I Got Nothin

This is a dry week for creativity. I'm tired. My bones are tired. I sit down and I fall asleep. I am driving to work IN THE MORNING and I'm fighting my eyelids. Maybe I'm pregnant.

Writing for me can't be forced. Sure I try to write every day but I don't put all that stuff on a blog. Lots of it is uninspired. My inner critic (and desire to someday be known as a popular writer) won't let me put just anything out there. Oh, and I just said I TRY to write every day. I don't necessarily do so. So this is a blog entry about not having a blog entry. Only not as good as a Seinfeld show about nothing.

It's not like I'm busy doing other things that are keeping me from writing. I SHOULD be doing other things like finishing painting the side deck so I can put my planters back. And the bottom deck, so I can get my furniture back and my tomato plants returned to their sunny spot. And making a tiramisu (though that one is stalled because the store only had one tub of marscipone and I need two and the last two grocery stores I went to had none). And I should be mucking out the house (my suitcase still hasn't made it back to the closet). And I should be cooking wonderful meals for my son. Not happening.

Did I mention I'm tired?

Birthday Wishes, Deb!

Today is Debbie Santi's birthday and a Tiramisu is coming her way (as soon as I make it!) This wonderful woman is a lot of things: wife to Larry (whom she married at about 16 years old and is still married...wow); super supportive mother to Jill and Nickie (every mother of young children should have such a support system); doting grandmother to Natalie, Sam, Lauren and Kate (when Grammy walks in the room the kids fairly dance); able first mate on the boat, and; a beautiful soul. Special wishes on this special day to Deb! Your Tiramisu is coming very soon. Will call to deliver.

XOXOX Jennifer

House Progress

Such progress was made yesterday: made my heart sing. The boys (Andy and his cousin Casey) finished up the painting of the top deck and Andy helped me get everything back in place. Today I need to find some gardenias (or maybe meyers lime trees as Judy suggested) to put in the large planters. The first gardenias just didn't thrive and were slowly passing away so I yanked them. I think they weren't that healthy to start with.

Then they started pressure washing the side deck. The one where everyone comes through. Unfortunately the pressure washer that my brother loaned stopped working. So after some hand scraping and prep work I made a call and found a power washer to rent. This was just about lunch time, and it was hot out so we jumped in the car and went to...Dairy Queen. I couldn't resist the temptation to feed two hungry, hot college kids a good greasy lunch. I'm glad I didn't spend time making some delicious home made spread. It would have not made these boys any more happier than a greasy burger and fries.

The pressure washer rented, they made great progress and got the whole side deck nicely stripped. The lower deck got prepped before Casey had to leave. Andy worked hard from then until 10 PM to finish power washing the paint off the lower deck. While they were doing this I ran to Daly's to get stain for putting on these decks. I had found an old can in the shed that looked like it's what they used before. I took it to Daly's and asked them to mix a really good stain that won't wear off but looks same color. So we'll see what we get and how well it lasts. Having a deck on the main entry to the house is hard to keep looking good. But I can't wait to have it all spiffy with the planter put back in place.

Meanwhile, the tile guy came to finish his work. He got started when we were out picking up the power washer and unfortunately when I looked to see what he had done he had put the cut out for the heater in the wrong spot. Living in a small house with few flat walls (due to gables and windows and such) one has to plan very carefully for necessary things. Like towel racks. Where he had put the heater was in the middle of the wall where a towel rack hangs. Would have meant a towel hanging smack in front of the heater. So, as sad as I was to loose progress on the tiling for a day, it'll be worth it in the end. He's supposed to come back today to finish.

He's a very nice man. The tiler. We had a great conversation and I was encouraged by the lack of ring on his finger. And his handyman skills, of course. But as we were talking about the project he mentioned that "we took our dog to California." And "we love the lake." etc. So I don't think there's anything there. But...what I figured out, is a good conversationalist is very attractive. And someone who can fix things, of course.

I asked what had happened to the guy who was supposed to finish up while he was on vacation. The guy who went missing and stalled my project. He said the guy had been sober for years but unfortunately went on a bender that week. He felt bad. He had to let him go and make sure he was in treatment (where he is now). Ah yes. I'm reminded of those benders that leave things unfinished. Like marriages and such. But I noticed this time I could hear this story and not get all worked up internally about it. I felt compassion for the guy. Not anger so much. And it didn't stir up any feelings on panic or anxiety, which hearing stories of drinking problems often does. So I think that's progress.

