shared psychosis

Anyone whose seen the film Heavenly Creatures understands the horror and power of a shared psychosis. In the film, two somewhat disaffected teenage girls lose themselves in a fantasy world and somehow convince themselves that the fantasy is reality by sheer dint of their collective imagination. Eventually, the power of these two fearsome and fanciful minds bring devastation to the lives of both girls, and to that of their families (see the movie -I refuse to spoil it. But I warn you- it's wonderfully horrible).

I thought of this film today, and the concept of a shared psychosis, as I flitted through my friend's Facebook pages, enjoying the candid photos and blurry videos of their children at play. I felt lulled as I was lured into a strange fantasy world filled with happy, gurgling babies and giddy mothers. I sensed myself being taken over, as if by a force (demonic or angelic, only time will tell).

It was like I'd been infected by their disease -as though I'd been charmed into passive submission to the prevailing notion that "women in their 30s must have babies." And it seemed to me a little like we all might be suffering from a shared psychosis. Irving Janis called it "groupthink." And I fear the crowd because, as Soren Kierkegaard sagely determined, "The crowd is untruth."

"Groupthink" is characterized by the way in which individuals in a larger group alter their ideas to fit what they imagine is the consensus of the group. The key here is imagine. Because each individual, if left to their own devises would never come to the same conclusions and would in fact reject the ideas that they imagine are held by the group. But the individual's desire to conform is so great that they act against their better judgment. Frightening stuff, really. The crowd is untruth.

Sometimes it seems that the mother-cult functions in much the same way. And it is likely the partial cause of some postpartum depression. Women realize too late that they have been sold a bill of goods and if they had stopped momentarily to think it through for themselves, they might not have decided with the group after all.

I realize that I'm relating a dark vision here. But I can't be all smiles and joy (and I am half in jest, as ever). I can't help but worry that someday someone will snap their fingers and startle me from my dazed reverie, and I will make a panicked scan of the architecture of my life and wonder in horror at what I have done. Oh -there's no turning back now so it's a senseless and silly train of thought, but I ride it nonetheless and I take you with me...

electric sky

Today we hiked the Green Canyon trail along the Salmon River towards Hunchback Mountain (we turned back just shy of the peak owing to the fatigue of our companion, M's father). Temperatures in the city were predicted to hover in the middle 90s, so we decided to head for the Mt. Hood Wilderness, assuming the higher altitude might mean cooler temperatures and a little relief from the incredible heat wave.

And it was cooler by at least 10 degrees, but the humidity was intense as thunderstorms moved across the mountain range. Loud, rumbling claps of thunder sounded all around us as we climbed the trail and big soggy drops of rain fell from the sky from time to time. The scent of rotting cedar, piney forest floor and decaying moss hung thick in the muggy air. I took deep gulping breaths as we tramped along, enjoying the feeling of moisture in my lungs. It reminded me of summers in the Midwest.

Since we'd gone all that way, we decided to roll up to Timberline Lodge after our hike since M's dad had never been there. The air was electric and the clouds roiled above, heavy and looming. Mt. Jefferson stood bold and majestic in the distance, shrouded by a dense mist and lording over the hoards of rolling, blue hills that filled the space between. Flashes of lightening split the sky and thunder rolled right overhead without skipping a beat. The storm was on top of us. We watched a fire burning just over the horizon, its smoke rising up into the leaden sky and diffusing the air with the smell of burning wood. "I hope we don't burn, like other places around here," I overheard the front desk clerk at the lodge and a chill went up my spine as I imagined being caught out by either lightening or a raging forest fire. I am guessing that the lodge has seen its share of fires from it's great vantage point on the mountain. I can imagine blazes dotting the landscape on all sides. We noted that atop the roof were several tall lightening rods and I dearly hoped that they served their function on this day, if never again.

Amazingly, the snow still climbed up the side of the building and we recalled our visit there last February when our good friends were in town. Then, the lodge was nearly buried, the second story windows looking out into nothing but ice caverns. It felt like being in a strange, wintry cocoon. And here it was, nearly July, and the mucky, dirty snow still covered the ground.

The storm quickened in its intensity and great gusts of wind blew bits of sand and gravel into our eyes as we darted from under cover and made a long, mad dash across the parking lot to our car. I scurried with my shoulders hunched and my head tucked down, somehow believing that if I made myself smaller the lightening wouldn't find me.

