Monday, August 17, 2009

Germany's Calling

I'm tired. But then again I'm always tired so does my mind just work at a state of slowness and all those around me have achieved quick efficient paces? I wish there were mornings that I when I woke up and I was bright, alert and energetically moving towards the future. I don't like the effects of coffee any more and do what I can do to let tea 'naturally' effect my body with caffeine. When I drink coffee I either become jittery and what I might surmise as me begin on crack; after about an hour or so I become more tired than I was before I had the coffee. Shit I think, why did I even drink it? Now I'm functioning at a pace slower than my normal pace which is actively slower than the rest of humanity. And the idea of drinking coffee to the effect to which I feel as though I am on crack (I may be politically incorrect in comparing the effects of coffee to crack seeing how I have never experienced crack, those who have more knowledge can educate me) makes my mind spin, and sorry to say I am just not one to enjoy that feeling. Thus I am left to decide, am I not a morning person or am I a person who needs a swift kick in the butt in order to achieve an attitude of congeniality in the morning. This is the test, my hypothesis I suppose. In comparison to those adults I know and love, I am a morning person to which I thus say, how in the hell do those I know and love make it out of bed in the morning?
I suppose what make me a moring person is the pure fact that when I am awake and ALONE there are elements to the morning that make me swoon. The following is a little over a year old but it sums up the feelings I'm writing about.

I woke up early this morning so that I could run to the store for milk and eggs in order that my son and I might have some breakfast. Trader Joe's doesn't open until nine so I had to grab my bike and head over to Freddy's. I like my route to Freddy's cause I avoid any major streets and traffic. I go straight down Hoyt to the dog park, cut through the park to end up on Glisan which puts me on 20th street which I take directly to the back entrance of Freddys. I like 20th street because the actual street is rough, bumpy and terrible to ride over which is fun to me. I think of riding down paved over cobble stone streets in Bremen when I ride 20th. Early in the morning 20th is great because if the cold brisk air has not opened my eyes then it is the street's physical condition that rattles and jolts my body awake. But this is not the best part, this is just an element to the ride which I must describe in order to understand the entirety of these short five minutes.

What I love most, (and this might be reasoning for debate over weather I am a morning person genetically or environmentally) is my fondness for cold brisk mornings in which the sun has not made it up and beyond the grey clouds. There is a part of Arizona in this morning. I don't know Arizona for two cents, but I do know its mornings. Waking up in the car on the first leg of a long family road trip out to bazaar parts of the middle of America is what I feel. Laying on the floor of the car with blankets and pillows, I remember peeping up over the windows to scan a sparsely covered horizon only to wonder where the sun might be seeing how I surprisingly was awake before it was. I place myself in Arizona because I could never sleep much further than any of its cities, and because it was always open, cold wakening me. Arizona's grey sky was not full of rain but rather just full of the morning air and contained a quiet sanctity which those of us awake were to respect. We would hold this sacred time in quiet thought with an absence of verbal communication. I remember feeling the chill of a new morning but feeling that chill awaken me softly and naturally, not like an obnoxious alarm clock that screams at you. I love and value that kind of alertness, it is natural and fresh leaving me feel content and at peace.

There is a freshness to mornings and especially my morning and Arizona mornings. Arizona is clean because of its so few inhabitants and its atunement to the nature which it is composed of, but my morning bike ride is clean because those few who are up with me respect the quiet clean that composes this morning. It is as if we tell each other not to rush one another, not to hassle the other into that quick turn to get out of the way, to breathe this still soft morning air which we are the prized few to receive this quality of life. The sky is similar to Arizona in the fact that the sun will come up this morning but just not quite yet. The clouds hold sunlight with in them but do not reflect it out upon us, they are still a light grey with grey sky slowly opening so that I cannot quite tell if it is sky or cloud I am looking at. My bike coasts down Hoyt street and I cut up the curb quickly into the park. The air feels colder this way and I like that. I like waking up and breathing in deeply, I like knowing that there is no traffic on the other side of the park which then allows me to coast on through the park and across the street and on to my destination unimpeded. Unlike the blankets I could cuddle into when riding in the car, I am forced to pile on layers of clothing: hat, shirt, shirt with sleeves, cardigan over the sleeves and a jacket over that. I button the middle and the oh so thankful top top button which closes the jacket around my neck so that I don't have to wear a scarf. Scarfs implicate winter, layers implicate fall and I supposes quick downhill rides to the market. My hands are cold but I have chosen this, if I were to walk I could walk the whole way there with my hands in my pockets and a quick stride but then the wind is not moving fast enough around me for me to experience it. No, I ride my bike in order to feel the rushing air and to wake up by the uneven, rough, and crappy road.

