Where I'm from.

A friend reminded me of this writing exercise that circulated a couple of years ago. I had meant to do it then, but got busy and kept forgetting to. I found it very enjoyable to read about where everyone else was from. Now it's my turn, so here goes:

I am from vibrating pedicure machines, from Mary Kay, Canfield's Diet Chocolate Soda, No-Salt, Sweet 'N Low, and Penney's. *I am from the very neighbourhood that Malvina Reynolds wrote about in her song: "Little Boxes". Yes. The yellow one.

I am from the place with almost no trees; where the swimming pool in the backyard was the only refuge from the ground that was so hot you could not walk barefoot outside. From sunburns that would peel like Elmer's school glue off of most of my body after too much time spent in said swimming pool. From made-up Crystal-Light ads in which I would stand on the diving board, flexing my little girl biceps, and singing: "I believe in Crystal Light, 'cause I believe in me!"

I am from the cactus pears, stolen meyer lemons, navel oranges, pomegranate bushes, and palm trees. From enormous water beetles, and June bugs that would dive bomb my perfectly shellacked hairdos, buzzing like crazy trying to escape, because they were too stupid to figure out how to on their own.

That girl who would run around screaming with buzzing hair until a kind soul helped us both out of that jam? Yeah, that was me; also known as the girl from the gawd awful wake-up time of 5:30 AM... the sole purpose? Making sure that hair was absolutely perfect!

I am from my perch atop the old Chevy Van at the Drive-in movie.

From swim parties and grilled steaks; from little restaurants I would make for the ants from the bones of whatever we'd had for dinner that night, hidden far off from where people would see them right away, so the "business" had a chance.

I am from Pomerantz, McIver; The Thomas fat ass, and the Davis flat ass. Yes. I got both. Behold: My ass! For it is both fat, and flat.

I am from the family dinners at my maternal Grandmother's modern, urban apartment that came entirely from Price Club, unwrapped and either microwaved, or baked; the scent of her Wind Song perfume, as well as the spearmint gum she always had giant boxes of in her closet.

From watching the end of certain TV programs just to see my uncle's name in the credits; from standing in line at Dodger games for giveaway items, and listening for hours to the same grandmother's stories of her worldly travels.

One day I will travel just as she did.

I am from both: "Go hang your belly on the fence!" and "Oy Vey!"

I am from a few different faiths, leading to no faith, leading to piqued interest and curiosity about many faiths, once more.

I'm from The City Of Angels; drives through Topanga and Malibu canyons that seemed to take an eternity, the roller rink, the club that beat the streets, the bike path at Venice, and never-ending music. Really. Never. The music never ended. Ever. No. Never. It did not.

I am from that ottoman I brought into the kitchen to stand on so that I could watch my Uncle Alan make spaghetti using noodles, olive oil, and allspice.

I am from the chair I would stand on in the kitchen, watching my dad make shit on a shingle, and later sit on to gag the vile stuff down, because it was... what was for dinner. From that empty cafeteria table I shared with my best friend in grade school, eating those head cheese and beef tongue sandwiches I was sent there with. I am from day old spaghetti fried in butter, topped with cheese. I am from my own creation of fat-free cheese sandwiches, microwaved with a dollop of "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter!" on top.

I am from that cushiony stool my dad set up for me to hang out in the studio listening to bands practice and record, and having to stay as quiet and patient as possible. From a place to stand on that stool learning to use a studio mixing board by age 3.

From the summers spent on the Northern California coast with my paternal Grandmother, drinking soda pop from old bottles that had been reused so many times they look like they had been sandblasted along the edges; singing Otis Redding songs to the cats on the balcony. From grandma's rainbow coloured circa 1974 shag carpet I would move between my toes as we watched television programs, all the while listening to her as she would yell at the screen because the Shaklee products she sold were superiour to those advertised.

I am from family reunions in Luxor, near-death experiences in Glacier National Park, and hiding my face from video cameras criminal-style, after not being able to do my hair for 3 days on a cross-country railroad trip.

I am from looking in awe at my great grandmother's 100 year old photograph that hangs on my wall, her lovely bone china teacup collection, and urn containing one pedal from every single rose my great grandfather ever gave her. He died in 1954, and the petals still smell amazing.

I am from the knowledge that comes from pain, and the best advice I have ever received: "If you ever meet a man who reminds you of your father, RUN THE OTHER WAY!"

I am from my own self-worth, and my willingness to heed that advice.

