Summer Update.

When my mother saw pictures of my apartment she commented that it looked so clean that I must be bored out of my mind. I’m not a cleaner. If you ever happen to come to my apartment and note how clean it is, it is almost guaranteed that it was my husband that did it.

That’s not to say I can’t clean. I just don’t like to clean. Occasionally I will pick up the place in the event someone is coming over. Or say, my favorite group of musicians is in town and I offer them a place to crash.

Other than that, I only clean because I’m upset. Anger makes the place sparkle. And lately my boredom has coupled with wanting the place to look good for El, so it’s nice.

Besides, I’ve taken care of my Summer To Do List and really don’t know what else to do.

Apart from the professional development and career things I needed to take care of this summer, I managed to:

Learn to Sew.


This was my first venture and I managed to pull off some nice pillows. Made two hand-bags, too.

Cook More, and Completely Homemade.


Chicken Pot Pie


Chicken Teryaki


Peach Salsa


Coconut Macaroons

And then there was the dinner I held and prepared before my wedding reception...




Of course, there were dozens more things I should have captured, but didn’t manage to picture. I need to work on taking nicer pictures of my food, anyway. Getting better dishes and plating better. The having-people-over-for-dinner period of our newlywed lives is still to come. I’m ready to step up to the plate but only if it fits around derby practice.

Oprah?

Perhaps it could not have happened at a better time, Comcast finally realizing that after taking away cable channels from basic services, that they had still left the high-def feeds hidden in the channels. I didn’t need that extra excuse to be sucked into hours of tv every day, and now I feel a break. This morning when I found that they were “scrambled” I was actually productive! I read, I cleaned the house, I gave the dog a haircut and bath, vacuumed and now I’m settling down to work on some academic mumbo-jumbo.

Good step in the right direction, yes?

Unfortunately, I can waste just as much time on basic channels as I can on cable. Sure, there is no House Hunters or What Not to Wear, no Bobby Flay or Duff Goldman. No more Dance Your Ass Off (but I think I can watch those all on the computer anyway).

I’m left with traditional programming. The Today Show in the morning. Rachael Ray and Ellen in the afternoon. Sometimes even Oprah.

Now, I feel like I have to preface the fact that I’m not a mainstream audience. I’m not the typical woman who gets sucked into these shows because they deal with issues that fit my life. They don’t. But I like the spectacle. It’s like picking up Cosmo magazine and getting a chuckle.

I’m with Denis Leary, here. I really didn’t want to like Oprah. In fact, the show that really messed with my head a few days ago was completely laughable in it’s false-seriousness and melodrama. Yet I watched, half way, reading and studying as I drowned it out in the background (a skill mastered by 28 years of heavy TV watching that my husband cannot fathom).

And I heard it. Over and over she says, “I thought for years I had a weight issue. It’s not a weight issue. It’s a love issue.” She founds her change of weight on an “imbalance” in her life. I shake my head and grumble “Yeah. You love the food and you can afford it all!”

But then I think about it a minute. I want to say she’s wrong, that it IS food and not love, but I’m busy thinking what has changed for me. What has altered for me the last two years, the 25 lbs I’ve gained back and can’t seem to shake.

I know the easy answer is the life changes. A move cross-country and then an explosive and destructive series of difficult decisions and actions. My chance to regain my life has poor foundation, a lot of love and no money. I hate myself and everything about where I live. Where I’m at. I have three amazing things: El, my dream job and Sadie. But I’m poor. I’m unhappy. I’m trying so hard to be productive and carry things on the way I had, but I don’t have control anymore.

My imbalance is a lack of personal power. When I lost all the weight I was at the height of power. I made great money, I was at the top of my game, got my MA and drove my car quickly from place to place making the city mine. I lost all of that independence and progress. My environment was never my ideal, but it fit and allowed me to care for myself in a way I never understood until now.

When I lost that stability and power I drank to make it better. I ate to feel better. Both El and I experienced the same thing, I think. Life was drowning us and we were too tired to keep trying to surface. We let it come. We let it wash over us in hopes that at some point we would wash ashore someplace better. Have the energy to fix it.