We made it off the mountain and back to civilized country. The storm followed us and now I sit in near darkness under that same heavy sky. Thunderstorms are rare in the valley, and I am thrilled to hear the thunder bouncing off the clouds and watch the rains pelt my thirsty garden. As always with a great storm it has brought in its wake new weather, and this time for the better. The temperatures are reading in the mid-70s now and the heat wave has been broken.

lazy morning

This morning K arrived just as the heat started to settle in and smother us. We had planned to bike to the farmer's market downtown, but the thought of biking up the long, slow, east-side hill in 100 degree heat seemed unbearable. So we opted for a walk to the Woodstock Library instead where we perused the stacks and loaded up our backpacks with random offerings. I stocked up on a few tomes on pregnancy (Your Vegetarian Pregnancy, for one) and another book on organic housekeeping (I think it is high time to phase out the Comet). I couldn't resist Voltaire's Candide, a book by Wallace Stegner and John Steinbeck's The Moon is Down. I left a giant collection of Thomas Merton's poetry for another visit -it was simply too big to carry.

We trudged up the street under our burden of books and popped in at an ice-cream shop where K indulged in an espresso ice-cream cone and I opted for the baby-happy non-fat frozen yogurt with blueberries. The sun beat down on us and scalded our necks and shoulders as we meandered through our neighborhood, following signs to various garage and estate sales to peruse the merchandise. I scored a green glass vase for the kitchen and a few books for $.25 each (Annie Dillard and Louis Erdrich for me and a book about the Rolling Stone for M). K and I tried on silly sunglasses at one sale, and settled on some outlandish and glamorous shades (hers in red, mine in a pearly shade of white).

Back at home we guzzled water and shared some with the garden -at least the garden seemed happy with the heat, the eggplants expanding their fuzzy empires and the tomatoes sprouting yellow flowers from every limb.

Soon, a sunshine-induced sleepiness settled in and we turned the fan on high and dozed side by side on top of the coverlet. The bedroom was dark, with dappled light dancing on the walls as the trees outside the window swayed. The sound of traffic on the street and BBQs and lawnmowers lulled us into a cozy nap.

K woke with a start at 2pm, just as I began to drift away. She had somewhere to be and gathered up her things to leave. We hugged goodbye and both remarked how comfortable and homey the morning was, just meandering about and surviving the heat together. She said "Maybe its 'cause your pregnant, but it felt like today was just like a summer day when I was a child at my mom's house." And it did kind of feel like that -familiar, easy and comfortable.

pink plus

I ripped open the cheap Kroger pregnancy test and followed the instructions. The pink intersecting lines materialized quickly before my eyes. In disbelief, I hollered to M and begged him to run to Freddies for another test, just to be sure. (False positives almost never happen, I told myself, it's the false negatives you have to worry about). "The presence of a PLUS sign in the Result Window and a vertical line in the Control Window means you are probably pregnant. The lines may be different shades. They do not have to match." It was pretty clear. Different shade alright, but it was definitely and unarguably a plus sign.

It was a routine maneuver meant to permit the possibility of excessive drinking on our anniversary. My period was due that day and I had originally planned to wait a few days before testing, figuring that if it takes up to a year to conceive (as is the average), I could blow a pretty penny on Kroger 2-for-1 tests in the time it takes. Besides, before this whole whirlwind baby-dream came upon me, I had never been one to pay much attention to my cycle. 28 days? 29 days? I had no way of knowing whether or not I was late -my period was always an awful surprise. But I figured I might want to celebrate my 6-years over a jug of Sangria at Nuestra Cocina later that evening and it would be best to know beforehand than feel guilty tomorrow if I found out I was indeed pregnant.

I made a few frantic phone calls, to C first and then to B. B said she knew all along. I guess it was my raging bitchiness that gave it away. C just chuckled and welcomed me to her world.

M returned with the 2nd test and force-fed me a giant glass of water to stimulate the whole process. I choked back a giant glass and waited for the urge to pee. Another test, another instant pink plus.

"Ohmigod, I feel nauseous!" I exclaimed. I theorized in jest that all first trimester nausea is probably just nerves and little else.

I whined half-joking, "Now I'll never have another chance to be skinny!" to which M snarkily replied, "Well, you were pretty much beyond that anyhow." And he's right.

And I had never in all my life wanted to binge drink more than I did at that precise moment when binge drinking was forbidden me.

We made a few phone calls. I know many are of the opinion that one ought to wait through the first few months before announcing a pregnancy to the world, but I am not in agreement. If I miscarry, I will need the support of my friends and family. I can't imagine keeping my joys and griefs secret for long from those that I love. And so we told them all. My family, M's family. It was sheer joy to hear his mother scream and beg him to take good care of me (I think I could get used to this gentle solicitousness!). I laughed to hear his sister, muffled and fuzzy over the phone line, yelling "I'm so psyched!!" over and over again.

At the restaurant we took our seats and I swear I felt like I was glowing. I imagined that everyone in the place knew my secret. I felt like I belonged to a club that had always excluded me. I felt regal, important, precious, munificent, unstintingly kind and gentle, delicate and graceful as a queen. It was a wonderful feeling.