I am from lots of hard work, self-love, and personal growth.

I am a survivor.

I am Hedy.

-H

*OK, not really, but yes, they were totally all made out of ticky-tacky, and yes, the all looked just the same.

Proof that I have had too much exposure to bizarre things as of late.

Life has been pretty eventful, so I apologize for not bringing any witticisms this way for a bit. I'll get back into the swing at some point, once things slow down. But I did want to venture this way to tell you all about one of my more bizarre dreams. I don't normally share that sort of thing, because I don't think most people really care usually. It can be kind of boring subject matter. But this one had me not wanting to wake up. It was that entertaining.

I start off running down Broadway near the Schnitz, on all fours. I'm barefoot, in the street, and keeping with the flow of traffic. I can feel the asphalt under my hands and feet, but it feels surprisingly comfortable and natural. I specifically remember the way the green and red of the traffic signals played off of the varied surfaces of the asphalt rocks. It wasn't wet, but this is something that I tend to notice while crossing the street during my waking hours. There is something beautiful about that, and it was really showcased strongly in this part of the dream; almost prismatic in nature, moving and changing as I traveled over it.

I continued down Broadway until I came to Jefferson, which I followed up toward where I lived about a decade ago near Portland State University, in the Goose Hollow neighbourhood. I passed the apartment complex I once called home, and continued up a path to a much smaller, dingier place; still on all fours, still barefoot, through brambles, broken glass, rusty screws and nails, shattered bottles, caps of said bottles, gravel chunks, and unidentifiable detritus which really could have been anything. I was moving so fast, I was unable to determine exactly what some of it was. It was also darker up there, so that played a role.

I didn't want to get raped, mugged, or lopped. My objective? Unclear. But I was strangely motivated to move like I had never moved before. When I finally arrived at the appropriated complex, I noticed that it had several residences attached in a row, and it was kind of a strange setup. I had to tap in a code that I somehow knew to enter the premises, which sat behind an iron security door. Once inside; instead of a hallway, there was a long breezeway below what should have been a hallway leading to second floor units. I could see stars, since there was no roof. It wasn't exactly an atrium, not exactly a courtyard. Just a strange, seemingly unfinished corridor. They had only ever added planks to the hallways in the floors above and someone created makeshift catwalks using cheap plywood boards which did not meet the sides of the structure, leaving very large gaps on either side that one could easily fall through if not careful.

As I walked through, I felt something on my back. It landed with sort of a thud, and moved. It had claws, and before I really understood what was going on, the damn thing bit me. I grasped it, tearing it away from my body, and realized it was a rat! I threw it as far as I could. It hit the wall, sort of convulsed, then stopped moving altogether. My stomach lurched in discomfort, and I just wanted out of there, but I knew I needed to keep going.

Why? Well, that I did not know.

The farther down into the building I walked, the more rats there were. I picked another off of my back, only this one spoke to me: "You don't want to throw me, little lady! I am a nice rat! See? Feel my fur. Aren't I soft?"

I tried petting it, and while it was rather soft, it too, bit me. I gave its head a twist, broke its neck, and tossed it aside.

Bastard.

I finally reached my destination. The door was slightly opened, and I could hear the song "Time" by the Chamber's Brothers playing on the stereo. This song has long creeped me out. I have never liked it; especially the long version with the screaming man solo in the middle. Yeah, not my idea of a good time, listening to that.

The apartment was pretty drab. Typical basic 1970's unit with wood cabinetry, hollow doors, nicotine-yellowed walls, stale smoke lingering in the air, and brown shag carpet, which was strangely pristine. It seemed to have retained its original luster from the time of installation, which I am sure was not any time in the recent past, despite the unfinished nature of the building.

Not far from the front door, there was a sofa covered in crushed velvet embossed flowers. As I walked farther in, I noticed a man sleeping on the sofa, wearing a pair of white boxer shorts. Someone had placed a paper towel covered in hemostats and scalpels on the coffee table just adjacent. He had a cloth over his nose and mouth, that had begun to fall off. Of course I noticed this just as the screaming started in the song.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHKKKKKKKKK!"

Soon, an acquaintance of mine walked in, and began working on the sleeping man. He said he'd used chloroform to put him to sleep, and he reassuringly told me the man could not feel a thing. He just wanted to fuck with him a little; not kill him. Did I want to watch?

No.

But for some reason I wanted to make out with this person, so make out, we did. Because it's what you do. Right?

Not long after that, I found myself traveling back down Broadway using the same means I'd used before.