Well, if you've made it through this yawn of a blog I congratulate you. I'm out to do a little final power washing before we have to return the equipment. Andy is going with friends to Bite of Seattle today and then a concert tonight. I'm paying him $10 an hour and he is working hard to earn it. I was thinking how wonderful it is to have a kid that earns his money. I'm not sure what we did right but he is grateful to have the work this summer and expects to pay for his gas and entertainment. He's got a job digging ditches for another kid's father on Monday. I am guessing there are a lot of parent's as employers this summer as most kids are having trouble finding jobs. The bulk of them were taken before summer started by adults with families who have had to find other employment. I would rather be paying Andy to do some things that I've needed done around here than him taking a job that a family needs. Besides, he's got the paying job at the radio station when he starts back to school so that takes some of the pressure off.

Another thing I have to do today is find my camera. It's gone missing in action so no pictures of the job progress. Darn.

Enjoy the Saturday.

Celebrate: First Tomato

I found it today. Small, yellow, hiding under some leaves. I plucked it, popped it in my mouth and tasted summer.

Baggy Bloggers: Where are they?

I want to be a “Mommy Blogger.” Some of my favorite blogs to follow are those of young moms (and stay at home dads) who are not afraid to write about how hard being a parent of small children is. When Andy was young we didn’t have the outlet of blogging and the network of supportive other exhausted parents to cheer us on. For the most part, we had to put on that stiff upper lip, wipe the spit up off our Target nursing tops, and feign delight in the new parasite sucking the life out of us. I could have used faceless strangers urging me to “hang in there” though that line would likely have tempted me with visions of something more like a noose made of burp rags hanging from the garage rafters my (or better yet, the wasband’s) lifeless, but free, body swinging in the breeze of car exhaust fumes.

Fortunately (for both my son and I) being a stay at home mom was not in the cards for me. Because I had to, I convinced myself that I would not have been a good stay at home mother (no patience, addiction to adult interaction and other such excuses) and that my son needed social interaction (based on the guilt of knowing we probably wouldn’t be gifting him with siblings). I have a very vivid memory of my post baby job interview. It was to go back to work, part time, for a firm that had been kind enough to hire me through the last six months of my pregnancy. To fill in for another woman who was out grunting her own parasite into the world. Four weeks into my role as a dairy cow, with very impressive and productive swinging teats I may add, I stuffed myself into my green and black suit and went to talk with my boss about continuing on in the office, part time for a while. I really enjoyed the interview. We did it over lunch: a lunch in a restaurant. In suits, both of us. Somebody brought me water (lots…remember I was breastfeeding at the time). Another took my order and brought me food! We laughed and talked about opportunities and career paths. I could have stayed all afternoon. Except those wonderful teats I mentioned had other plans. Suddenly the boss looked at my front and suggested it might be time to wrap it up. Appalled, I looked down at my front. My green top was turning a darker green with two caption bubbles on my chest that seemed to carry the message “Time’s up. Time’s up.”

This was before people had cell phones. Fortunately Mark couldn’t reach me to remind me I needed to get home. Unfortunately Mark couldn’t reach me to remind me I needed to get home. I screeched around the corner and when the garage door lifted up I had to slam on my brakes. I nearly ran them over. I don’t know how long Mark had been standing in that garage with the screaming baby, just waiting to dramatically illustrate for me how thin spread I could look forward to being for the next 18 years of my life. At that moment I confess I had bad thoughts. That’s what a blog would have allowed me to do: express those bad thoughts. Instead I stuffed them away, only to have them resurface decades later.

Decades later, as Mark and I sat on a couples therapist couch, he actually said “I didn’t complain when you stopped working when Andy was born (six feckin’ weeks, thank you very much) nor when you only returned part time (32 hour week is considered part time). This from a man who had been in and out (mostly out) of work for the past ten years. His point being that he had been oh so supportive when I was lazing around juggling the demands of a young child and a stressful job, while he didn’t feel I had been equally supportive of his lack of gainful employment. (I tried, I really did,) Social security sends out a birthday present every year (around my birthday if you couldn’t figure that out) to cheer me on, showing me how many more years I need to work to have any kind of income from them. I swear it’s one year longer every year I get the letter, which means I will work until I die. What joy! The information I look at more carefully is my income history, from the age I was fifteen and had to start reporting my earnings. From this I can see that that little break from working I took when Andy was born (six weeks) and opting to work part time (32 hours a week) until he was in college, cost me nine years time to recover to a salary level I was making before he was born.