Later, we lay in bed, talking, dreaming, wondering what the hell we'd done. We flipped through a few books that C had lent me when I visited her in California. We read about what I can expect next week (nausea), and in the weeks to come (massive and unimaginable changes). We asked each other if we were happy, after all our angst and denial and strange, mixed feelings about the whole thing. And I think we are happy -and excited, astounded, terrified, delighted, bewildered, buoyant and blessed.

anniversary

Six years ago today, M and I took the Tri-Met bus #9 to the Multnomah County Courthouse in downtown Portland and got hitched by a female justice of the peace.

I wore a long, pale-yellow, embroidered summery dress. He was probably in some sort of business casual, although we have no photos from the day to prove otherwise.

Our witnesses were court appointed since we hadn't made any friends in town who would stand with us. It was just us, all alone out here in the wild west -we'd only been in town for a few weeks, fresh from our adventures in Spain and Morocco.

After a 10 minute ceremony, we took the #9 home by way of New Seasons and celebrated with some cheap red wine, a baguette and cheese. We ended the night with a video rental -Oliver Stone's JFK, if you can believe it.

The anti-climax of the entire event makes me smile to think of it now. And even then, it seemed extremely ironic. We loved the idea of our wedding day being much like an ordinary day. No special event would render us more or less devoted to one another then we were already. It was a piece of paper signifying our commitment in the legal realm, and also to the doubting religious folk in my family who questioned whether M was in for the long haul or not. We sent out postcards after the fact, announcing the date and time. They were hand-made, nonchalant and understated.

Today, 6 years on, we muddle on much as before we married -nonchalant in our affection and light in our demands on one another, easy-going and forgiving. It helps to marry your very best friend.

weeding and potting up

M has been obsessed with the potential monetary value of all the seedling volunteers in our garden. Every time I pluck a fuzzy, crowded borage seedling or a tenacious valerian plant from the earth and toss it on the compost pile he cringes "That's $2.00 right there!" See, our local farmer's market has a "community table" to which neighbors might bring their extra vegetables and plants to sell, and the market takes a small cut for their troubles. "So, if we charge $2.00 each for small plants, then that's two, four, six -right here in this bed! -Check it out! - I see maybe $30.00!" Since this discovery, M has viewed these dogged and ubiquitous sprouts in a whole new light and he will not let me weed them in the manner to which I am accustomed.

But this afternoon upon arriving home from work I determined that I was going to weed these suckers, and if M wanted to pot them all up and make his fortune it was now or never. We got to work and in short order filled up several flats with tiny pots of borage, valerian, oregano, clary sage, feverfew, calendula, nasturtiums, sunflowers and st. john's wort. On my knees in a mess of sunflowers, I questioned whether the market for obscure medicinal herbs was as robust as M imagined. I thought that one flat might do the trick nicely. But he was finally satisfied and I was permitted at long last to yank the remaining "weeds" from among my favored flowers, vegetables and herbs.

Weeding in the far-back, semi-shady garden bed, the long-neglected one that lies covered in a dense mat of black nightshade (or some other indistinguishable horror), I pulled heavy, violent handfuls and caught the sudden scent of a familiar herb and regretted my move. I slowed down, picking carefully, and was startled to discover the bed of dill hidden beneath the ugly, tangled mess. I tried to take greater care as I crawled along the rows. You never know what you might find in a garden so messy as mine.

As I traipsed in and out of the garden gate overhung by hop vines, the vines raked my arms like razor wire until I lopped the rambling cords and trained them to be nicer to passer-bys. I tied up the tomatoes, and moved things around as usual (sometimes it feels that is all I do). I cropped the dangling apple branches, heavy with swelling green fruit. I am anxious to cobble together a bit more light for the beans and squash growing under its arching canopy. The soaker hoses squeaked and gurgled at the four corners of my small world.

Now I settle in for an evening read (Jude the Obscure gets the dog-ear treatment tonight) and I reflect on a fruitful evening --dirt crammed under my bitten nails, crimson stripes stinging my arms, and at least $100.00 worth of weeds to sell at the market come Sunday.

speechless

"I feel like I am stuck inside my head."

There. I finally said it out loud.

The phrase had been skipping like a scratched record in my mind, over and over for the past few days. I could never seem to spit it out. I was starting to feel crazy.

Monday evening and M and I were sitting under one of the giant conifers that punctuate the landscape at Brentwood Park, enjoying a rest and a brew on yet another of our recession-ready BYOB hikes. We circled the vast expanse of green for a long time, trying to find the right tree to settle under. Mothers and their kids were crawling all over the place and you never can tell the vigilantes from the regular folks. Some mothers just flip when they see someone sucking beer in the park, and the last thing we needed was some condescending speechifying courtesy of the Portland PD, so we tried to keep the bottles on the DL.