+++

Really, brain? Really? I guess part of me wanted to wake up, and part of me wanted to know what happened to the man on the couch, and this weird person I hardly know who wanted to do demented things to him. I guess I will never know. Oh well.

Dreams are so strange. They can be so vivid and create such a storyline, and yet, these non-lucid thoughts are all very self-contained, only having to do with things that we have witnessed in our own lives.

The brain sure is one interesting, enigmatic motherfucker. I think it does like to have fun with our sensibilities when we are unable to reason with what is going on in there.

-H

Bill and Coo

I am often lulled to sleep by the lullaby of Birdland. I don't live at 52nd and Broadway in New York, but the pigeons here in Portlandia can be loud at times. There are lots and lots of them around here, and I suppose dealing with them is part of living in the city. We have installed roosting spikes so they can't shit all over my porch steps anymore. However, there is one spot we haven't quite gotten to yet, and I regularly have to scrape the area below.

Grody.

There has been a bit of bird drama here since we have moved in, including a crow mob summit, the occasional spat on the roof next to my bedroom window, and even birdie murder.

Oy, vey!

I have dealt with most of this, because it has been easy. It has been distant. It has not really been anything that I felt connected to since it didn't directly affect me.

The day we installed the roosting spikes was a day that I still bristle thinking about. The truss in the front area of the porch is quite high; at least 20 feet. That is just where the two eaves meet. The beam where the pigeons were roosting is even higher than that. We don't really know how high it is, because when we tried measuring it without climbing, we attempted to do so with the tape measure, and that bent and fell over around 17 feet. When the time came for Mr. Hed to climb the ladder up there, we were more focused on him not falling to his gruesome death than curious about the height of the beam. So yeah... no clue.

The process of getting him up there was not remotely easy, or un-scary. We positioned the ladder on one of the middle porch steps, and he climbed up. This had to be done with a sliding ladder. We tried using a "Little Giant" leant to us by a friend, but alas, the "Little Giant" was too short. So, I stood there, on the step above where the ladder was positioned holding onto the fucker for both of our lives, and he climbed up. I think I may have conjured some superhuman strength for this, not unlike that demonstrated by Nadine in "Twin Peaks".



It didn't take long to install the spikes, and they do work, but lord, that was a freaky experience. We were both in tears by the time that was over. Totally worth it for cleaner porch steps though.

That said, please don't drive past my house right now expecting to see anything resembling a good sense of decorum. The porch needs another good cleaning. I will get to it this weekend. Yes, I will.

But to the story at hand: A-hem!

One morning a little over two weeks ago, I started a frittata in the oven. I had run my ass off the day before, and my back, as well as my legs were pretty stiff. I didn't feel like crouching down, and digging through a low cupboard for my usual single-serve, square baking dish. Instead, I grabbed a pan from the pot rack, and added the frittata to that. I placed it in the oven, set the timer, and went to the living room to hang out in my my favourite wing chair, drink my morning coffee and read for a little while.

I heard something. This something sounded close, and distressing. Then, I saw something. The board in front of our fireplace moved, and scared the living shit out of me; almost literally. I knew what was behind there, and truth be told, I am pretty freaked out by birds.

Yes. Birds. They freak me the fuck out.

I don't... usually think the birds are after me or anything, but I don't enjoy close contact with them. From a distance, they are cute, sure. But just wait until one decides to make your life hell! My dad had one, and good god, that bird was beyond psycho bitch. She would lure me in with her cuteness, then when I would stick my hand into her cage for her to climb off of her perch, she would bite. And hard! I am pretty sure she developed a taste for my particular blood early on.

She tricked me once by taking a liking to my mother. I thought for sure then, that she would come around and be nice.

Wrong.

I have a scar on the webbing of my right hand, between my middle, and ring finger from the time I was fooled. No more. No more, birds. Sorry, but y'all are unpredictable freaks.

So, you could imagine my distress when I heard that there was at least one in my damn fireplace. I was so scared, because city pigeons are worse than domesticated birds! They are like rats with wings! They are dirty! They carry disease! I did not want to have to remove it, but a friend told me I should before the thing hurt itself. But... what about Me? What about my baby!? She was upstairs playing in her room, but that was beside the point! What if the bird went insane, flew up there, and pecked her eyes out?

Shit.

Fuck.

