The last few days have been chaos and stress and long trips and high stakes and all sorts of nonsense, most of which were marked by ridiculous... and I mean, RIDICULOUS...
(much like this dude's haircut)
RIDICULOUS amounts of pain because - I think, perhaps - my dentist is worthless. So, stuck at the office Friday, trying to get out in time to photograph a wedding and get my files together for two days of depositions... I'm absolutely miserable with pain. Homey calls my dentist, tries to badger them into an emergency appointment, and when he can't, he demands anti-biotics, drives to the pharmacy in Beaverton to get the drugs, then drives to my office in Portland to deliver them. Then, using the stars as a guide, demands to know whether I have taken said drugs at each exact six hour interval. And when the pain medications make me ill beyond belief, he takes care of everything else.
Just finished a long drive from Portland to Klamath Falls, which was equal parts beautiful and terrifying. Cascade pass, dark as night at 3:30 pm, storming like a mofo. Ipod, which has a knack for coincidence, begins playing Hearing Damage by Thom Yorke and then the second the sun busts through the clouds, out pops the Rolling Stones' Sympathy for the Devil.
Freaking odd.
Speaking of sympathy for the devil - or lack thereof - with one toe just barely inside the middle of nowhere, there's an enormous roadside billboard that says something like:
WORSHIP SHOULD BE ON SATURDAY, NOT SUNDAY - ANOTHER WORK OF THE ANTI-CHRIST.
REALLY? Seems to me that (a) the antichrist probably would have bigger fish to fry then whether you wear your Sunday best on Saturday, and (b) if a tax-exempt organization is going to use its dollars to pontificate on the works of Johnny Apocalypse, there might be more effective messages to convey:
MAKING YOU CRAVE HOTDOGS, DESPITE THE PRESENCE OF PIG SNOUTS - ANOTHER WORK OF THE ANTI-CHRIST
ALLOWING CELINE DION TO BREED - ANOTHER WORK OF THE ANTI-CHRIST
MAKING ALL THE KIDS ON "THE HILLS" RIDICULOUSLY WEALTHY - ANOTHER WORK OF THE ANTI-CHRIST
or how about just simply:
MAKING CIVILIZATIONS CLASH IN THE NAME OF RELIGION, SINCE THE BEGINNING OF TIME - ANOTHER WORK OF THE ANTI-CHRIST
Another product of the Anti-Christ? Mosquitoes. Saw another sign that read:
VOTE YES! ON MOSQUITO CONTROL
Does this really need to be up to vote? God knows that if I could control mosquitoes, I'd line them up in tiny regiments, dress them up like 18th century Scottish warriors (yay kilts!) and send them into battle against the drivers of Subaru station wagons who are so enthralled with the wisdom and truth of their bumper stickers that they forget how to use the gas pedal.
The "stats" tab on this little program tells me I've had visitors from all over the world... which is frankly surprising, seeing as how my mother and a handful of friends are the only ones who really read this ghastly thing. I mean, I'm talking:
Russia
Latvia
Jordan
Ukraine
Netherlands
Moldova
Argentina
Ireland (WOOT!)
...
Random, right? How did you peeps find this blog? Or are you just trying to hack it? Because if you are, might I suggest that you try elsewhere - there's really and truly nothing interesting to be found here.
I linger over that very same thought ALL the time - particularly when in public restrooms. I remember a scene from Ice Storm, where He-Who-Will-Be-Frodo-Baggins gives a presentation about how when you smell something, you're really encountering and absorbing the actual molecules of that which you smell...
A comforting thought, no doubt. But I digress (no! you don't say!).
Smell, more than any other sense has ability to conjure memories. Give me Aveda blue oil and I'll dance on the edge of hysteria, remembering an incredibly stressful three months of my life. Satsuma reminds me of my first dates with Marital Man Meat. Irish Spring soap reminds me of my dad.. I smell it each time we're in Target, which, if you're at all familiar with our date nights, you know is quite often... because that's how we rolllll. Sometimes, standing on the deck, a breeze of fresh air will blow by and I will swear, SWEAR, I'm in Montana.