It surely would have been nice to have a blogging outlet through those early years. I love the whit and cleverness these mommy bloggers use to bring us as voyeurs into their messy homes. The whining in these blogs is balanced, as mine would be, with the breathtaking love and fierce protectiveness our child uncovers in us, sandwiched between the sarcastic cynicisms allowed in the anonymous kingdom of blogs.

Now my quest is to find the kind of blogs that are meaningful to women at my stage: survivors and thrivers. There aren’t many out there. Bloggers that is. There is an abundance of survivors and thrivers. I’m friends with many of them. They just don’t blog. Yet. Our generation is late to the blogging ship. I can’t wait to see what today’s clever mommy (and daddy) bloggers produce when they reach my milestone. I long to read their honesty and amusement. The few blogs I find from women my age spend much time angrily writing words of resentment towards wandering husbands of past lives who have taken up with girls their daughter’s ages; or detailing the precise steps they took to construct a curtain awning to match their husband’s lazy chair. Not that there’s anything wrong with these blogs. Everyone needs an outlet and I am happy to see others my age figuring it out. But these are not the topics I care to read about. (I think I actually sound like a resentful ex-wife sometimes. But I hope there’s at least an equal measure of joy and fascination in my blogging, unlike those blogs that are one whine on top of another). I want to know of the messy houses and piled up laundry of women who no longer have the excuse of young children to distract them. I want to “converse” about why dating at 50 scares the hell out of ladies, though thoughts of a one-night-stand with a cabana boy, preferably one who also knows how to hang a shelf and diagnose a scary car sound, can get the juices flowing. I want to bond on the internet with women who would rather spend money on a pedicure than take a family vacation. So where are these baggy bloggers? Not necessarily bloggers with baggage: that would encompass the entire blogging world. But the baggy ones, like me?

Finding Her Voice: Getting Close

Good news to share. Jill just called to let me know that Natalie’s computer (her future voice) has been approved by insurance and insurance will cover 90% of the cost. Hallelujah! And it will only take a week or two to get it. I suspect it will take a little time before Natalie warms up to it: there was a lot of pressure for her to use it during the testing stage. But once she figures out that it will give her a voice I am guessing she’ll be stunning us with all sorts of revelations.

Smiles are breaking out all over the place in the hearing of this news. This is an answered prayer.

Color: Peach

Here’s the thing. I don’t like peaches. I mean as a fresh fruit. Slippery PEELED canned peaches in the middle of winter: I can do those. And my mouth waters just as much as the next fatty for a peach pie. But as a fresh fruit, not so much. Biting into a fresh peach is like French kissing a cat. At least I think that’s what it would be like. For the record, I am not much of a cat person either. For some reason peach skin makes me think of cat fur balls and before you know it I imagine French kissing a cat, a CRANKY cat, when I think of biting into a peach. On the contrary, I LOVE nectarines. And I like apricots. In fact, a peach is more the color of (the inside of) an apricot, than what is more oftenly referred to as the color “peach.”

The color peach falls in the pastel category. I’m already on record as not preferring pastel colors. I like the color of slippery PEELED canned peaches. But not the color peach. Does that make sense? But the challenge is to write something that the color peach evokes. So here goes:

I do not like the fruit the peach
I would not eat one on a beach
I would not eat one on a plate
A peach’s a fruit I love to hate

A nectarine a better choice
It does not choke away my voice
Another choice the apricot
I would devour, a peach I’d not

Stubborn too, it holds the pit
Not letting go, it will not quit
As if it knows it will be tossed
And hope of future generations lost

The color even turns me away
Too pale to notice anyway
Not bright or brilliant, won’t turn an eye
Flesh-like and pale, it will not fly

And so, you see, the peach I loathe
Because it sports a furry clothe
I’d rather Frenchly kiss a cat
Than bite into a fruit like that

Come Sail Away....

with me. A week ago Friday I think I mentioned I chose sailing over work. Finally getting around to posting pictures. I was invited to go out on Jill's parent's 35' boat which is harbored at Elliot Bay Marina, near the Seattle waterfront. Larry (Jill's Dad) took us and Jill's cousin and her husband out for a lovely afternoon. The weather was warm, the beer cold, the music mighty and the wind mild but still present. Sometimes I think I must be one of the luckiest gals I know. This was one of those occasions!

Sweetness...