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

I steeled myself, digging the depths of my soul the confidence to open the makeshift door. All the while thinking about the thing freaking out, going after my eyes, rendering my 4 year old motherless, most of the day ahead of her alone. She'd sit there, crying, terrified, with my corpse on the floor; face half eaten by said motherfukcing pigeon, which would of course, be flying around, shitting all over her, and the living room at that point.

FUCK!

But, I did it. I put on my heavy-duty gardening gloves, got the broom, and I opened the door. The damn bird was petrified; standing toward the back corner of the fireplace. I was not very impressed by this, since I guess I was expecting more drama. But no. I had to actually use the broom to coax it out. It wasn't easy but it finally hopped out, then sort of hopped to the door, and out.

I closed the door, and thought that was the end of it.

A minute or two after securing the fireplace door, and sweeping the resulting detritus from that ordeal, the timer went off for my frittata.

Ring-a-ding-ding! It's a classy timer.

I went into the kitchen, replaced the gardening glove with my silicone oven mitt, and pulled a beautiful work of art from the oven. Ahh, breakfast.

I waltzed over to the cupboard, calling MicroSqueak from the depths of the toy closet. I pulled out a couple plates and took them back over to the stove area. At this point, I forgot that I had baked this creation, rather than cooked it on the stove, apparently. I went to release the dish from its hold, and forgetting to put the silicone mitt back on, I grabbed the handle of the pan I'd used, and ended up screaming in pain, in a heap on the kitchen floor.

Oops!

My right hand sustained a blister that went all the way from mid-palm to the tips of my ring and pinkie fingers.

Fabulous.

About 2 hours later, I heard yet another motherfucking pigeon in my fireplace. I wish I'd realized sooner that there were two in there.

What the hell pigeons!? My fireplace is not your speakeasy! Get out!

Well, this one would just have to wait for Mr. Hed to arrive home so that he could release her. I was not going to attempt to remove that stupid door again with an injured hand.

He did, and again it took some coaxing, but the crisis was averted. No more birds. At least for now.

-H

Overheard... over my shoulder...

There are times when I am out and about, and I have the hardest time controlling my desire to just laugh at certain people, and their wacked-out conversations. I really want to turn around and ask them: "Are you really saying these words? Really?"

Last night was quite a doozy. I decided to grocery shop sans kids for a change, because I spend a lot less money when I can do that. It's true. I'm not buying extra snacks, drinks, dollies, and whatever else they bring to the cart with their sad eyes they know I'm a total softie for. It just works out better. But that is also the time when I am more likely to run into some goony-assed people.

Living in the Reed neighbourhood, I do see a lot of college kids; some drunk, some high, some... just being Reedies, which could be nothing, or a combination of many things. As I stood at the checkout counter of the grocery, I caught part of the conversation that was going on in the line adjacent to mine. They talked of the weather, and how it sure is cold for this time of year, still, and how could global warming be happening when it seems so cold?

Personally, I think we forget this every year. There have been many years in the past where it has remained cold into June. We are in the northern states, and it happens. Sometimes it floods. It is something that has happened throughout history. In fact, there are markers from the flood of 1894 all over downtown Portland, and they go up pretty damn high.

Also, isn't this a La Nina year? That damn Nina. It should go back to La La Land.

I am not attempting to debunk global warming, or even suggest that it is mythical. I do think it is a real thing that we ought to take more seriously than we do. But I also don't think the sky is falling, or that the world will end in the next day or two. Call me a lazy sunbather, but I just don't believe we are in imminent danger. Sure, changes need to be made, and we all need to work a little harder to live more sustainably, and I feel like I do my share of that. I don't buy a lot of new stuff all the time, 'cause Sting had it right when he said: "When the world is running down, you make the best of what's still around." I have plenty old things in my life. Some are things I nurse and baby so I don't have to replace them. Other things are useful heirlooms our families have been generous with. I don't see the point in replacing every little thing that shows a little wear.

My plates don't match. Most are chipped, and sad. And while I do have some things that are nice, my preferred glass to drink from is an old Adam's peanut butter jar. It's huge, and I can get a lot of water down the hatch that way. Doesn't mean I don't like my fancier stuff, but I have to think of the everyday, and the required durability that brings on, having two little kids. It is an added bonus that this means I recycle, reduce, re-purpose, and reuse like mad.

That said, when I heard the actual conversation going on next to me, I channeled Sheila Broflovski from "South Park", and found myself saying inside of my head: 'Wha-wha-what??'

