the hours of any given anniversary reminding myself how much I've grown. Go me.
Christmas is a cute holiday. I celebrated in church for many years and came to realize that even at church it was about presents. The church wanted presents in the form of big fat donations from all the extra sheep they drew in for the guilt factor (you have to go to church or you'll rot in hell - now get out your checkbook and we'll make it all better!!) Not that all churches are like that, just this particular church that shall remain nameless. LAME. Besides, EVERYONE gets to celebrate Christmas, everyone gets gifts, everyone is the center of attention.
BIRTHDAYS, however, are different. Birthdays are a really, really big deal. A birthday is a special day, just for you, where everything is about you. I spoil on birthdays. Birthdays are never forgotten. Birthdays are very, very special. I will make you dance in salt.
Back when I was a kid, in the 70s, we had some wonderful neighbors in our neighborhood. My parents were friends with everyone. The Rackanellis were a large, fabulous Italian family. The Brewers were rather odd but their kids still hung with my crew. The Teckenbergs got divorced and I used to babysit their kids - plus the oldest was my little brother's best friend and they caused lots of trouble together. The Williams, Lena and Art, were like grandparents to me. They yelled at me a lot the way good grandparents will do. "Get off our fence" or "don't you dare go stomping through my rose beds" and especially "give me back my boxer shorts!" They hung laundry out on a line to dry - they never had a dryer, and I was notorious for putting Art's brightly patterned boxer shorts on the bird house. Little minx that I was.
Anyway, my favorite neighborhood family didn't speak a word of English. I believe their name sounded something like Braunschwager. They were Russian Orthodox with the lace on their heads and everything. Their kids were amazingly well behaved - except when their parents were out of earshot and they would cuss in Russian and spit. I learned to spit very far the year they moved in.
My birthday is smack dab in the middle of winter. It's almost immediately after Christmas. Yes, I got combo Christmas and Birthday gifts. At the time, it was very upsetting. Now, I think my parents taught me a very good lesson about expectations. You see, the most meaningful gifts for me are the ones given from the heart. A note, a card, a box full of silly things that cost nothing and mean everything. A receipt saved from a special moment together and mailed to me weeks later. Dancing in salt.
Did you have to read that twice? You see, my birthday was often forgotten, usually celebrated with leftover cupcakes from some Christmas get together (which is probably why I dislike eating any dessert themed green).
But I digress.
The Russian Orthodox family had a strange but cool birthday tradition. At the appropriate moment (he exact time of birth), on the appropriate day, they would celebrate in a small way. The box of Mortons (or Leslie, since Art worked for Leslie salt forever and we all got boxes and boxes) would come out. A line would be drawn all the way across the room in thick salt. Not a space would be left - that would be bad luck. And the birthday boy or girl, man or woman would dance around the room to the clapping of the adults and step ceremoniously over the line of salt, officially becoming a year older. We'd all laugh and drink homemade lemonade. The salt would be spread from one end of the room to the other because everyone would join in the dance.
When I was 11, I celebrated with them and had my first salt dance. I also realized, accidentally, that the lemonade being enjoyed by the adults have Vodka in it and mine did not. Also that I didn't like Vodka much at all.
So for years, as a kid, I'd celebrate my friends birthdays by forcing them to cross a line drawn in salt. They all put up with my silliness because they knew they'd also get homemade cake. Made with Rum. Now rum cake was nothing like Vodka. Trust me on this one. You never wake up in the morning with a rum cake headache. The cake would be hand carved in the shape of something meaningful to the person. For Jodie, it was a fiddle, Jill got a piano keyboard, Todd the face of a character from a play (did I mention I hung out with the geeks?) Sean got a helmet with his favorite football team's logo and colors. I had a crush on Sean. I spent two weekends practicing the carving. He wasn't all that impressed and said crush went away quickly. Especially after he said "I'd have preferred a cake from Albertsons". Ouch.
Anyway, happy 39th to a most important person in my world. Where'd I put the salt...?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
Stranger Than Fiction: Harold works as a tax collector, Ana as a baker. She is the light and fluffy and kind hearted soul to his linear and OCD, number crunching and rather cold personality. Earlier, she'd given him a cookie and he refused it because, as a tax collector, he's not allowed to receive gifts. He offends her by paying her for the cookie when she was just trying to be kind.
Harold Crick: [runs to Ana with a box of 10 paper bags in it] I'm glad I caught you. I wanted to give you these.
Ana Pascal: Wait, you can give presents, but not receive them? That sounds awfully inconsistent, Mr. Crick.
Harold: Yes, but...
Ana: Wait, I know, I'll purchase them! Yeah, I'll purchase them.
[reaches into her bag to grab her wallet]
Harold: No, no, no, no.
Ana: [with wallet in hand, stops to actually look at the box] What are they?
Harold: [quietly] Flours.
Harold: I brought you flours.
Ana: Wait, you carried them all the way here?
Harold: Miss Pascal, I've been odd. I know I've been odd, and I know that there are many forces at work telling me to bring these down here to you, but I brought these for you because... I want you.
Ana: [a bit taken aback, and ready to be really offended] Excuse me?
Harold: I want you.
Ana: You want me?
Harold: In no uncertain terms.
Ana: [realizing that he's really not being a creep and just a guy who's not used to saying what he feels] But isn't there some... I don't know... rule about fraternization...
Harold: Auditor / Auditee protocols, yes, but I don't care.
Ana: Why not?
Harold: Because I want you.