But this is why I am a morning person. I choose to feel the brisk cold against my open skin, I choose to stay awake in the back of the car to stare at a quiet landscape and await the sun. Those who I am close to and despise the morning don't see this or feel this. Like my brother who would remain asleep for another four five hours in the car they would rather enjoy the slumber of dreams while I soak in a clean quiet serene landscape. I see my husband making the same bike ride this morning with crusty eyes and a pinched look upon his face. No he cannot be awoken by the mornings cold charm, he chooses the bed with blankest and sheets which truly has its own sweetness to a morning.

Now what could complete such an awe inspiring morning but a hot cup of coffee to truly awaken the body....

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Science Fiction's Reality

I live in a dual world.
One world is a world in which I co-exist with my children in peace and harmony. This world occurs at sporadic intervals during the day, week or month. I may not chance upon this world for an entire month, where as other days it will visit upon me for long stretches at a time (or in spurts: moment of joy !gack! moment of joy !gack!) . It is a euphoric world, one in which all is well with the beings that live upon its surface. My youngest will look at me with large blue lighted eyes and upon his face is Pure joy, unrefined delight, if it were a vegetable it would be the most raw and organic piece of produce directly outa the earth you could find in all of Oregon. His smile and laugh, ah sigh, that my friend is when I become a romantic all over again. I believe in felicity and the right to all humans to achieve their true contentment. My oldest, the other inhabitant in this world, I often connect to on an observation level only. He will be utterly absorbed in pretend when an over sized purple yoga block now takes on a deep guttural voice while the other yoga block asks questions of its partner. These new friends (?) are living a life with in this utopia, their problems and joys are unbeknownst to me yet my three year old knows them intimately. What makes this non-interaction an interaction is the hilarity of his little evolving Mind. You may think your kid is quirky and funny, but mine is quirky, spastic and odd (much like his mom). This promotes a rejuvenating sense of laughter which can often be quite healing. I may not laugh out loud, but the lightness in my heat, ah yes again this is where I am still a romantic.
I suppose my alternate world is more that, alternate. Not opposite, just different in its direction and patterns verses a compare and contrast. In this opposing world my emotions are run into the ground and I often feel at a loss, a loss of words and a loss in battle. I wake up to a, "I want chocolate milk" and rather than like a humbling subject lowering to the ground in respect, it is a violent upheaval of all bodily parts at the foot of my bed as a resounding, "NO" is shouted. And a good morning to you, I think to myself. The two (all most three) year old mind cannot comprehend love or P-a-t-i-e-n-c-e, and I am not supposed to expect him to yet (damn it). Nor can I expect of my crawling teething monster to stop chewing on electrical cords, to stop crawling under the computer desk and banging his head on all hard wooden objects, to look at me and say, "Momma, I'm tired" rather than screaming his piercing ear drum breaking cry. This alternate world is very science fiction; often I breathe fire out of my nostrils and mouth, I am often crazed eyed speaking in a baby language or I purely do not make any sense to my husband and am a basket full of raging emotions. Community, love, peace and contentment are void on this planet, chaos rains in the rainy city of Portland.
The best encouragement I receive when forced to interact and function in this dysfunctional world? You're doing great, the best you can, it's just a phase, it won't be like this forever.
Who said I was doing the best I could?
And who said it wouldn't be like this forever?
Did God? Cause if He did I'll rest assured that it will all work out according to His "plan" other wise I think I'll go get a drink.