It went a little something like this:

Girl Behind Me: "So, I don't really get how this weather pattern that's happening now could be part of global warming. Why would it still be so cold? I think this weather thing is just something that is happening, and it ripples, and affects the whole world, to let us know we are all connected." I swear at this point, I think she may have twirled around and said "Tra la la," touching one toe with the opposite hand at the end of the twirl.

Oh lord.

I... well? I wanted to put a fucking bird on her right then and there.

Checkout Guy: "Well, I don't think global warming works like that. I have seen studies where they cite changes in weather patterns. We are going to see more extended springs, and milder winters as a result. Perhaps more Indian summers like the one we had last year. We need to take action NOW, as in RIGHT NOW, or we are going to pollute ourselves off the planet altogether."

Thank you, checkout guy. Can you see my irises through the back of my head? Let me move my hair out of the way.

Girl Behind Me, in kind of a wilty, lilting voice, making her sound like she is barely cognitive, and somewhat cowed at this point; as if looking into the sun for the first time, or speaking to someone with a brain... for the first time: "Oh... yeah, that totally makes sense."

Wow. Uh yeah. All connected are we. We are one, and we twirl, and we laugh, and we eat our sugar cubes... together, over the ocean, over the sea, holding hands, planking, covered in, and gliding with birds, as we should... through the day, through the night, then the day again... until we reach the sun... only we don't burn. We gaze, admire, stroke, dance, lock arms, and hug this beautiful, beautiful star. After all, we probably should, before it ends up killing us all like a big, hot, microwave oven.

Oh my. I think I will always prefer science. And perspective.

Connectedness, world peace, and sustainability are all fabulous concepts, and I do enjoy them, along with the occasional experience when everything lines up to make it so. But common sense and proper context will always win.

-H

What I think...

Yesterday, I heard my mom say something to the effect of: "What other people think of me is really none of my business."

I have to agree. It's pretty true. There may be things people are thinking of me that I really... don't want to know. There may be things people are thinking of me that I do want to know, but it's up to them to tell me about it, and if they choose not to, then there's not much I can do about it, or would know to do about. And then there are things that one may think of me I just would not know what to do with if I did know. In that case, does it matter? Well, to one side, I suppose it does, but that's not my side.

To me, there are times when certain information would be nice if favourable, and obviously not nice if not favourable. Although, honesty is a good thing, and being led on by someone in any aspect of life; be it friendship, business, love, etc., is not.

I have said it before, and I'll say it again: we have no control whatsoever over what others think of us. We can do everything in our power to try and either improve or degrade one's view of us, and depending on where they are in life, they will see and perceive things a certain way. When trying to influence others; you may, or may not see your desired result. Perception is funny, and our differing experiences will colour it. Sometimes the viewpoints of your audience may be similar to yours, and other times; not so much.

So why do we worry so much about this? Of course we want to be loved, and admired. We want people to think the best of us. We want to be happy, and that's hard when we are feeling all alone, and we assume everyone hates us. So yes, of course there is value in being well-liked. People need one-another, and there are people out there who will be compatible with us on just about any level. We are naturally wired for community. It's how we operate, and without it, life can get pretty boring, as well as difficult. It is important not to take these easily compatible people for granted in search of what we think we need, or want. Especially if what we need or want seems unattainable. Truth is, if you really do have to practically kill yourself to impress someone enough for them to want to share space with you, they aren't worth it, and probably have their heads so far up their asses, they will probably never even see you, anyway.

So you know what? I don't bother. I am, what I am, what I am. What you see is what you get with me. Take it or leave it. I won't say I won't be hurt by rejection, but I'm a big girl, and I have been through a lot. I'll survive. Believe me.

Of course, there are other times when I may feel intimidated by a person for whatever reason, and find later that this person I have idealized for so long, and am so humbled by, has turned out to be sweet as blueberry pie with a slice of cheese on top. That said, I have a tendency to get quiet around these people at first, and learn who they are before I share too much about my own life. This doesn't mean I won't be authentic and honest about my opinions, but I still don't find it necessary to show off. I am not competitive. That involves too much pressure. I hate pressure, especially when I am usually just looking to have fun. It's tricky, but remembering not to get too caught up in the details, and also remembering that in the end we are all just people, can go a long way. It is something I sometimes have to spend a great deal of time reminding myself.

