Outpost of Normalcy

I feel a little odd today.  I've been busy and now I'm not so much.  And it seems a little: blank.

Last Saturday, I helped run a sheeshee auction for a hospital in Bangladesh, plus a certain Club.  I got pulled into it by an amazing old man who loves my stories thereby qualifying him as awesome. In addition, his awesomeness also comes from being a surgeon who developed some prosthetic devices and with the money from that, founded this hospital in Bangladesh.  I've run auctions before but this time, instead of doing all the 6 months of drudgerous labors required to set it up, I simply popped in on the night of and told all the volunteers what to do.  I'd forgotten how good I am at that!  And I joyfully received the kuddos for a job well done.  Joyfully, because that kind, any kind, of thanks and recognition is lacking in my current position.

Thirteen of the volunteers were teens, and I was surprised to find myself liking them. I haven't worked with teens, nor barely glanced at their surly faces since I was one. These kids came from a poor, rural area, and from horror stories ... while supposedly waiting for "real life" to begin.  They were amazing, competent, hard working, helpful.  Of the three non-disadvantaged teens, two were gorgeous and frankly dumb as a box of rocks.  When I introduced them to their third co-volunteer for the job of "runners", they all just stood around, staring at the floor, the ceiling, whatever.  "Do you know each other already?" I asked. GROAN!!    You've done business before, I see.

Two volunteer boys were talking about how unfair it was that girls can hold hand and kiss and it's all just silly messing around.  But if boys do the same thing, they're called gay and made fun of.  And then one boy turned to his friend, "That's all we're going to say about that.  THAT'S ALL.  NOW."  'Cuz that's the discreet way of dealing with it.  Trying to help ease the awkwardity, I told them about the physical affection among men in India, holding hands and walking with their arms around each other, meaning nothing other than that they were friends.  And I told them about my gay friend who went to India with me and how he spent two months trying to figure out "The Code": how to tell who was gay.  I didn't care one way or another, but this guy was obsessed, and when he found out, it was a secret he kept carefully guarded.  And these two boys found this story endearing and attached themselves to me. Oh, god help them.

I also did some doorbelling and phone banking for my friend who made a great showing in her first run for City Counsel, going from a no-name late-in-the-game to 45% of the vote in just a few short months. But anyway, phone banking is weird.  The script I was given didn't roll out of my mouth with any ease, and so I spent a good 25 phone calls, stumbling around, trying to find my voice, stuttering and cringing the whole time because I knew I was interrupting their evening with my clumsy, stuttering spiel. Meanwhile, the guy in the cubicle next to me was clearly experienced, smooth, relaxed, entertaining.  I felt ... inadequate to say the least.  After I'd developed my own a script, I was tickled that guy started stealing my phrases.

And on the home front: I had a relaxing realization: my kids' issues are normal. Sassing, lying about toothbrushing, homework tantrums, complaining about dinner = totally normal. I learned all that from rereading Calving and Hobbes recently.  All the jokes, so familiar, which could mean only one thing, right?  Normal issues (Don't look now, sj but: Calvin? normal?). So, I'm not screwing that up too bad ...so far... it seems.  Ukelele Solo of severe silliness here.

This is not a blizzard, just a perty hoar frost

And there was Halloween, which I might have forgotten in all the hecticity around here.  But thank GOD for pictures! Coyote had two costumes, having lost most of his stuffing at the Sunday night Girl Scout Unicef party and having little left for Halloween night. We joined Coyote and his friend and his friend's mom and his friend's dad who both could be called "Ex's".  It wasn't as awkward as I feared.  The male had on a handle bar mustache, a subject I just didn't broach because who knew if it was standard procedure, divorce fodder or just for Halloween. Turns out it was for Halloween, thank god. They took us to MANITO.  THE double boulevard de jour swarmed with hundreds, perhaps thousands of ghouls, wizards and Darth Vader.  The street was blocked off for a 50+ practiced dancers of all ages and contumes doing the Thriller Dance (said breathlessly) beneath spotlights and big speakers. Ghost Blue had her first non-parental Halloween night out with her friend, running amuck in a more/less gated community, getting FULL SIZE candy bars... all of which I had to confiscate, obviously.  Huck was a handsome devil.  I was an earth goddess/ 1970's bridesmaid for the party but Sargeant Pepper for trick or treating.  The change was due to me wanting to be warm, of all things, so I wore the Soviet sailors coat I bought off a sailor in Red Square for five American dollars in a secret alley deal back in 1992 when it was all collapsing.  He also wanted to sell me his clothes, but I realized the sketchy situation I'd gotten my 16-year-old self in to, declined and fled. 