We’re unhappy because of the weight but can’t seem to muster the energy to push beyond weekend drinking and tasty treats because our days are stressful. El and I feed off of one another. We comfort and medicate.

Thinking about the future, about paying off our debt but being in this financial purgatory of sorts puts things in perspective. The very real possibility that in two years we could have a house and be on the first major step to independence and personal power makes me giddy. Nurturing a garden and acquiring puppies. Going back to school and starting on a PhD (which I had all but given up on, honestly). Living comfortably enough to travel and make friends. Even to consider having children. I need this personal power. I need this kind of goal keeping. I need to hurl my entire body toward the future to handle the present.

And that all starts with a smaller waistline. Shedding pounds like skin, finding myself renewed and strong underneath.

What I did on my summer vacation...

Never left the house.

Now, that’s a lie. I’m only in four days and have been home bound half of that (the other two days full of errand running equaling most people’s weeks!). It is to be expected, to want to lay around with the dog and watch bad daytime TV.

We canceled the cable just in time—I was watching a program on VH1 called Tough Love, where some douche bag is helping slutty but insecure girls find a solid and healthy relationship. It was like watching a car wreck, slow motion drunken drooling and outrageous hollering. Like Rehab for Botox injected sex addicts.

Speaking of which, I’m addicted to a new series. The never having to leave the house thing is really because of Netflix. They are enablers, those little red-envelope pushing darlings. Not only have I been cashing in on like 6 DVDs a week, but I’ve begun the instant viewing on my computer.

And good golly if I haven’t fallen head over heels for David Duchovny all over again. I didn’t think I’d even make it through one episode of Californication because it seemed so unnecessarily raucous and sleazy. I think I counted 10 set of bare shaking breasts in the pilot alone. But that faded away, fell to the background, and I found myself watching the entire freaking season 1 on the couch, eyes welling up, head shaking. Sucked into Duchovny’s total asshole persona all the while adoring him and realizing how amazing he actually is.

(Side note: Has degrees in English. Senior thesis on Beckett! Has an MA in English from Yale. Was going to pursue a PhD. I knew he was bright, but hot shit! He’s stolen my heart!)

Coincidentally, I’m almost done with Twin Peaks, which I’m watching for the first time. Hey—I was like 10 when it was on TV. I was busy with 90210 and that kind of pre-pubescent stuff. My Duchovny fest was punctuated with the appearance of the DEA’s agent Denise...in heels and a dress. Slightly different venture, but still charming. I love the series, but it is spiraling downward quickly. Non-renewal will do that to your writing.

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That’s what married life has become. Cleaning, watching bad TV, begging my tomatoes to grow, waiting for the husband to come home and entertain me with good TV. Bought a new TV only to cancel the cable and end up watching shows on my computer (Which I will figure out how to connect to the TV for superior viewing pleasure, mind you. #45686 on my things to do). I got a bike! We canceled the gym. Things seem much more simple now. Walking for hours through local neighborhoods with the dog, house dreaming and planning. Plotting.

For season 2.

Crafty.

I'm feeling particularly crafty these last few weeks. My massive brain for planning and plotting has been fragmented further into outsourcing people who charge too much.

This all began with wedding planning. Mom insisted that I cater the entire thing and I demanded that I be given the option to cook for my 75 guests and eliminate the price tag. I can cook Mexican food as easily as they can! So, middle ground: we're catering main entrees, but I'm making salsa, buying chips from a mass distributor and bringing in the cheeses, sour cream, guacamole, etc. for a fraction of the cost.

Similarly, when we planned on taking people out to eat and were questioning the price tag, the opportunity to grill at home pool side became an option. I can feed ten people gourmet food and beverage for $100 when it would cost like $3-400 out. Cha-Ching!

The food deal has been a big one. I've been trying to branch out of my typical cooking regime with new crafty dishes. I've planted an herb garden

and have been harvesting for freshness in these new dishes. My favorite new discover is Barilla pasta in cappellini, tiny tiny threads of pasta that go exceptionally well in Asian stir fry with noodles. Do it!