And... at times, I let the intimidation win, until I don't anymore. Yeah, I'm human. Doesn't mean I can't work on this flaw of allowing myself to be intimidated; to make it less-so. After all, what is rejection? So what if one person decides you aren't worth their time? You know what? There are a lot of fucking people in the world. If one ends up shitting all over your life, move on. Speak up when necessary, but pick your battles, and if you have to be the rejector, you have to be the rejector. Someone else is out there who probably won't hurt you, and if they do? Someone else is out there who won't hurt you. Just keep going, and reflect on those lessons you've learned. It's all happening for a reason, and if you pay attention and decide for yourself that you are worthy of better, you'll find better.

As for now, it really is OK to be yourself, right where you are in life; in the moment; even if that means you are the only one being authentic. 'Cause you know what? You can laugh at all those phonies, honey. Self-improvement is something that is admirable, and something we should all aspire to... but let's do it for ourselves and not for others, OK? Is it really improvement if you simply change with the tides of what's popular, and fake it until you become what you weren't before, for the sole purpose of fitting in; without staying true to yourself?

What the hell kind of life do you end up with if you strive toward the ideals of another person? A fucking Svengali-assed, resentful one; even if it's really just you holding the strings. And damn. How pathetic is that? You know what that is? That's a show no one wants to see, albeit one I have certainly starred in, in the past. I did not have much fun, and am glad I dropped the strings, so I could be a real girl. I like her. A lot.

If you feel like you are doing this too, you have to ask yourself what you want. I'll wait. Whatever your answer is, is OK. You only get one life. Don't die full of regret. It'll be your fault.

For a long time, I used to wonder why some people found it so important to have others figured out. It is beginning to click for me lately, and I think that this has to do with knowing what to expect from a person. Sometimes I really do have to feel a situation out, especially if I want things to go well; even if I'm not necessarily intimidated by the other party... but I find the relationship to be an important one that I don't want to screw up. Sure, these relationships are give and take, and one of my favourite parts happens in the beginning stages, while I am learning as much as I can about the other person. And really, how are you supposed to be able to relate to another soul you know nothing about?

I like to let my friends just be who they are, and feel comfortable expressing themselves around me. For that reason, I have a tendency to go neutral on choosing things for a while, so I can get an idea of their likes and dislikes. Honestly, this usually works out well, because there are very few things I dislike. It takes a lot to piss me off, and even without being the one to choose the situation or setting of a social outing, I often find myself having a good time. I go into these situations calmly, and with an open mind. It's often an adventure, and sometimes I even learn something valuable.

And, believe me, if I didn't go into things with an open mind, there is no way this would be possible.

For instance? Last night, I changed into my pajamas because I was cold. I ended up changing back out of them, after I received a text from a new'ish friend with plans that went from going to the bar down the street from my house... to going for a little drive... up to a boat in a crazy marina where we smoked hookah, drank some pretty wacky libations, and told stories until the wee hours, listening to Bhangra. Now that, my friends, is my idea of a good time!

Whee!

As for well-established friendships; I know what not to, as well as what to take personally. Some aspects of one's personality are just part of who they are, and while they may seem rude or unorthodox to an outsider, it's something I come to accept when other parts of the whole person overshadow these shortcomings. I won't put up with everything, but I will put up with some things if you are worth it.

After all, we all have shortcomings. Every last one of us. If you tell me you don't, I'll call you a liar!

But really, in the end, the most important relationship any of us can have... is with ourselves. In the end, it does matter what we think of... ourselves. Joe South said it best once: "God grant me the serenity to just remember who I am." Remember who you are; love, nurture, and enjoy who you are, and honey, you'll be A-OK.

-H

Bombed!

The land of Port is a strange place. I simultaneously love and hate this little fact. And Truth is, all I have to do is walk a few blocks for some real entertainment in the realm of people-watching, shopping, dining, drinking, etc., etc., ad nauseum. That is nice. I like that I live far enough away from the shopping districts, and on a large enough lot that I can actually park my car in the same place every night, and can see it from my bedroom window. I like that there is enough space on this lot that several guests can do the same. I like that while this is true, the shopping districts are a modest walk from my front door. I also love the fact that we were able to find a house only six blocks from where we lived previously when we did live in this neighbourhood before.

During that time, I loved the area, but hated the place we were renting. We really only took that place because it was very cheap, and we were saving up to buy our first house. Well, that, and we were doing whatever we could to get the hell out of Beaverton. We lived there exactly one year, and that was 51 weeks too many.

Seriously though. Our first place over here was very run down, and the people who owned it were complete slum-lords. I was so happy to get out of that house, but wistful about the neighbourhood. For years after that move, I acted like a homing pigeon and still came back to this part of town any time I had any shopping or business to attend to. I knew eventually I would make it back over here.