And then the kids spent today Smashing (our own home-grown GIANT) Pumpkins to feed them to our cows... ah the cows... there's so much to tell, but that's another post.  And in breaking news, we're having a blizzard.  Right now. 

So, over-all, we can sum it up as NORMAL.  Normal Farm...that creeps me out.

Photos!

GF pizza at Pacific Avenue Pizza in Browne's Addition

I feel like I'm standing directly under the Niagra Falls of time. The constant, gushing, flowing of time pounding down upon me and sometimes, I catch a breath.

Enjoying some gifts, including a bolster for my in-bed reading habit

I turned 36 the other day.  The first birthday in which I was less happy the day after than the day before.  The celebration itself was fabulous and fun and I got a camera, as begged for.  And everyone was lovely and happy and good.  After I got the camera, Coyote took my old one, which still kinda worked but had some funky problems.  And he spent three minutes pushing buttons and checking it out.  And fixed it.    He's so proud and I'm a little ticked off. He brought it to his soccer game and was more interested in taking photos of the game than playing it.

The camera I got is great, however.  And as my dad told me, the thing about technology moving so fast is that there isn't a camera for sale that won't be better than the one you've had for six years.  And he was right.

And then I bought some make up, because I am now eligible for the senior discount, and I would like to stop looking like that.  This process has actually been going on for some time.  I trotted into Nordstrom the other day, all haywirey and grubby and announced bluntly that I hadn't worn make up in 20 years and I might find occasion to do that from time to time and could they help.  So... they went to work like wolves on fresh caribou and "soon"  I was covered in 3 different flesh-toned layers, plus extras.  Just to note: sometimes working on one's logic abilities can also be rewarding.  For instance: when some one says "I haven't worn make up", thinking through this thoroughly one could imagine NOT shocking and overwhelming them, but just starting them out with something basic, like they ASKED FOR.

Always a roast with Opa and Oma

I also didn't like the public nature of it.  Everyone in the shoe department watching me flinch from twenty kinds of brushes.  Not to mention the expense of getting started.  The entirely new vocabulary: The E the 3 and the W.  Sure.  A friend offered to help me, which made me feel supported.  But shopping is a Very Private thing to me, so I declined.  It's similar to wanting to shut the door while you use the bathroom. Very Private.  Do Not Disturb.  And if your store is too public, with big windows on a busy street, I will not even go in to it.

After a bunch of research, some experimentation and then the usual final flair of head-long, rash, self-doubt-filled bravado, I did get some stuff to apply.  My eyelashes now get stuck in my eyebrows (which I might pluck some day too!) and my face feels like it can't breath or move much.  But I've only worn it twice, not including the experimental day here where I ran out and asked Blue's carpool lady if I got it right.  Does this look normal?  Yeah... all except the part where I am.

No one seems as shocked by it as I.  I could not have tied my patties in a tighter wad over this.  All this: what does it mean? Am I just giving in?  Why do I want to start doing this?  Am I not comfortable with who I am?  Am I feeling insecure and inadequate?  Or more secure?  Am I putting my best foot forward, or just the one others seem to want to see?  Am I doing this for myself, or for you?  Am I uncomfortable with the aging process?  Why do we wear make-up?  Why not wear make-up?  Why not experiment and experience life in other ways? Do I have to look the same my entire life?  Why am I buying products? Do I have money for this?  Do other women have such convoluted hang-ups about make up?  How do you get it off?  When do I stop thinking about it?

A starling problem, with a non-problematic moon

Hendrika posed for this.  I kid you not. 