"What do you mean?," M asked.

"Well, when someone asks 'What are you thinking?' I have no answer. And it is not because I am not thinking anything. Its more that I am speechless. I open my mouth and the words won't come. It is like there aren't any words for what I am thinking."

And these words still did not suffice.

I have thought about it since and come to meager conclusions, tentative, slender:

I feel like I am afraid to think too deeply about the changes that are coming -that if I think too steadily and focus too minutely I will lose my nerve. And I don't want to talk too much about it. I certainly do not want to write too much about it. I never wanted to be one of those freakish mothers who lose all grip on reality, and I feel like, mother or not, I am already losing it. I am scared to look too closely at this thing I am becoming for fear that I will not like her -- that she will be boring and staid or crazy and annoying or pathetic and out of touch. It doesn't make any sense, I know. Does fear ever make any sense? No-- but it certainly has a way of tempering all joy and smudging the shine out of happy eyes.

And then I get to thinking that maybe writing about it is just the thing it needs.

symptoms

How frustrating to discover that PMS has essentially the same symptoms as pregnancy: sore boobs, bloating, the munchies, drowsiness, chronic bitchiness, nausea.

How strange to feel that I simply cannot wait until the weekend when I might know for certain, yes or no. The distraction is killing me.

How annoying to have spent my entire adult life trying not to get pregnant -and now this idiotic, fanciful, senseless desire has come upon me and devoured all reason.

I'm hungry.

Also -I have discovered that this decision is the ultimate source of my profound state of distraction. Meditation on this incredible life change has given me a sickening case of short-timers with respect to nearly every aspect of my life. Why make plans? Who knows what tomorrow brings? Let's go for a walk and talk about nothing in particular.

My whole life is waiting.

berry season

The raspberry cage is proving a delightful success. The cane are kept from dragging in the dust by a series of ghetto-rigged rails mounted on a make-shift open box-type arrangement (a photo is in order as my descriptive abilities fail me yet again). We've always had a decent harvest, but usually wound up crunching a few bits of gravel with each mouthful of juicy garnet deliciousness. But now, each cane rises and leans against the supports, its berries glinting in the late afternoon sunshine, begging me to jostle them and let them drop into my open palm.

I picked a small bowl full to share when M arrives home. I will leave the cherries on the tree for him to discover for himself.

fast eddie obama?

I posted the link to David Brook's editorial yesterday not because I agreed with it, but because I was puzzled by it -and also, because I was intrigued by much in the article that seemed somewhat new to me. I wondered to what degree some of those issues mentioned might hurt Obama's chances of attaining to the presidency.

On the one hand, it would be foolish for the first serious black candidate to turn his back on the piles of money that he seems capable of raising, independent of the official system of campaign finance. And in some ways, his fund-raising efforts have been a grass-roots variation of the "public" system, considering much of his money has come in the form of small donations from regular people like you and me (and as a supporter, I have to admit that there is some truth in Brook's comment that the democratic activists "were only interested in campaign-finance reform only when the Republicans had more money" -because it is exciting to see him raking in the dough). But for the democratic candidate to trump the republicans in terms of funding, and then spurn the finance system that John McCain has spent his lifetime in politics defending seems a recipe for some serious spin on the part of the republican attack machine. And David Brook's article is likely only the first in a long line.

In many ways, Obama's Machiavellian calculations have served to preserve a somewhat tenuous candidacy. Obama is smart- very smart, and he knows that a black candidate for president in America cannot afford to let his guard down, even for a minute. The Reverend Wright controversy proved that like nothing else. But I think there is a hazard in appearing too calculating, too slick, too studied.

My mother sent me a video the other day, one that has been making the rounds of the uninformed and gullible. She included a link and a brief comment: "Thought it would be wise to be aware....it will open your eyes." It opened my eyes alright -to how open to deception the majority of America is. The video was a summation of the usual libel that Fox News has been replaying: that Barack Obama is secretly a Muslim, that he refuses to hold his hand on his heart during the national anthem, that he is soft on terror and may even be a terrorist sympathizer, that he eschew the mandatory wearing of flag lapel pins (seriously!). "In the age of Islamic terrorism, is America really willing to elect a man with not one, not two, but three Islamic names?" (incredulous voice-over while images of Osama bin Laden flit across the screen).

America is already ripe to distrust Obama, to imagine that he is some sort of wolf in sheep's clothing, largely because of the color of his skin (although my mother denies this factors for her, of course). Does it help or hurt his chances when he appears to be scheming and shrewd? Wouldn't any white candidate be allowed to be as scheming and shrewd as is needed to win - and in fact be lauded for his/her great political skill? Is the same characteristics in a black candidate somehow more threatening to Americans already uncomfortable with his difference?