I keep approaching dinner unwilling to replicate the previous night, wanting something very specific I haven't ever done before, and somehow concocting something close to it with limited materials.

...but back to wedding business, I just managed to assemble 80 gift bags for my guests for $100--I painted the mini-maracas

ordered pounds of mexican candy, cactus shot glasses and managed to snag white boxes with custom labels for next to nothing.

Exhausting. I will get my second wind tomorrow morning when the Farmer's Market returns! Swooon!



Let the "what can I do with this!?" season begin!

Spectacle(s).

It is time for new glasses. These have been tried and true, adored and well worn. I initially planned to merely replace the lenses because I love them so, but I'm now questioning that move.

El took me to Eyes! On Broadway where I had my very own hipster specialist grab and try frames on me trying to narrow down what would both fit my tastes and look good on me.

Unfortunately, the frames I liked best were in the range of $300-400, quite out of my price range. Yet, there is an appeal in it all--getting fabulous designer glasses with amazing service. I've done the mass-chain-eye-glasses for so long and this latest trip left me utterly disappointed with selection.

Here are a few frames I'm considering. They are all between $300-400, which is ultimately what is stopping me (that doesn't include lenses, folks!). But oh! So pretty!



These they have in a dark mahogany with a tan/bone colored accent, which I may like better (this green is my eye color and may look weird). These are my favorite, but the sales guy says that he is reluctant to sell them because they are "sooo Portland" and that "everyone has some like them." I think I may be okay with that. I've rocked this style for 10+ years across the country, I can do it here.



I found these online and feel they are essentially a sleek, metal streamline version of mine now. I like the turtle-plastic chunk of mine, but would be willing to try these.



I'm a sucker for the shape, even though I generally go for something slightly more geometric that straight round cat.

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Alas, now I'm fighting the funds I need in order to make things work. Questioning my want to begin my half-sleeve with needing glasses, what I had initially dedicated my tax refund to. Or whether I should do either with the wedding expenses rapidly approaching.

In the words of Liz Lemon: Blurg.

30 Rock

We've been watching 30 Rock season 1 in order, a few episodes a week thanks to Netflix (and the lame programming on current TV).



Now, I was reluctant to begin with. I have only seen a few shows before diving into the season discs and was not sure how much I liked the heavy-handed comedy, absurdist nature and kitschy music.

Every episode, however, has been speaking to me in terms I never expected. I'm not talking about laughing at Jack or Tracy, but in some insane and ridiculous empathy that I have for Liz Lemon.



The first episode (not in season 1) I ever saw of this show was about Lemon's school reunion, which she classified as mortifying since she was bullied. Jack accompanies her and soon realizes that Lemon was not bulled, but was the bully. The flashback of her character harassing and making sarcastic jokes about her classmates struck me hard because I could see myself in the same position. This constant yearning for acceptance and friends, yet a ferocious mouth that attempts to vindicate the loneliness and drive away the rejection.

At that moment I began to see myself in Lemon (as did my husband, strangely). In Fey. Geeky and insecure, intelligent and silly, altogether lovable and misunderstood. A good person who in stressful situations has her lines crossed. A caustic tongue to keep people away for fear of them discovering vulnerability. It seems almost too good to be a character sketch, a ploy, a development of writers in a room somewhere. I can't help but believe that art is imitating Fey's life here. And mine, albeit far less successful, attractive and thin.

And so, episode after episode I learn more about myself through Liz Lemon. Learn that 30 Rock is an approaching age that I can no longer forgive. A personality type I've solidified and now have to trust and handle. That it is okay to be a bitch. It is okay to stand up for yourself. It is okay to revise personal history and be deluded. To be an extroverted personality stuck in an introverted mentality...



...so long as you look good doing it.

Americana.