What's up chicken butt?

Chocolatey Claire and Beignet

Balloon hilarity

Mousetrap AT LAST!

The Coyote who lives across the street

Oma at Slavin Reserve

My favorite tree, again.

skip church, go bowling

Peace at Turnbull

Add-ages

I am still foggy after this weekend, a UU women's retreat which involved WAY TOO MUCH TALKING.  Obviously.  And every time I tried for alone time, someone else was already there, or following me, and thought we should talk. I even read a book about how to end conversations before I went.  Admittedly, many of these conversation were fascinating and I didn't want to stop them.  However, I couldn't even take a shit without someone in the bathroom chatting me up about UU issues the Board of Trustees needs to know about...while I'm laying a log.  Seriously.  And I thought privacy was hard to come by at home with two kids... sheesh!

So I find myself chatting it up with some ladies late in the drunken evening.  And I end up telling this story, which I think is a knee-slapper.  But then, that's all in the ears of the hearers, isn't it?

Here goes:
I was at Value Village and the cashier asks me if I qualify for the senior discount.

NOTA BENE: that's kind of it, that's the whole story, just a one liner.  LAUGH NOW! Or Else. 

"Um... uh... I don't think so?  I mean what kind of generous policy to you have?  What's the cut off?"
Snicker snicker, "55."
"Um... I guess not then."

I live in a world where people don't mess with other people just for fun.  I live in a world where offensive comments are always accidents and mistakes, but they meant no harm.  Up here, in my head, it actually took me 20 years to figure out that the "reputation" I had that prevented me from getting on Mat Maids (high school wrestling cheer leaders... never mind that I have no sense of rhythm, hate wrestling and hate cheerleading) was a not-so-good "reputation" fabricated by a competitor.   So, the universe in my head is much nicer than the one out there. I like to stay in the mental one I maintain like a Zen Garden of grey matter.  But some times I get a shock when I peak out into the real world.

Once I got to my car, the cashier's cackle still echoing in my mind, I realized she was funking with me!  (sorry to bastardize the precious word "funk" here.  I love funk.)  And then I wanted to charge back in and take any old thing about her and say mean things about it.  For instance, I enjoy the company of many over-weight people, and yet I wanted to ask her if she ever got the "grotesquely obese discount."  And if she'd been skinny, I would have asked her if she got the "skinny, mangy, bitch discount."  And, although I would probably like many people who work at thrift stores or are otherwise similarly employed, I might have asked, "Do you qualify for the I'm-45-and-I-work-at-Value-Village-Discount?"  But if she'd been an attorney, I'd want to ask, "How about that I-use-antilogic-for-shit-loads-of-other-people's-hard-earned-money discount or the grade-grubber discount?"  Oooh! Sizzle!  I know how to sling mud!

Actually, I'm pretty bad at it or did you already figure that out?  My sister has amazing zinger-mouth (she's in recovery) and I learned from an early age that zinging wasn't my forte and I'll never win a zing-contest... so generally when someone starts in with clever insults, I just shut up and go away, or scream incoherently when I've had more than I can take.

Buy you see, the joke is, this lady asked if I was eligible for a senior discount.  Haha.  ME?  Haha!  I mean, I know I don't look 16, but crapola, I'm not 55.  That lady was just being mean!  I'm not even 36, yet! Ha! Ha. Ha?

And the three women around me didn't say anything.   They just silently scrutinize my face.  For, like, MINUTES.  And then one says, "Well!  Ha!  You couldn't pass for 55, at any rate."

Yes.  So.  When I was about 28, I jumped from looking 16 to looking an inscrutible age somewhere between 25 and 45.  I have this thick gray patch that showed up on September 13, 1996 in a hotel in Wenatchee.  But my face still looked juvenile enough for people to talk baby talk to me.  The gray has gotten bigger.  And I now have some smile (or are they frown?) lines.

A few years ago, coworker said she'd spent a lot of time trying to figure out how old I was.  She had it narrowed down to 21, 28 and 40.