I think David Brook's article raises these questions -for right or for wrong.

slick willy 2?

"All I know for sure is that this guy is no liberal goo-goo. Republicans keep calling him naïve. But naïve is the last word I’d use to describe Barack Obama. He’s the most effectively political creature we’ve seen in decades. Even Bill Clinton wasn’t smart enough to succeed in politics by pretending to renounce politics.
.
"The Two Obamas " -- David Brooks -- yesterday's New York Times

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/06/20/opinion/20brooks.html?em&ex=1214280000&en=1c5f1b8c238d49d2&ei=5087%0A

experiments in lacto-fermentation

Last Sunday, on a whim, we decided to make a batch of sauerkraut. It started with the yogurt water -that watery liquid known as whey that is leftover after whole milk yogurt is strained overnight to make yogurt cheese. In accordance with our recession plan and our on-going efforts to avoid waste whenever possible, I got to wondering what might be made from whey. Throw in a simple Google search, a leftover partial head of cabbage, and a bike ride to Freddie's for some caraway seed and we had the makings of a simple experiment in lacto-fermentation.

It took all of 12 minutes to shred the cabbage, toss in the caraway and sea salt, drizzle in a few tablespoons of whey and then beat the whole mess to a leaky pulp with a bottle of olive oil (lacking a wooden mallet, I improvised). I mashed the bulk into a quart jar and settled it onto a dark shelf to molder for three days as the recipe indicated.

I'll admit that I felt slightly apprehensive. I am not the sort who will knowingly and willingly eat old, rotting, back-of-the-fridge food (M is far braver than I), and food that is left out for days on end is typically out of the question. But we've brewed fantastic beer before, and I've canned my share of summer vegetables and have luckily avoided botulism to date. Cognitively, I know that this is just another sort of fermentation and it will likely turn out OK, but my stomach turns nonetheless.

The three days have just now passed and as I skeptically unscrewed the lid I was surprised when I was greeted by the salty, familiar aroma of sauerkraut. The whole mixture bubbled and M declared, "Ah look! -it's fermenting!" We both tasted tiny forkfuls and smiled to find the flavor delightful (although I can't say for sure I know what botulism tastes like). I closed up the boiling, fizzing mess and stuck it in the fridge to await the next opportunity for Boca brats on the grill. And I think I know what to do with the whey from now on.

new neighbors

M's father, T, is due to arrive today. T has spent the last several days driving across the country from Cleveland, Ohio with a French poodle in the passenger seat. He was rerouted a few times due to the massive flooding in Iowa, but as of last evening he had made it as far as Rock Springs, Wyoming and should be rolling into Portland sometime tonight if all goes as planned.

He and his wife are moving out this way and hope to start building the home of their dreams on the 10 acres we acquired in Yamhill. I say hope because the project has stalled momentarily owing to budgetary constraints (i.e. they designed a house they cannot afford to build and now that the monstrous building quotes have come in they've been shocked back to the drawing board -hopefully with a more realistic approach this time around).

It will be strange to have family in this town. Since we moved West in 2002, I've always declared that 1700 miles is the perfect distance from the obligations and annoyances of family. But T is a mellow, easy-going guy and we have enjoyed his many visits over the past year and have come to anticipate his move with pleasure. And I confess that having family around makes the thought of adding to our own little family that much more fun.

the fabulous foster road

gray malaise

Excuse the extended absence. The plodding procession of gray days finally took their toll. And, of course, now that the dark days are over and the sun is finally shining I can scarcely enjoy it because my spirit is so beaten and bruised. Perhaps a day in the sun will return me to a state of wonder and excitement - although what I would really rather do is curl with a book under covers. It is hard to come out of hibernation.

the dog-eared pages of john steinbeck

I have a nasty habit of dog-earing the best loved pages of any book that I read, library books included. So, before I return John Steinbeck's East of Eden to the Woodstock library, I figure I will take a moment to document a few of my favorite passages:

Time interval is a strange and contradictory manner in the mind. It would be reasonable to suppose that a routine time or an eventless time would seem interminable. It should be so, but it is not. It is the dull eventless times that have no duration whatever. A time splashed with interest, wounded with tragedy, crevassed with joy --that's the time that seems long in the memory. And this is right when you think about it. Eventlessness has no posts to drape duration on. From nothing to nothing is no time at all. (pg. 54)

One day Samuel strained his back lifting a bale of hay, and it hurt his feelings more than his back, for he could not imagine a life in which Sam Hamilton was not privileged to lift a bale of hay. He felt insulted by his back, almost as he would have been if one of his children has been dishonest. (pg. 252)