Last night I attended Leah and Marlin's wedding in a beautiful garden in Woodinville. All the gals from the dinner club were there to witness this special union. Leah, who is beautiful in jeans and a T-shirt fairly beamed gorgeousness. Their ceremony purposefully and sensitively included their two young boys including a "sand ceremony" and special vows given from the parents to the boys.

The cupcakes were incredibly lovely and yummy. The harpist, who turned out to be a friend of mine from Pullman, provided perfect soft accompaniment to the festivities. The event was small and we all took turns mixing drinks and serving tapas. The wedded couple were relaxed, and because the event was small we all got to visit and share the joy with them.

Sweetness!

One Gal's Trash...

…is my treasure. Who are your friends that are easy to shop for? I have a few that are easy to shop for because I know them well, because our tastes are similar, because I see things when out and about and snatch up to give them since it makes me think of them. Judy is one of those friends for me. Yesterday was her birthday. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRIEND!!! In the evening I took over to her some of my most marvelous gazpacho (I know that sounds boastful, but it is among my best recipes) and a wrapped box of birthday presents I had accumulated for her. Did I mention she is easy for me to shop for? So tell me, how is it that I go to deliver presents to her and I leave with a box full of beautiful dishes and mugs and things? She has been in a clearing frenzy and, my good luck, just finished going through her pantry. I almost felt bad giving her a pretty new bowl to put on her recently cleared shelf.

I, in turn, scored some sweet little hand painted mugs from Spain that go with my daily dishes so perfectly. And a little hand painted dish from Mexico, a divided serving tray, a little terracotta vase, and, and, and… Now I have the challenge of finding a place to store these treasures (this is about the third hand off of dishes from Judy this year…it’s getting crowded on my shelves). I am seriously going to have to have a pay it forward session and go through my things to eliminate those I don’t use. I am a dish hoarder. Which is just one step above a dish whore. And if the dish were really beautiful enough I might just…(sigh). Sorry. I got distracted. Anyway, because our tastes are so similar you can bet that I found among her cast offs some treats for myself. Her trash: my treasure.

After sorting through two big boxes of handoffs and picking out my treasures, there was still a big box and a half of give-aways. I took those too as they will go to the soon-to-be-opened Jubilee Reach thrift store. This fall, in a store front space in upper Redmond, Jubilee Reach will be opening a second hand and surplus store. The shop will serve several purposes: provide retail training for the underemployed in our community, create an additional revenue source for Jubilee Reach Center; be a source of needed furnishings and clothing for those in the community, and; be a great place for us to get rid of our trash to become someone else’s treasure.

An exciting sideline to the whole Thrift Store facility: my friend Anne has been hired to help get the thing going. She was up for a new employment challenge and so many aspects of this are right up her alley. Lots to still be figured out but in the meantime, please keep the shop in mind as you are cleaning out cupboards and closets. I think they will be selling home furnishings and furniture as well. I think I heard they are working with Pottery Barn and the likes for getting traded out inventory. You can check with me and I’ll arrange for delivery/storage of donated items. I believe there will also be opportunities to volunteer in the store. I’m so proud of Anne for getting this job: she will be awesome at procuring donations, staging and decorating the store, working with the community. I’ll try to keep the blog up to date on activity related to getting the store open.

Color: Plum

I haven't forgotten the colors task. Here's a new installmant.

There is a poem by William Carlos Williams that often crops up on collections of "Best Poems." It's simple and provokes some sense of feeling in the reader. Like any good poem, the reader's response is unique, borne of their own experiences and memories. This is the poem:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.
-- William Carlos Williams

So this poem is what I thought about when trying to type something for the color Plum. Have you ever looked really closely at a plum? The color is hard to capture. At first glance it is a maroony, purplish brown color. But it's got this neat finish that changes the color by the reflection of light off the skin. The secondary colors are a green and sometimes, on an unpolished plum, a blue. Plums change color through polishing as well. Unpolished, they have a fuzzy white overcoating that mutes those secondary colors. Very strange. I'd like to be able to paint a plum.

In addition to the color, another thing I like about plums is how well the flesh pulls away from the seed. Not like a (non clingfree) peach. Like an apricot. Not like a nectarine. Everything pulls away from the seed. Except a tiny bit of a fleshy beard that clings to the seed seam. A wick of sorts (wink, wink).

Just like the color of the skin, the flavor can change. Tangy patches and sweet patches. Brilliant! Sort of like wading through cool lake water and coming across warm patches on the bottom: chewing through a sour plum and hitting a sweet spot.