New car smell reminds me of any number of poor automotive choices, including listening to the Clash in a certain 1992 VW GTI that would end up stolen and stripped by the local mafia. Exhaust fumes remind me of winters in the 1974 Bug, suffering frost bite on all body parts save the ankles. Aveeno oatmeal bath wash = Bucuti Resort in Aruba. And there's some cherry-scented plug-in in our tv room that reminds me a little of Liz Claiborne perfume mixed with AquaNet mixed with Aussie SprunchSpray heated up with a spiral curling iron, which reminds me of 1989, which reminds me of friends true - and not - and the misadventures of adolescence which aren't fit for public display. The smell of bourbon reminds me of college. The smell of Tequila reminds me of a brief journey into Mexico for 75-cent bottles of the stuff which led to belting out Paul Revere by the Beastie Boys in a campsite in the Saguaro National Park, which in turn led to the most punishing day of hiking under the blistering Arizona sun that I will never again have to endure because I'm OLDER and WISER and am now pretty much allergic to anything with an alcohol content.
...Which all leads me to this conclusion: the oil/potpourri thing that MMM just put in the office -- the one that smells like the toilet disinfectant in the bathroom of the prop plane that jettisoned me across the state -- MUST. GO.
There are some benefits to gaining weight. For example, if you have a ginormous dome, the more weight you gain, the less your head looks like a peanut on a toothpick.
Dog kisses
Puppy hops
Clean lines in freshly mowed grass
Raspberries (the fruit, not the childhood torture)
Fresh sheets
Beto's laugh
Remembering to breathe
Gin and tonics at Greg Laswell shows with good friends
Christmas trees
Fall air
Crazy Mountains
And this, ladies and gentlemen, concludes the most positive 3 minutes of my entire life. *scratching rash* Now, back to the weather. Tiffany?
Yesterday, I saw the aftermath of a suicide. My friends were sorry that I had to see such a thing and asked whether I was okay, and I was pretty sure I was. But today, mostly my thoughts return to the naked belly of the man on the MAX tracks, being promptly covered by a white-ish tarp behind the glow of police car lights.
I'm no stranger to suicide... not my own attempts, thankfully. But I've seen it in those around me. It's something I should, at the very least, be familiar with.
Yet today, when I took the same route home, all I could imagine was the desperation that would drive someone to crawl up the side of a bridge railing and launch himself 10-stories downward over traffic. In those few brief seconds of flight, I can imagine only peace, terror or enormous regret. And in this case, 2 out of 3 is bad.
It's not secret that I - much like our friend, the fish - do not travel well. In fact, the very first posts to this blog were about the ridiculousness that was Brazil 2007. I still suffer PTSD flashbacks... mostly of a girl with short hair and dark-rimmed glasses, wearing a JCrew tankini in a sea of mostly-naked latinas.
Our rental car once simply stopped working at 80 mph in the fast lane, leaving us stranded on the side of I-5 for 3 hours in 90 degree heat with neither toilet nor water. The dude from the rental company who came to test the battery had bloody vampire fang marks tattooed into his neck and a bumper sticker on his dashboard (a dash sticker?) that said "I love hos." I could read it because he didn't have a front seat. That was also the trip where I stabbed myself with a nasty knife I found on the side of the road and proceeded to drink so many gin and tonics that we let our hotel room for four extra hours so I could recover from throwing up during breakfast. That was the first 24 hours of that particular vacation. On others, airports have lost our luggage even though the flight never left the ground. A horse ate the paint off of the hood of our last rental car. Beto has had to translate "Your wife might have a parasite... in her lung" in a Brazilian ER. On our honeymoon, I had an ear infection that was so horrendous it bled.
I'm meant to stay home.
Right now, I'm sitting at the Sacramento International Airport. I never thought of this city as a hotspot of international travel, but who am I to judge? This was a work trip. My job has sent me to New Hampshire in February, Alaska in late December, Klamath Falls, Florida, Newport, and now, here. Please note: The likelihood of meeting Robert Pattinson in any one of these locations is beyond minute. It's almost criminal.
My rental car on this trip was a Kia Rondo. 38,000 miles. Stained seats. Dirty windows. Jacked up alignment. And a Nebraska plate.
In Montana, we had a car from California. In California, I get a car from Nebraska. I'm now certain that the universe is talking to me. It's saying, very simply, "You ain't from around here, are you?" The answer, my friends, is clear. No, I'm not. And I'd rather be home.
This blog used to be called "Stuff." That was when I posted random stuff, largely without concern. Now I'm concerned. So, I don't post as much. Mostly, I'm concerned about who is reading this, since google apparently connects my name to the blog. So, I don't post anymore. Which probably means I'm going to take it underground.