He looked up at the sky. "Lord, how the day passes! It's like a life --so quickly when we don't watch it and so slowly when we do. No," he said, "I'm having enjoyment. And I made a promise to myself that I would not consider enjoyment a sin. I take a pleasure in inquiring into things. I've never been content to pass a stone without looking under it. And it is a black disappointment to me that I can never see the far side of the moon." (pg. 265)

...And the books that came into the house, some of them secretly --well, Samuel rode lightly on top of a book and be balanced happily among ideas the way a man rides white rapids in a canoe. But Tom got into a book, crawled and groveled between the covers, tunneled like a mole among the thoughts, can came up with the book all over his face and hands. (pg. 280)

"I can't tell you how to live your life," Samuel said, "although I do be telling you how to live it. I know that it might be better for you to come out from under your might-have-beens, into the winds of the world. And while I tell you, I am myself sifting my memories, the way men pan the dirt under a barroom floor for the bits of gold dust that fall between the cracks. It's small mining --small mining. You're too young a man to be panning memories, Adam. You should be getting yourself some new ones, so that the mining will be richer when you come to age." (pg. 294)

sure about insurance

I spent the afternoon swinging from the phone tree at Aetna. M and I are looking at the possibility of switching to a superior group health insurance plan through our employer's larger sister company in Seattle. To date we've been purchasing health insurance as individuals on the open market, and our employer has been getting a steal by simply reimbursing us for our measly monthly payments. Meanwhile, our personal out-of-pocket expenses skyrocket (we are on an 80/20 plan up to $8K!) and the whole arrangement amounts to little more than a massive pay cut when all the numbers are tallied. It is a rotten deal and we are anxious to remedy the situation.

(I have to note as a somewhat snarky aside -when I mentioned our shitty health care situation to my republican cousin I was advised to simply "get a job with a big company that offers good insurance!" well, duh! jeez! why didn't I think of that? -getting a new job is so easy -especially in Portland!? -besides, I don't really like my current job anyhow?!? - oh, and its also considered great form to get a new job with a wonderful company and then get pregnant!?! -oh, that's right- the solution to our country's health care crisis is to abandon the mom-and-pops and go 100% multi-national??...but I digress...and show my true, sarcastic and evil nature...).

Ahem...so, anyhow: we have gotten the go-ahead to switch over effective July 1st. But before I make any massive life-altering changes, I wanted to get an actual human from Aetna on the telephone to answer a few basic questions about "pre-existing conditions." My question was simple: should I find myself pregnant before July 1st would I be shit-out-of-luck when it comes to getting a delivery covered under my new plan with Aetna? Seems like a simple question, right? -well, it isn't. I spent an hour calling phone number after phone number, pushing 2 for membership questions, sitting on hold, pushing 4 for an operator, hanging up, getting hung up on, starting over. One line, on which I'd held for upwards of 10 minutes, finally interrupted its own elevator music to inform me that "owing to unforeseen circumstances, an operator will not be available to take your call," further, I was advised by the robotic voice to "try back at a later time." Unforeseen circumstances? -like what? -a bomb threat at the Aetna headquarters (I hope...because this is how angry I am by this point!)?? Meanwhile, as I sat and stewed my great hope in the superiority of Aetna's customer service swiftly disappeared -and my aggravation at the sorry state of health care in this country reached new heights. I wanted to scream: I can't help but feel like these assholes have us all by the balls and therefore they can jerk us around however they like and no one will ever hold them to account!!

I finally got someone named Carolyn on the phone in Fresno, California. Carolyn informed me in no uncertain terms that no, pregnancy is not considered a pre-existing condition, provided I am joining a group plan (i.e. see above regarding how self-insured people get the short end of the stick). She started to get peevish with me, seeing as I asked her the same question 10 times, each time more emphatic, but with slightly different wording, different hypotheticals, etc. I was not going to hang up the phone without being absolutely 100% certain. Her voice started to rise as she repeated herself over and over again. I exclaimed by way of explanation, "birth is expensive! -sorry for being paranoid, but I would hate to be left holding them bag on $30K!"

She seemed to understand by the 10th time I asked, and I have to admit I feel sorry for these health insurance company operators who get thrashed by every caller while the big bosses rake in millions and never have to talk to the plebes. She even provided her name so I could quote her if it comes to that -not like that means anything. They could still screw me over, whatever Carolyn says.

So, in the end, should I be happy that I am switching to a better plan? -I confess I am mostly just nervous.

garden agenda

The day is best that begins with a detailed and orderly to-do list, and so without further ado, here is mine:

* Gingerly un-crowd the lamb's ear and the anise hyssop.

* Bury the crocosmia corms in a sensible place.

* Carefully plant out the schizanthus, columbine, english daisies, lupine, sunflowers, leeks and marigold seedlings in such a way as to avoid pulling them as weeds eventually.