The house that we ended up in was complete chance. It had shown up in searches that my realtor sent me for a while. I kept passing it up, because it is on a busy street. With small children, I really didn't want to do that. But the day I looked at this house, We had many showings on the schedule. All of the scheduled showings in the middle of the day fell through, so we had some time to kill. The realtor convinced me to come and have a look, by talking about the lot size. It is on a 1/4 acre, and most of that is behind the house. Very rare for this part of town. The house is also 3,434 square feet, not including an 1800 square foot basement, as well as a 1000 square foot unfinished attic space. It has dark wood detailing throughout, boxed beams, tall wainscotting with plate rail in the dining room, and... damn. I will say that as soon as I saw the dining room, I wanted the house. I told the realtor right then and there.

And of course she asked: "Well, don't you want to see the rest of it?"

"If I must..."

Because the previous owner let it go back to the bank, acquiring it was no small feat. We went into contract for the house on February 23rd, and we did not acquire it until May 13th. Our first lender even dropped out somewhat late in the process, and we had to scramble to find another. But we did, the sale went through, and here we are, working steadily on restoring the monster!

It was built in 1911, and retains much of its original charm. And the closets are HUGE! I can't figure this out, because in 1911, this wasn't at all typical. The home inspector thought the house may have been built for someone important for that reason. I am planning on visiting the office of the county recorder soon to get to the bottom of this.

Anyway, sorry to bore you with the story of how we got into the place. I will say that I really like being back in the land of the living again, after practically living in middle earth for so long. (OK, I guess you'd call it mid-county,) but unless you get your kicks from going to religious coffee shops, Asian markets, or true dive bars, it's a dead zone, for sure. Why, I had to drive for ten minutes just to get back over here!

One of the things in particular that I love about being here is seeing the many different kinds of people that it... takes to make a place truly interesting. It really does take all kinds. The sights and smells can be something to either behold or run screaming from.

Take today for instance: the girls and I were on our way home from being out and about. We drove up SE Hawthorne, as we usually do. Today was beautiful, and finally warm, and I had the windows open. As we approached SE 34th Avenue, the scent of patchouli wafted in from an obviously doused passerby. I made a comment to the girls about it, and they, too, were taken aback. It was... obnoxious, cloying, strong, and something that attempted to choke the life from me.

I had to get away, but alas, I was stuck behind a bus, and cars were passing me! What to do? What to do???

Oh... GOD! NO!!!

The answer? Apparently nothing. The scent had infiltrated my car, and stayed with us all the way home. It probably still smells like that, but I am afraid to go outside and check.

I suppose that is just part of the experience, and I have to take the good with the bad. But seriously... how much patchouli do you have to be wearing for the passengers of a car that you are WALKING PAST on the street to be infiltrated to the point of despair? Why is that necessary? Why do that to people? How can you stand it, man?! Think of the children! Think of the fucking stray cats! The dogs! Did you know dogs have a sense of smell about 1,000 stronger than that of humans? Think of what you are doing to them! It's like forcing them to look directly at the sun for an extended period of time.

Just... no! Be nice! Play nice! And with that, I bid you adieu. The weekend... it calls to me.

-H

The sun rises. The clown dances. The lady gets hit in the head with a shoe.

It was recently pointed out to me that I am not the beautiful dancer I thought I was. This was on a particularly drunken night fairly recently in which I thought I was a fucking ballerina, and therefore very light on my feet. Mr. Hed told me that otherwise, I was doing mostly OK, and didn't embarrass him until I started dancing. Yeah. OK. I probably shouldn't do that around... people.

At all. Ever.

Or... at least not while drunk, when I think I am invincible, awesome, lovable, amazing, and gifted in ways I am not normally.

When I am on my game, I am competent, and will learn steps adequately. I do have rhythm because I did grow up in a pretty musical setting. But I did not grow up dancing. The muscle memory is something that I only acquire after many, many practices of a new dance move as a result. This is due to the fact that I really only had to do it for the stage when I was in musicals. I remember those specific dances very well, because they were drilled into my brain via laser beam that can only be produced when a choreographer loses patience and... resorts to this last ditch effort attempt of instruction. It is rare, but I... have seen it a lot.