I would bet a vital organ that the current contents of Archie's stomach include the following:
1. Chicken treats
2. Bully stick
and
3. Toilet paper
4. Cardboard
5. Barkdust
6. Toy stuffing
and
an eensey beensy teenie weenie piece of the ghost - or whatever it is - that hangs out in our house, given Archie's 20 minute screeching episode in the hallway.
Yeah, so, as you can see, I'm back to the regular blogger (tm) template. If you don't know what that means, then chances are that you are even more old school than me. I tried to create my own snazzy show, but the part of my genetic code that governs adaptation to technology apparently decreases with my increase in gray hair. I still have the Ireland picture way up there in the banner, but, much like my ass, it's too big for the space it is given, and I can't figure out how to fix it.
I've definitely crossed that threshold - the one where technology exceeds my capacity to tolerate it. It is virtually impossible to figure out how to work the mother-flipping remote controls, so I either watch a picture with no sound, or listen to the broadcast with no picture. I have no idea what shiznit the kids are listening to these days, because once I could plug my iPod into my car, it was W-CBB radio, 24/7. And when I see teenagers, my only two thoughts are "what the hell is wrong with you?" and "we were older when we were their age." My assistant, god bless her ever loving soul, is constantly fixing the same god-forsaken problems with my computer, and just a few days ago, the paralegal in our group asked, "so, it's the big 4-0?"
Yes, it has been a long time since I last posted, and I know that a successful blog requires regular updating, but I appeal to your gentler nature, dear reader (all three of you, my mother included), for life has been a hot mess in 2010.
1. We are trying to sell a house. In the market? Please say yes... I am on the verge of begging, here.
Said house:
2. We have a new puppy. He eats everything in sight and has roughly 6500 body parts moving at any given fraction of time.
Said puppy:
(That glow in his eye is the eternal fire of the devil.)
3. I am at a Level 3 Addiction relating to the Outlander series and spend my free time reading any one of seven books of 1000 pages, each.
4. I have medical issues. I like to call them the "Doctors' Full Employment Act of 2010."
Don't worry - no pictures. Trust me when I tell you that you don't wanna see... although I could *maybe* get you a video, if you pay me enough.
5. I am also addicted to Facebook, which is every lazy narcissist's dream.
6. And honestly, a big part of me just wanted to keep my note to Cosmo out in the universe, unobstructed, a little longer. I still miss him every single day.
So nyeah, that about covers it, for now. I will write more... perhaps about the ghost in our house, the astounding increase in concentration of asshat drivers on the streets of Portland, all of the ridiculous house projects I want to work on, my new volunteerism efforts, my failed attempt at redemption, and blah blah blah. Tomorrow. Or the day after.
Tonight I lit a candle for you, for the third time. This time, at the DoveLewis Pet Remembrance Ceremony. The prior two were at Kylemore Abbey and Westminster Abbey, when we were abroad and praying you'd remain healthy until we got home.
I always said that I couldn't imagine a world without you in it, and now I've lived it for five weeks. It still doesn't seem right and so I just try not to think about it. When I do think about it, I remember your last day, you wagging your tail when we went to Mom's to pick you up for your last drive. You didn't get up, or even bark... but you thwopped your monster furball tail against the bed when you saw me. That was a true gift, and something I will remember forever.
I remembered your last go in the grass. I was the first one to ever introduce you to grass, and what a sight that was. You jumped straight up in the air like a little pocket kangaroo/pygmy ewok.
I remembered how, on our way to DoveLewis, you stayed bundled up in the blanket and then sat on the backseat like a good boy, and how they took you away from us for far longer than I had ever planned to be apart from you in your final hours. They put you in oxygen and gave you some sedatives to insert the catheter, and although I know that it was for your benefit - to make you feel better - I still regret deeply that I wasn't there for every second of those last moments.
I remembered curling up with you in the DoveLewis comfort room, and telling you about the land you were going to visit, where there was no coughing and gasping, and no handfuls of medication, where you could have all the treats you wanted... where Grandmom and Dad would take care of you. I remembered you curled up on Mom's chest and quietly went to sleep while we gave you head rubs and told you how much we love you. We all held on to you for as long as we could.
And when we returned on Wednesday to witness your placement, I did it because I owed it to you - to see you off on your final journey and to make sure that donkey was there with you. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I looking back, I'd do it again in a second.