We had a plum tree at the home I grew up in. As I recall, it was an abundant provider, giving soft ripe fruit up the ying yang, but just for a short season. Later, when I lived in Enatai with Mark, Mrs Lew, our neighbor, would set a brown paper grocery bag full of plums on our door step in August. She had found out that I was fond of them and was dealing with her own abundance. My good fortune. Mark couldn't have cared less. Last time I drove down my old street, Mrs. Lew's plum tree was gone. As was her house. Replaced by a megahouse with a lawn too small to accommodate a lowly plum tree. Lots of houses that were on the street when I lived there have met a similar fate. My wasbund is still holding out in his '50s rambler, shadowed by these megahouses. I loved my old neighborhood but I would suspect the things I liked most about it: the Mrs. Lews with abundant plum offerings; Kelley across the street to share divided perennials with; Andrea and Craig around the corner to share a glass of wine with on a Friday evening; those kind neighbors that I used to enjoy are all gone now.

So here's my attempt at a poem for plums in the style of William Carlos Williams

This Is Just To Say

I have taken
the plums
that were in
the bag
on the doorstep

and which
you were probably
going
to throw away.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so special.
So unappreciated.

Song of Joy

Another memory bullet from the Villa

The building where we were housed was the restored main farm house. It was big. High ceilings on every floor. A whole upper level that was an echo of the middle floor: large main sitting area and four separate double bedrooms off of that sitting area. Only the highest floor was empty: not refurbished yet. We got it in our minds that the upper floor may have been inhabited by residents of centuries past. The house slept twelve comfortably. It wasn’t until the third day that we discovered another bedroom off of the dining room. That’s how big the house was. The moment I am remembering took place in the formal dining room. This room had a large round table around which our whole group could sit. Anne’s job was table decorations. If you know Anne you will know why this was her assignment. And why it was no chore for her and a blessing for us.

One evening, even before too much red wine was consumed, we started singing and realized that the acoustics in the dining room were absolutely made for singing. Better than a shower. So we started a round. You might remember the round song with the three verses:

One bottle pop, two bottle pop, three bottle pop, four bottle pop, five bottle pop, six bottle pop, seven seven bottle pop.

Don’t put you muck in my dustpan, my dustpan, my dustpan, don’t put your muck in my dustpan, my dustpan’s full.

Fish and chips and vinegar, vinegar, vinegar. Fish and chips and vinegar. Pepper, pepper, pepper, pot.

We did our own Tuscany version:
One bottle wine, two bottle wine, three bottle wine, four bottle wine, five bottle wine, six bottle wine, seven seven bottle wine.

Olive oil and balsamic, balsamic, balsamic. Olive oil and balsamic. Pepper, pepper, pepper, pot.

Don’t put your guest in my villa, my villa, my villa. Don’t put your guest in my villa. My villa’s full.

I tell you: we sounded good. Record worthy. Legends in our own minds. I think only two out of our group of nine would actually be considered decent singers, under normal circumstances. I’m not naming names: don’t want to hurt the unnamed. But something about the setting, the ancient walls, the time of joyfulness made it all come together and we were good. All of us. Not a bad one in the group. Later in the week, our English neighbors commented on the beautiful music coming from the dining room. We rocked!

Garden Therapy

Over the past three days I worked my garden. And my garden worked me. I used to use my I-pod to garden. Listening to episodes of “This American Life” the time would fly. Still when I go to certain areas of the garden I am transformed to a certain episode: the detailed map of sound of one man’s neighborhood is above the left most upper stone in the rockery wall; a Latino girl’s commitment to making it out of the ghetto is embedded into the ground under my lowest lilac tree.

But now I garden to episodes of my own life. As I chase the roots of the decorative grass I tried to eliminate last month, I find myself chasing the roots of other things I planted in my life and now want out. I kick myself over not speaking up to the landscaper when I had doubts about his suggested plantings as I’m kicking myself about not being honest with myself about bringing things into my life that I now wish hadn’t taken root. I know I’ll be pulling those Lilyturf shoots out forever. But as long as I keep at it I can keep on top of it.

A lot of my thoughts about gardening and life deal with the roots. Strong roots: good and bad. Roots of bad things that creep over from my neighbor’s unkempt yard. Roots of things like the Lilyturf that I intentionally planted and now can’t get rid of. Roots of the morning-glory that poke up and strangle my good plants until I pull them off. The good roots of the Cotoneaster that are spreading over the banks of my sloped yard, becoming thicker and thicker so that the weeds are having less opportunity to poke through. The roots (and wings) my parents gave me that are strong enough to fill in where bad plants used to have root. For these I am so grateful.