Monday, August 10, 2009

An Ode to Vanity

I have recently discovered myself craving what I will categorize as "maturity". Maturity in the idea that I am no longer in high school and I must present myself to others in such a fashion that when I look in the mirror I am not confronted with my sophomoric smile (greasy unkempt hair, pimples masked under a poor shmear of cover up, and that look of painful awkwardness). I am 25 with two kids, my body maybe slowing sinking to the bottom of this terra (and quicker than I would have liked)but I suppose that I must claim what is left. Thus I am discovering ways in which I might appear mature but after a drink or two I'm still only 25.
I have began to claim myself back by
a) shaving my legs regularly (though I thought living in Oregon was a valid excuse not to do this I have now deemed this invalid. shaved legs still hold cultural value of beauty how ever shallow/fake/superficial it maybe. it separates us from those who think we came from monkeys cause now I don't' look like it)
b)showering and washing my hair regularly: my hair is a sad kind of very fine/greasy hair which demands minimal maintenance of: volumizing shampoo/conditioner, towel drying and then blow drying with a round brush. this process can also be followed up with a quick run through of a flat iron
c)purchasing make up that is more than: cover up, mascara, and bronzer. Make up should be in good colors, nothing whorish, just sophisticated.
1c)take time during naps to google "how to apply eyeliner" and watch and compare videos along with other related videos such as, "picking the right blush", "eyeshadow application"
d)purchasing shoes that are: more than $10, not from Payless Shoe Source (though in a pinch BOGO is such a great deal), and are not brown.
e)looking for a new purse: Purse, not bag, not diaper bag, not a bag which can be used for bag and diaper bag, something which is solely a Purse. Things such as, toy cars, snap pea crisps, Ritz sandwich crackers, and plastic wrappers are not allowed in purse. Said purse does not have to be ridiculously tiny nor does it have to be a tacky flashy gold. Something hip or sassy is just fine
If having at least three categories accomplished then it is time to go out on a date. Weather my husband notices all or any categories are bonus points, at this point in the game it is all about getting out of the house in more than jeans and a t-shirt and not spraying myself with fabreeze (though Dove body spray can be accepted). Extra bonus points if these items can be accomplished on a Monday morning (mid-morning acceptable) with coffee and fed kids.
Good feelings will ensue.

Sunday, August 9, 2009

To begining again again

In conversation with some new found friends, potentially if luck will dedicate some time to my life then friends here in portland, I found myself with out excuse for writing . She, an unexpected "mom blogger" was taking the time she had to write out a blog of just the happenstances of her current life. My husband looked at me and mentioned how if only his wife would take more time during the day I could easily be one of the million of mom bloggers. Though he had no emphasis on the number of mom blogs I have to detail this fact. There is this feeling, one that I wonder if much of my generation feels, that I have yet again missed the party boat. The boat in which there is a whole gaggle of people making money or if anything being recognized for their success. So many movies today idealized the hippie era, the time of living life to what ever it meant to you, Woodstock and all it's music revolutionizing homes via radio and no we can only imagine what that world would be like. And then we all missed the dot com era, we were being introduced to computers and learning their new games, and then downloading music off of Napster while silicon valley grew, expanded and dwindled. What's next? What is there for us to accomplish and stand on top of America's capitalistic mountain with? Oooh! I want to write. I want to be published and become a writer, I'm going to post my own words on my own website for all to read. Gosh, now I'm David Duchovany in Californication hating the idea of writing for a blog, but still writing in a blog. I suppose writing is writing.
I guess my new found friend is at least finding use not only for her degree but for her desires and feelings. Who cares who subscribes to my blog and who doesn't right? Rather than sit back and protest those who are making their desires happen (while possibly making a buck or two) should I not be inspired to do the same? Just because they did it first and thus have created a valuable market, does that mean I have to throw the towel in? Maybe, maybe not. I suppose if we were doing better (or if I felt more secure) in our financial position I would not be so captivated with the American way of marketing what I want to do in order to convince others that they need or like what I do in order to make a profit. So. For the sake that my husbands words are so valuable to me and that he said he'd read what ever I wrote I'll start this blog up again and see what I can make happen. Not for others but for the sake that I love writing, I love to read a book that captivates me so entirely all I can think of is wanting to create like they've created.
For now this is the start and it's a grand start! Hopefully Becky you'll be interested in my on going unpunctuaed run on sentence sentences.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Work in Progress