And now, I try desperately to hold on tightly to all of you - every single memory that I'm afraid will get lost with time. Your lifelong devotion to donkey, how you would squeak your toys like it was your job... just *squeak squeak squeak squeak* for what seemed like hours on end.... or how you would gnaw little holes in your toys and completely disembowel them of any stuffing. That frustrated Mom, but I know that it was just your inner hunter breaking free of your tiny little bug body.
There was Jasmine, aka Jazzy Jazz... your first (and only?) girlfriend, and the low-flying bird shooting out of dark corner our garage. We will laugh until the end of time at the memory of your face as you hauled ass out of the garage, as if yelling "EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF".
...how you loved peeing on ice, skating around like Brian Boitano and spinning while you did your business... and how you would eat the snow as you bounced through it.
I remember how you were once so indignant about being taken for a walk that you pulled out of your collar and ran all the way home. Yet up until your final month or two, anytime we took you outside, you'd run ahead, always in front, always leading, always prancing like your life was the best thing EVER.
... how you'd bark bark bark bark bark until we finally couldn't take it anymore, and we'd cave and give you a treat. Sometimes you'd pull the fake-out and pretend like you had to use the bathroom just so that you could come in and get a treat. There was that giant hunk of steak you yanked off my plate once, and when I gave you the puppy heimlich because you were choking, it went down instead of out. Well, it went out eventually, but we all suffered for that little process.
You had a more refined taste in food than I did - scallops and radishes and all sorts of strange things. Sometimes you even tried to eat my face - my lip, my neck, my fingers. And I'm not talking about the words best, but most stinky and slimy kisses... no, I'm talking about the bites. We recognized as you got older that you were less tolerant, and I could never ever be mad at you for biting me.
I remember your last kiss as we said good night, the night before you left us. You weren't giving kisses out too freely anymore - barely at all, in fact - and going in for one was always a gamble. But you gave me one little tiny kiss right before you growled, and I knew that was all I'd get. You used to just bound over any obstacle to give kisses galore, and when that stopped, we knew it was getting close. For the record, I would not give up a single kiss, ever...
There was your "urf" and your love for belly rubs, and your disgusting puppy erections from the viagra and from donkey. You always seemed proud of those - or at least, unaffected - which told me that deep down, and despite the froofy fur and the girlie tail, you were all man. You ate your feet like a champ and we only really ever got to touch them once you passed. They were so soft from 13 years of chewing.
You were generally fearless, with an indomintable spirit, a hilarious bit of sass and more full of love and forgiveness than anyone I've known. You were my best friend, my little bug, and my puppy soul mate.
I miss you as much now as I did five weeks ago. I love you, little buddy.
Me: You know, I really hate both the term and the concept of "Cougar." It's belittling to women who are enjoying the same thing that men have been enjoying since the beginning of time, and it's always applied to fake blond, plasticized, shallow chicks who universally lack both integrity and pride.
Trainer: So, you're just mad because you're Cougar-aged?
There are certain inalienable truths you learn when you live in Portland. One - certain streets will always reek of patchouli and hippie sweat. Two - pedestrians at street corners have a sense of entitlement that mocks Darwinism. And three - people who drive SmartCars with ski racks attached to the top are unabashed asshats.
How about this? On Saturday, I'll eat a giant can of peas before the workout, and then you can decide whether it's worth green pea vomit all over your floor, when you decide to push me too hard.
Trainer to Me:
How about this? I'll put you in a straight jacket with a gag and a pink helmet that says "I Love Lunges", and if you so much as whine during your step-ups, I'll beat you with a baseball bat.
It's amazing how God's Country can quickly turn to Deliverance Country when you're five miles away from running out of gas, and seemingly 15 miles away from a gas station.
This happens to me almost every time I hit I-5 south of Salem. In a panic, I turn off of the first viable exit with potential, drive a 4.78 mile loop through East Mayberry du Jour and find the closest semblance of a gas station that my own private hell will offer. After the 12 uncomfortable minutes filling my tank with my doors locked while pretending to be on the phone, I continue on to find the highway which conveniently drops me off one mile north of where I originally exited, and where five gas stations bid me adieu and send me safely on my way.
[AND... yeah, okay, I was going to include a clip of Deliverance from youtube, but that was too much, even for me...]