NPR has always had a central spot in my commuting entertainment. Since I'm no longer driving and don't own a radio, I've turned to downloading podcasts. What began with a few NPR programs that I would update each week, has now turned into a dozen NPR podcasts I update almost daily, stretching back into the archives and keeping the voices of Terry Gross* and everyone else smoothly passing through my ears.

Last week I caught an older interview with Bruce Springsteen, the news preparing for the hype of the Super Bowl performance. The interview was from far before the Presidential Inauguration and concert, for which were still very vivid in my brain. Springsteen with his guitar cocked, his breath visible in the cold, his hair disheveled, backed with a choir on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. ...Come on rise up... streaming through my brain, clenching my chest, tightening my throat. The honor and importance of the song, the image. The time.

I'm not a Springsteen fan. I've never really listened to his music seriously, though I can sing along with a handful of his songs because I was exposed to them via radio and tv. I remember liking the theme he wrote for the movie Philadelphia, owning the cassette single, but never buying any actual records.

Yet, as he spoke and laughed and the song clips played, I couldn't help but feel my arms run cold, my breath grow hot and my eyes well with tears. There was such an incredible nostalgia associated with that voice, with the guitar, with the ramble he sometimes has as he tells his stories. I was torn between the iconic vision of Springsteen in a tee-shirt and jeans, an American flag bandanna hanging from his pocket and the image of him in a woolen coat, singing for the pride of our nation, for the hope and potential that I never really heard in his songs until that moment.

For the first time in my life I felt an overwhelming amount of patriotism, love for being American, and heart-warmth for the message of the middle class. After having decided the American Dream was perhaps the biggest fallacy in the last century, I felt for just a second that maybe I had gotten it all wrong. ...Come on rise up... as a call to arms, to hope and change like we had invited on Election Day.

My temples tight, I took to the cold of the street and walked from the bus. Trying to hold back the tears, I lamented that I couldn't share this moment with anyone. Couldn't describe it later. Couldn't make sense of it for the life of me. As I rounded the driveway of my job I felt defeated and invigorated at once, devastated that the moment was to be swallowed into my everyday, but touched that for those minutes I had a connection with someone new, that a message from years ago, decades ago, still applied. That I was getting older and wiser. That I understood better than anyone, at that very moment, what was in Springsteen's heart.

Approaching the time clock I said goodbye, wiped my eyes, and put my headphones away. With a deep breath it was all packed away. Forever.


*Bonus Trivia: Terry Gross's husband is jazz critic and journalist Francis Davis, who just won a Grammy for the liner notes in Miles Davis 50th anniversary edition of “Kind Of Blue." No wonder she can interview musicians and talk the talk!

Sardines.

Why I Am Not a Painter

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.

--Frank O'Hara (1971)

Our evenings are typically lackluster. The day of work is so demanding that come time to be home together, we fall apart on the couch and pretend the next day won’t arrive.

I’ve had the flu for three days, homebound. The TV and I have reaffirmed the relationship we developed twenty-some-odd years ago, the warm hum keeping me secure and entertained. Cable has become an outlet almost as strong as alcohol. I can scroll ahead, remind myself of programming, play the field. Watching garbage that quiets my brain and makes time pass quickly (which isn't easy when you can't breathe, cough or eat).

Stuck on the couch, the dog laying across my lap, I came across How Its Made on the Discovery Channel. Sardines! They were going to show how they packed sardines. I exclaimed this to the boy across the room and he actually had a bit of excitement, too.

Yet as we watched we were thoroughly let down. Why were they so big? No, I can't tell which have been scaled. How could they cook them with the cans open? What was that red sauce? I began to fill in the gaps with personal story telling, my experience with sardines.

It only created more gaps. When was it that I bought cans of sardines and shredded them on salads? I remember where I lived, with whom I lived, but not what had inspired such an unlikely purchase and creation. Toted in my lunch to work like a napalm bomb in reusable plastic containers.

Like many of the stories I open my mouth to mention, I realize that I no longer remember the details. The moments. The reasons. I forget that, though the boy and I have forged a great, new future together, that our past is essentially our own and alone. Memories packed like sardines, washed away with brine and full of sharp bones of reality.