So I come home and regale Huck with the hilarity of these ladies having to pause a moment to consider if I did indeed look under 55 or not.  Hilarious right?

And then Huck, a man who looks younger by the day, PAUSES!  Dear Husbands, Don't do that!  And at this point I'm yelling at him (yes, I am on the toilet pee-ing as I yell) to shut up when he's not even talking.  I would NEVER ask, "Does this make my butt look big?"  Because I know the booby trap I set for us.  And I also know he would yell, "Hell, ya! BABY!  Bring that big ass booty over here!"  But this?  I seriously thought this would be a no-brainer.

So he goes, "Um..." clears the throat, "You have an ageless beauty." Shithead.

I want an ageless beauty between 20 and 30, not 35 and 55.

An original T-shirt given to me by Marion M., an actual, real, old lady and heavy-weight feminist

I'll be 36 on Friday, but that doesn't apparently matter to anyone but me.  And next time someone asks if I qualify for the senior discount, I'm going to say yes. What's it to me if everyone thinks I'm 85?  I think I deserve a discount, at this point.  And as a friend once assessed, I've lived three lifetimes in the space of 1/3 of mine (based on statistics, not actual foreknowledge of the age of my death).  I qualify for 3 senior discounts, honey.

Paradise Stolen

I did see that car.  It was a sedan, dark blue or green, shaped like a Crown Victoria, barge-like.  It was in my neighbor's drive way, parked at an angle.  And when they asked that night if I'd seen anything unusual, the nearly forgotten inconsequential memory was slowly pulled from the brink of extinction.  And as I examined the memory, I could see that yes, it looked odd parked that way.  It wasn't a familiar car.  I even saw someone run inside.  So why didn't it raise any alarms at the time?! Why oh why didn't my little Poirot-esc brain cells perk up? My curiosity is so easily peaked, why not this time?  Why not this time when some asswipe cleaned out my best neighbors?

I was busy.  I was piling the kids in the car.  It didn't even register as an event.

The neighbors have a lot of cars coming and going: contractors, piano lesson kids (that's who I assumed it was), heating/cooling guy, painters, sometimes a gardener, perhaps even a cleaning lady, maybe a relative or two.  I don't know!  It's a parade of cars and I couldn't keep track of them even if I wanted to! And when you park in your garage (instead of stuffing it with tools and toys) I cannot tell if you are home or not.  And although I can be very snoopy and when I worked in a law office I was ordered to unleash all my snoopiness (it was great fun!), I don't want to snoop on my neighbors. I don't want to be the one who notices so-n-so's had that same trans-man over every day for the past several weeks and he's not carrying piano books.  Certainly we've got the cocaine/gay party house in cognito as a country estate and don't think I'm being judgemental here; I didn't get that knowledge from snooping; 50 cars full of men can't be wrong.  But over-all I try to strike a balance between snooping and being alert.  And what with getting kids in the car and all, I guess I let the balance tip the wrong direction on Tuesday.  And I feel just awful about it. 

Although for my own personal safety, that might be for the better.  Between fight or flight, when cornered I'm pure fight, apparently.  I don't know why.  When I was a babysitting teen, one of my charges screamed that someone was looking in her window.  So what did I do with that adrenaline?  14 year old Sarajoy took a baseball bat and a flashlight around to secure the property.  When a peeping-Tom ran from a shower stall in the Women's locker room at a pool at UW, a soaped up Sarajoy chased him down, OUT of the locker room, THROUGH the pool and nearly out the emergency exit before I realized I was still naked.  I don't know what's wrong with me, but it might have kicked in on Tuesday.  And the only thing worse the a robbery is a botched robbery cum murder.  And they probably have a case of guns already.  Because....

The house on the other side of us was robbed recently too.  A gun case.  A case of guns.  That sounds to me like someone knew what they were after. So I wasn't on alert. 

This weeks robbery was in broad daylight, during a two hour window.  Someone knew someone's schedule a hell of a lot better than I do.  And so it seems we are being spied on.  And I have that penchant for running around naked.  I figure the windows which usually catch me wet, running up from the basement to my room are along the road where people drive fast enough, they won't notice. 