* Direct seed a second round of lemon cucumbers and pole beans -whisper a prayer for the return of the sun.

* Direct seed lettuce, radishes, carrots and kale.

* Pot up the marjoram - and any other mysterious seedlings whose snarled tendrils lie languishing in the back room.

* Deliver a truckload of debris to compost heaven.

* Sink tubs of beer among the plants to lure the slugs to a sad drowning death- I hope they like Full Sail IPA.

* Harvest a zillion snow peas.

autumn in spring

I putzed in the garden after work today, trudging around under heavy cloud cover while a drizzle threatened and a chill breeze kept me bundled up in a thick sweatshirt. It felt just like autumn in the garden. The fierce winds of this afternoon have launched piles of scrubby brown bits from the boughs of the enormous conifer in my neighbors yard and I fear my garden got a big dose of acidity it likely doesn't need. The beans are terribly ill -they do not like temperatures this cool. The peppers and eggplants that I put out weeks ago are shriveled and slug-bitten and in desperate need of a little sunshine. And I am too, I'm afraid.

I am trying to look on the bright side of all this gray. A cloudy weekend means I can get much accomplished out of doors and I won't run the risk of a brutal sunburn. Plus, M is always far more amenable to helping me out if he isn't roasting hot in the summer sun. And the good news is that despite a little slug damage and the dreadful chill, everything is popping up like mad. My motherwort has flopped and fallen across the path from the weight of its leonine flower heads and the feverfew have turned miraculously into giant, lacy, arching bushes. Calendula, borage and nasturtium are coming up everywhere, some in unwelcome places, but thankfully they are easy to pull. The beans struggle a bit, but perhaps I can reseed where they have failed. Same for the cucumbers.

I think tonight I will hunker down with a good brew and try to polish off East of Eden...

the big c

One of my dearest, oldest friends just found out that she's got the big C. Skin cancer. Melanoma. The doc says that on a scale from 0 to 5 she's a 1, so it should be no big deal. But it is a big deal. It's a big fucking deal. "We aren't old enough to have to deal with this stuff," we say. But the truth is, no one or no thing cares how old you are -Cancer, god, AIDS, guns, lightning, genocide, drunk drivers, Parkinson's, and exposure. People die. Terrible things happen. Indiscriminately -without precision or design. This is the way.

She called me second, after her husband. I am not sure if I did OK, if I lived up to her great trust in me, if I said the right things, whatever it was that she needed to hear. Her voice shook and trespassed into panic a few times, but she reeled in her emotions with a firm hand. I imagined her forcing up her chin. I pictured a feeble effort at a careless shrug. I think I said, "I am sure it will all be OK." And I tried to mean it. And it probably will be OK, statistically. But it is so hard to see yourself in statistics. She told me that she looked up her kind of cancer on Wikipedia and discovered she's got an 90% survival rate. She never thought she'd have to think about her chances of survival, she said. And it sounded to strange to hear her say it. And I was thinking, "well, as far as I can tell we have a 0% chance of survival in any case, whichever way you cut it -eventually the bad news will come -or it won't -either way we'll be gone."

I said it would all be OK. And I tried to mean it. And it likely will. But nothing will be the same from now on. Every speckle, freckle or spot will be cause for alarm. I will wear sunscreen from now on. I will hold everyone just a little closer and for a whole lot longer whenever I say goodbye.

recession-proof living

M and I have been economizing. Or at least we've been trying to. It is difficult to think up things to cut since we already live in a rather modest way. But I admit I do indulge in a few precious luxuries on occasion (usually of a sensual nature, having to do mostly with wine, food and simple creature comforts), but an exercise in austerity is always a welcome challenge. I relish taking a long, penetrating look at those things in my life that I think I need and watching how readily they dissolve and diminish upon inspection into small and trifling wants, like baubles and bibelots that I could take or leave on a whim. And so my needs have changed.

I have given up my Willamette Valley Pinot Noir in favor of Bridgeport IPA, purchased by the case at Costco. Fancy cheeses have been replaced with standard fare. Organic and local is still a must, but less out-of-season items, less of everything in general. Nothing goes to rot in our house anymore. Scrappy, random, everything salads are the new staple, if only because no vegetable is unwelcome - the leftover onion middles, the broccoli stalks, the blanched overripe green beans -all are accepted in the giant, mixed-up salad bowl. Our kitchen, always an adventure, has become a fresh, creative place. I have never been much of a mall shopper, so there is no great sacrifice there (last night M told me it is nice that his wife doesn't "spend all his money" -it seems that is a common gripe in husbanddom?). We are walking or biking for all of our around-home every-day trips (groceries, video rental, etc.) and we have abandoned our long, meandering afternoon walks that always end at a brew pub. Oh -don't worry -the walks are still on, but now we carry the brews from home, find a snug, pleasant spot along the trail and make our own party.