Anyway, it is true that I had no dance instruction as a wee little child. By the time I decided to embarrass myself and everyone I knew personally who came to see me on stage in a musical, I wasn't a kid anymore. In fact, remembering the first musical I was in; the laser beam didn't take. The director did not want to re-cast the part, so this poor sod was stuck with me. He had to (then,) adapt the steps he had written for one of the numbers I did solo, because they were so complicated, it just wasn't going to happen. But, during that play, I began to understand the importance of using more than just the bottoms of my feet, or... just my feet. Yes. Even our wrists, fingertips, eyebrows, and uvulae should really be involved. That went a long way.

Obviously, I am still not a beautiful dancer, but it is my exercise of choice. I do it because it is a challenge, and is also fun. I do it because... as I said in the paragraph above, it really does involve every part of the body. I just do it when no one is watching, because... after all, doesn't that mean I can dance like no one is watching? Why yes! I believe it does! Although... when Mr. Hed walks in on me, I completely lose my concentration and have to wait for him to leave in order to get it back.

Seriously though, and in general; not just in my dance-life, I have some facts to face here. I can be pretty clumsy. I can be pretty awkward. I embarrass easily, and often. I have a bit of social anxiety that I am working to correct, but it's difficult, and the process hasn't been perfect; especially considering all I have had to overcome and the trauma I endured growing up. I will say though, that things are a whole lot worse when I am sleep-deprived, hungry, or feeling like a dork in a new setting. But once I have rested, eaten, and gotten to know my environment, it lessens, and I am actually a pretty fun person to be around, or so I'm told.

Thank GOD.

We all have good and bad days. I am learning that on my bad days, I should stay in my safe little world, and be glad I have one of those. I am having fewer bad days, but I still have them on occasion. They are usually triggered by something situational, and can be explained away. I don't always like to acknowledge the source of that, and I may choose not to... at least not outwardly. After all, some things are simply better left unshared with everyone else. Some things need time to process, and a chance for observation via more than one angle. And isn't it true that you should never make big decisions or try to evaluate your life when you feel like crap? It certainly has been for me. So... I do my best to not take things quite so seriously during those times, and my world gets a wee bit smaller for a day or two. I may or may not return your phone calls or texts. I can only hope the people around me understand this.

Eventually, I do come around. Really, I do.

And still... dancing, clumsiness, and even bad days aside, I have had a few incidents recently in which I have said things to people that didn't come out right. Sometimes I come off as downright insensitive, which is terrible, and not something I would ever intentionally convey to another human being. When it happens, I usually end up (metaphorically) slapping my forehead, and I experience what feels almost akin to electrocution go through my body, because I know this is not at all what I had wanted, or meant to say.

I especially hate it when whatever it is ends up misrepresenting me horribly and I go into fight-or-flight... and can't recover. I wish I could say that I am good at hiding my embarrassment. Sadly? No. No, I'm not. Not even a little bit. I blush, my temperature rises, and then I basically need a few minutes to regroup, and explain. There are times when I can pull myself out of it quickly though, and I do have a somewhat quasi-effective recovery method that I will put to use about half the time when something like this occurs. I resort to poking fun at myself, and turning the incident into a joke, because seriously, what else can you do at that point? And of course I do try to measure appropriateness here. I am obviously not going to make a joke if I just inadvertently insulted your mother, but I will do it if I just sent my shoe flying across the room... or a pair of chopsticks. (Sadly, both of these things have happened in the past week... and I have listed them in order of embarrassment.)

Sigh.

That said, these moments of awkward are not something that would ever make me stop liking myself, so why should I think that anyone else would necessarily? Don't we all have bonehead moments? I know we must. It should also be known that this does not mean every joke at my own expense has to do with one of these awkward incidents. Sometimes I just make jokes. It's OK to laugh at those jokes. Laughter is pretty welcome in either instance; especially if I am trying to diffuse a moment of epic dorkdom. I wouldn't have made them if I had any other intention. I can relate to Woody Allen. If he can base a career on that sort of demeanor, I should probably cut myself a little slack.

Yes. I'm trying. Trying to develop patience with myself. Trying to nurture that scared little dork inside of my soul so that she will someday be less scared and dorky. It's not easy, but at least I'm trying. If you were around me recently during one of moments of awkward, I apologize. It will be better soon. I can only hope you people don't think I'm a moron, but if you do, I suppose there isn't much I can do about it. There isn't much anyone can do about another person's opinion, so... I have to let it go, and laugh at myself.

As far as the dancing? I'll just keep doing it. Alone. I like it, and that's what matters. If you decide I can't be your friend because I'm not a beautiful dancer, then piss off!

-H