With our direct neighbors on either side being robbed, we have a strong sense of "YOU ARE NEXT." 

So what's the strategy for a house made almost entirely out of French Doors?  Oui Oui.  Zee kind wit all zee vindows and zee doors zat "s'ou qui que" when zeey open. Because glass is so breakable, they installed dead bolts that open only with keys.  So that if there is a fire, we first have to find the keys to get out and since I've already been through one massive structural fire (in Petersburg, Alaska, took the whole block, but spared the gas station but gave me lasting PTSD), this feels like a very real risk to take.  In addition, this thief, which the sheriff informs us has almost finished cleaning out the entire neighborhood (oh! NOW they tell us!), has a special tool to use against dead bolts.  It destroys doors.  And if a thief came to our house that would be the most expensive thing to replace. 

Taking a quick inventory and comparing it to what was stolen from the neighbors: all of my jewelry is plastic, clay, or rock (actual, non-valuable rocks) and fossil.  None of our CD players work, nor does our iPod.  Our camera, as you must have noticed my now, is broken.  Of our two computers, one is running and that is 8 years old.  Our TV is from craigslist and is non HD compatible and is attached only to a DVD player, no actual channels or anything.  EVERYTHING we own was used when we got it.  Goodwill is a revolving door for all of our possessions.  It's like dust to dust: Goodwill to Goodwill, or sometimes Value Village to Goodwill, with a short or longish life in our house in between.  And an occasional exotic item from Craigslist.  So to prevent a broken door, I have been leaving it unlocked.  They might have already been through, assessed the potential and left.  This is one of the greatest benefits of having nothing anyone envies.

We might have also been passed over because although I adore my old house, in this neighborhood it is obviously NOT the house with the money.

The other reason why we might have been passed over by the angel of theft, is that our house is wide open.  Our bereft neighbors have both put a lot of time and money into privacy screens.  So that no one can watch them ... um ... live and stuff.  Because of the configuration of powerlines and our lack of funds to hire people to constantly trim our trees, we have no privacy.  You couldn't break in to our house and NOT have the entire world see it.  It's a blessing and curse.

Or maybe it's the mask we picked up in Singapore that's meant to scare off evil and is propped against a window, looking out, menacingly, at all comers, with it's spiritual threat.

Whatever the reason we have been passed over, we still have the feeling that it's just a matter of time. 

And then at the feed store today, I asked about all the new security measures.  They said they've had huge huge problems with people taking off with LOADS OF HAY!  "It's just going to get worse."  They said. And then one guys turns out to live near me and he said that his road has had so many thefts there's a sheriff that drives it every day, all day long.

So yesterday, one neighbor notices two trucks parked out front the recently robbed neighbor's house. She parks, she rev's, she maneuvers forward and back to get a look at license plates.  She's on her phone.  She's in a lather.  I know this because I am shoveling out carrots right next to her, not because I have any desire to stand behind my curtains and peek out at everyone with binoculars. And I couldn't figure out why she's doing this.  Does she think the thieves came back in their TWO $50K trucks to take ...what? What's left?  The Grand Piano and some unders?  And they are using power tools on the front door?! And thieves have the ability to BUY $50,000 trucks, two of them?  This is just how they make their payments.  I mean, let's use our heads here.  I can understand that we've all got our road lit up like a football stadium, although the theft took place in the middle of the day.  But don't you think these trucks might be the locksmith?  Or the contractors coming to repair the door?  These thieves aren't going to hang around the neighborhood, much less hit that house again 24 hours later.  But I also guiltily felt it as a rebuke, "See, Sarajoy, let me just show you what caring neighbors do!"  They snoop, apparently.

We are all uneasy here on Paradise Prairie. Lucky Farm is nervously waiting our turn.  Wondering if and when it will come.  Wondering if we should lock our doors or just stick the broken laptop on the front porch. Hoping whatever happens, we don't get stuck in the middle of it.  That no one is home.  It's out of our hands.  That delusion of control and our false sense of security is what they've already stolen.  It wasn't worth much anyway.  I wonder what they'll get for it on the black market?