Yesterday evening, we wandered through the Reed "Lake" wetland trails (the Minnesotan in me puts Oregon's idea of a "lake" in mental quotations -it is a swamp really, a mucky, mosquito infested bog -but it's lovely still I suppose if you've got nothing else). Trekking along on the northern flank of the "lake," we came across a little waterfall, rushing and thundering and drowning out all sounds of the city that surrounded us. Perched on a rock ledge, we cracked a few (local) Thunderhead IPAs (purchased only moments before ice-cold from the cooler at Safeway) and settled in to enjoy the recession.

old man of storr

Yesterday, as I wobbled down from the top of Dog Mountain, I got to thinking about my sore knee. I had surgery a few years back to snip out a torn medial meniscus, and it has healed up rather nicely considering. I blew out my knee many years ago when I slipped and fell on the greasy restaurant kitchen floor where I was working as a waitress. I limped for about 6 months and it took a long while for me to recover. And I never really did, thus the surgery became necessary at long last.

But I recall an even earlier instance - the very first moment that my poor knee gave me trouble: the pain began just after I ran down the hill from the Old Man of Storr at breakneck speeds hoping to catch the last ferry off of the Isle of Skye. I know- it sounds fantastic -and it was...the whole of my living back then was fantastic and magical and amazing and strange.

I was in Scotland to attend the University of St. Andrews. I spent my weekends ceilidh dancing and lapping up Guinness with currant syrup, while weeknights I indulged a nasty habit of chocolate oranges, endless cokes and salt-and-vinegar crisps while mulling over Anselm's proofs and the novels of Virginia Woolf. Occasionally, I would venture afield with friends, rolling down one-lane roads on the wrong side to catch a little country adventure.

This time, I was touring the magical, mystical Isle of Skye off the west coast of Scotland with my boyfriend, T. We were captivated by the place, and so we lingered too long atop the mountain. We fooled around, taking photographs, nestling into cozy nooks in the rocks, feeling the spongy, mossy grass under our feet. We noted the late hour and in a giddy, frantic panic took off down the mountain on a mad, childish race to the bottom. We bounded down like hoofed creatures, laughing all the way, leaping and rearing and tripping about. And the terrain was forgiving and kind, the grass soft and springy...at least that was what I thought. I was only 22 at the time, but the damage was done. And dear, doting T carried me on his back for the rest of our travels whenever we had a hill to descend.

So, my knee gives me trouble but it just might be worth it. Memories like these are the kind you can't live without. I think I would give up all four limbs, one by one, to keep my memories...should it ever come to that. ..lord willing it doesn't...

dog mountain

We slogged up the steep flanks of Dog Mountain today. It was a grueling, sweaty, miserable ascent, but well worth it for both the swarms of wildflowers and the endless views of majestic Columbia Gorge. K and V joined us, although K stopped often on the way uphill to catch her breath and suck water. And I admit the trail was steep and exhausting, but coming down was by far the tougher for my tender, touchy knees. But M and I have developed intricate strategies to get me down off of a mountain with minimal suffering, such as a ridiculous mini-switchback technique, a manner of walking that looks rather like a horse, and last but not least, the ol' lean-on-me routine. It isn't pretty, but it saves tears.

We didn't actually summit Dog Mountain. The gorge was ravaged today by the fierce winds for which it is known, and the summit was shrouded in a dense, rainy and bitterly cold cloud. We were within shouting distance when we turned back, and even 600 ft shy of the peak we were shivering and wind-tired and ready for a beer at the nearest possible brew pub. Some hikers passed by and swore up and down that we missed something magical by skipping the summit. They said that they sat there, perched atop the mountain, eating sandwiches in the middle of the cloud, and every so often the clouds would break for a moment and a big vista would appear through a small crack in the heavy cover, and then the clouds would close again, covering all. I didn't think that sounded like the best place to eat a sandwich.

Although we skipped the summit, we were still able to enjoy the myriad wildflowers that have burst into vibrant blossom with the recently receding snowline. Bright, golden balsam root blanketed the steep hillsides, while salmon-pink Indian paintbrush and periwinkle spikes of lupine poked through in bright dashes. It was magnificent to behold the endless views to the east and to the west framed in radiant color.


We returned to Portland via Hood River. We stopped at a few wineries to sample mediocre gorge wines (I am eternally spoiled by some lovely Willamette Valley pinots) and ended our gorge visit with a fantastic IPA called "Hop Lava" at Double Mountain Brewery. All told, it was a lovely wandering day without agenda -my favorite sort of day.

lamb's ear