Ana: [contemplates him for a second, and looks back at the box] Can you carry those a little bit further?
Speaking of gifts, coolest gift ever. Flours. Now there's a guy who was paying attention...
Hi. I'm busy shaking sand from my shoes. Here are some fun photos of our trip while I figure out how to type on a keyboard again...
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Just be glad I'm not telling you what Sara poked with a stick...
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
I saw the word 3 times on my way to work - once on a marquee, once on a bus bench, once on a car. Three of anything is good luck and means it's here to stay. Just ask my son who saw 3 El Caminos on his birthday.
I saw a girl laughing with her whole body - it made me giggle. Joy in it's purest form.
I felt it at work - for some wins, gaining some traction in a sticky situation (see - I'm learning the vernacular!) and for really, really liking my coworkers. And loving my boss and my bosses boss. Oh, and wearing killer black boots. That didn't hurt.
I heard from everyone important. I got to chat with a number of people (computer chat, not the in person kind) and feel like I stayed connected to the important people in my world.
The dog has a sliver in his foot, nothing more dramatic - or expensive. Whew. That makes me happy. Now, if he'd hold still long enough to let me remove it he could feel joyful and pain free.
A new friend that I think is very cool checked in a couple times. That brings me joy.
I left work, had a decent commute, talked to a best friend, came home to family happy to see me. And pork loin. A little extra tlc and a fabulous email. A friend thanked me for a kind deed - where no thanks was needed, my best friend and I were just sharing some of our good luck with another who isn't so lucky today. She'll be lucky tomorrow and pay it forward - with joy.
Life, my friends, is amazingly good. Can I share a little joy?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
It was a note. It had 8 words on it. Eight very simple, elegant words that, in any other order or missing any of the combination, would not have meant nearly as much. But they were just what I needed to hear, just when I needed to hear it. And it meant everything. I wore that note card into soft, curled paper by reading it and rereading it. I fell asleep holding on when I was afraid and lonely. It gave me hope and reminded me to have faith in things that at times feel impossible. It embodied strength.
A close second would be a number of items made by my kids. My son made me a beautiful wooden box with a lid that swings open. It sits on my desk at work. My daughter has drawn me an amazing number of pictures, all of which I keep in a folder. I have pictures she drew when she was 2 - scribbles of yellow and purple and red. She called them by name. Whatever the names were, I would write on the back.
I have kept a large number of letters and post cards, too. Somehow, the things people said to me always meant more than the mere items that would be used up, put away and sooner or later forgotten. It's the words that matter. In someone's own handwriting, that I can touch. I am happiest holding the same piece of paper that someone else held, thought of me, touched with a pen, sealed and sent. Or handed off. Maybe left on a pillow. I can almost touch you when I touch a note you wrote.
I am a tactile person. Yes, an iPod Touch, a movie I love (Practical Magic, anyone?) or a box of funny post cards would be nice, appreciated and reciprocated. Jewelry never goes over poorly. An email is lovely. I appreciate a nice, catching-up-with-you phone call. But it's the things that are said, pen to paper, that mean something else - because I can relive it at any moment and remember what the note - and you - mean to me.
What was the best gift you ever received?
His last gift to open did something that nothing has in years. He was blown away - so much so that he yelled "sweet!" and the dog had to come see what was going on.
You see, Sean got a new iPod. But not just any iPod, an iTouch. I probably should have used the money to bail out the postal service, but Sean is worth a little extra splash this year. Besides, new toy and a son that shares? I know there will be movies watched in a tent, music to share and a very happy guy to enjoy.
As I went back to bed, I thought about all the great things Sean does without being asked. He washes windows when the dog nose prints get so bad that you can't see out. He wakes his 16 year old sister (not an easy task, let me tell you) and makes sure the dog gets walked. He cooks meals and does dishes and feeds the pup, too. He is the go to guy for bug killing and drink pouring. He takes walks with me, buys me breakfast whenever I let him and hardly ever asks for anything for himself. He gives the best hugs when I'm down, too.
His choice of places for lunch was a nice restaurant in downtown Portland called SouthPark. He celebrated his 15th birthday not with a burger and fries (although he stole some of mine) but a farmers plate with prosciutto, smoked sausage, goat cheeses, fruit and crusty french bread. Oh, and Mango lemonade. The whole time we ate, we talked about wanting to eat more like this at home. We're going to look for a good Italian deli and make our own version of this wonderful kind of meal.
And a good birthday is a very good thing. Did I mention there were pirates at the black light mini golf?
Personally, the only pirate that would be interesting to me would be one that's just like Sean. Kind, thoughtful, funny, loyal and smart. He even let his mom win. On his birthday. What more can I say?
Monday, August 3, 2009
I've been looking for a pirate Someone who looks really good in a black bandanna and a couple days growth of facial hair. Kisses me to take my breath away. Able to give me an off the floor hug. Oh, and makes my knees weak.
Pirates are an interesting bunch. They have a dark mystique, a "bad boy to end all bad boys" reputation. They say things like "As you wish" and "She took me rum!" and usually are trying to throw you over their shoulder and take you away to do unmentionable things to you. I swoon.
But I have found that - even with a much larger population of pirates in town than one would have thought (as you can tell by these snapshots), finding a true pirate - one with the soul of a thief, the mind of a smuggler and a heart of gold - has been difficult. But not impossible.
I believe I have found myself that pirate. I knew I was in trouble the day he donned a black bandanna and smiled into the camera. Ooh, to fall in love with a pirate. Now that's every girls dream.