In failing to mention her extreme dislike of Thai food the course of the evening was bound for diaster. All though it could have been the growing distance between her and Roger, yes maybe this was it. They had not seen each other in three weeks and she was quickly comeing to the conclusion that he was never going to grow up or see beyond himself. Let alone she thought, become a man who could hold a job, raise a family, live in a house that his parents didn't own or reside in or understand the concept of a monthly rent. The list grew in her head. Roger was 27, working as a valet in downtown LA, and still trying to become an actor. His one and only commercial had recently re-aired giving him a renewed sense of disillusioned hope that he in fact would work hand in hand with Quintin Tarintino someday. The previous evening of binge drinking before, during and after the plane flight did factor into the pounding headache, woozy stomach, inability to converse in sentences expanding more than three to four words, but maybe was this it?
Still searching for a reason why she was so angry, Sally turned to Roger and said, "Stop asking me for a fucking drink! I don't fucking want one, ok?! If I wanted one I would have had one by now damn it, you've asked me thirty times now all ready if I want a fucking drink and I don't fucking want one. Shit!"
Stillness, coated in awkward embarrassment ensued this crazed outburst for roughly thirty seconds in which the three other people sitting next to and across from Sally gathered their thoughts.
"Oh look. It says, 'EAT!'" Bea said turning to her husband Dimitri.
The comment concerned itself with a 1950's looking oversized cafeteria tray with the letters 'E-A-T' sunken into what would be the compartments in which food would be placed in. It was lit in an odd fashion so that the letters cast their own shadows making the observer take a second glance at to it's message. In this, Bea found security in the signs oddity, it did not belong in the Thai inspired restaurant and neither did Sally or Roger for that matter. Sadly this comment did not help span the piercing feeling of anger and tension at the table.
"Sebastian would like something like that." Dimitri said finishing the obvious "we're -not -listening -to what -is- going -on -right-in -front- of- us" conversation.
Neither Sally nor Roger attempted to absolve the table of the presiding outburst.
Not even the arrival of dinner came to the rescue.
Bea knew she didn't connect with Sally but that hadn't stopped conversation, this moment had. Sally's quintessential, picture perfect LA/Orange County look had produced an inward, "ugh" from Bea the moment she met Sally. It was the all over border line orange fake tan, bleached blond hair with a variety of blonde streaks, the short ass denim skirt in which tree trunk like cellulite legs protruded forth, Rainbow flip flops and most assurdly either a belly button piercing or a tattoo gracing the lower region of her back right above her ass (in colloquial terms, a tramp stamp). But those are looks Bea thought to herself. She had lived in Orange County for four years and had come to love and hate the social and cultural monster it was. On occasion she had been proven wrong by these faked baked beach like bum women (girls?), and wanting to be better than those she despised she had a desire to give Sally a chance at being accepted for who she was.

Friday, February 8, 2008


I was supposed to buy new tooth brushes today. Two, one for me and one for Nathan. We didn't need new toothbrushes because our current ones were worn out or anything like that. No our toothbrushes had been confiscated by five fast little fingers who have remnants of baby pudge surrounding them. Our son Sebastian has a way of needing that which is immediately in your hand and nothing else will suffice, especially none of the hundreds of toys which litter the apartment.

This is how I found myself digging thought the basket of toys. My elbows deep in bocks, bears, damn tickle-me-elmo and various other "things" which thus created a cacophony of annoying melodies and tunes. I soon spotted my lime green toothbrush on top of one (1) harmonica, one (1) Pound-a-Peg, a twinkling star, a full body long sleeved bib and two(2) bears. The hunt finished with my captive in hand I then tossed the unneeded objects back into the basket with about as much care and candor as my one year old treats these objects on a regular basis. Knowing full well that said toothbrush had long since been handed over to said terrorist I understood the damage inflicted upon this toothbrush. I'd witnessed with my own eyes the journey this toothbrush had been forced to walk. From mouth (his not mine) to floor -carpet, wood, linoleum - to tub, and toy basket, underneath and with in the couch, I knew where this tooth brush had been. No need to tell me the stories seeing how I had silently witnessed its long agonizing downfall. I proceeded to run the bristles underneath the cold water tap in the bathroom -maybe I should have used hot water....however, after an attempt to pick off what I thought might be living in the toothbrush I proceeded to past the brush and clean my teeth or the attempt there of. Oh, I should mention that my husband's brush disappeared the night after last (though I'm sure if I got on my hands and knees I might perchance to see it) and having gone one night with the finger brush method, I knew it would not be sufficient enough to remove the days worth of plack I was experiencing let alone the over sized handful of chocolate covered pretzels which were slowly embedding themselves into the very essence of my teeth. have clean flossed teeth.
It was so worth a trip through the toy bin.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

That's right. I crocheted a sweater for a six to nine month old baby. Thank you very much, I shall take the credit and shall boast over this feat. Thank you very much dammit.