I think about perseverance as I dig up and move plants around until I am satisfied with where they are planted…for now. I move them from places where they are being shadowed and blocked out by heartier neighboring plants, to places with better exposure and room to grow. I think about my own uprooting and relocation until I found a place to survive and then thrive.

I think about needed skills of discernment when I assess whether something new that has sprouted is the reseeding of something I want to encourage, like the foxglove and poppies, or from those nasty popweeds (as I call them) that shoot out baby seeds as I go to pull the mother plant from its point of intrusion. Like bad thoughts that won’t die, that spring up in the midst of my well cared for garden, I can’t help but get frustrated. But still I persevere.

I wonder at how beautiful some of those weeds are. That if they weren't so strong and overtaking that they actually might be attractive and easily justified to let have their way. How do we know things are weeds and not flowers? How easy it would be to justify a yard full of morning glory and buttercups. But how much peace and satisfaction I'd miss if that was the route I chose.

I think about the investment I made to rip out the old slope of ferns and dangerously slippery old railroad tie steps, to replant and reshape the whole area into something beautiful and usable. Soon the line between my garden and my life seem undistinguishable.

I’ve thought more than a few times that I wish I were gardening side by side with my therapist as it seems so much easier to see what I’m doing with my life by what I’m trying to do with my garden. To appreciate the beauty that’s taken root in the overall landscape, even as I work away at those stubborn roots of the bad plants that keep showing up. The ones that she hears most about and keeps helping me to get my hand around to pull out.

Yesterday Karla, my sweet next door neighbor, was out cleaning her screens. She stopped me as I trudged up from below with another load of weeds to empty. She thanked me for providing her and her husband with such a beautiful yard to look at. In the same breath she told me how handsome and polite my son is growing up to be. My heart burst sending good seeds into the cracks. Those bad weeds, cowering in the bucket I held in my arms, were defeated. I was so not.

Here or (better) There

Too full of passion to

Answer phones can I help you

Dancing in a memory of land

My feet are in shoes, with toes in hose

Lungs full of air ancient and loaded with laughter

While fighting panic pangs borne of project deadlines

Free to wander with feet and mind

I make requests for budget revisions

Determined to hang onto the joy,
I’m going sailing instead

While I didn’t write much in Italy at all (and barely in Scotland) I made notes instead. Bullets of thought to trigger something to write about later. Now I have an urgency…why didn’t I write? I need to hang onto those feelings. The overwhelmingness of everything. Of an awareness of all the senses hungry and sated. Here’s one. A memory.

At Montestigliano there really were faeries in the woods at night. About the third night, a group of us took a walk after sunset. True, we had had just a little wine. OK, that’s a lie. It was a lot. But I don’t want you to think I was hallucinating. They really were there. The faeries. Imagine this path.

Or this one. But in the dark. Then going through the woods. And at knee level and below, beside us and beyond, little faeries with their wands lit up, dancing through the underbrush. An occasional brave one, zooming in front or beside us. They were happy. It was contagious. They didn’t say a word, yet still their laughter was running through their group. (And so also in ours.) Happy that we had come out to share the night with them. We all saw them. That night, and every night thereafter. The villa guide suggested we stroll at night to see the fireflies. But they must have been scared away by the faeries. Thankfully, we weren’t.

Fashion Trend in Italy

Warning…fashion trend in the wings. Italy is where really cool fashion comes from. People dress to be seen. Aside from the obvious tourists (like us) you see wonderful fashions in Florence. So, somebody, please explain to me…the pants. The drop-crotch, MC Hammer, hippy-dippy, overloaded diaper look that pretty, thin young girls, really styling girls, were seen wearing. It’s not like everyone had them on. Sightings were maybe three or four a day. But the women wearing them. They were trendsetters. You could tell. It was sooo funny. Scary too.

I am sorry. I did not get pictures. I was just too stunned to fish out my camera. But these pictures should give you the idea. Here are my concerns.

How do people walk in these things? It seems like really little steps are necessary. Like wearing a too tight pencil skirt. I mean the inseams are only a few inches long. From the ankles. Oh, and you wear them with spike heals. Stilettos. “Have sex with me now” shoes. Only would men really want to have sex with a girl whose crotch may be so overused she can’t fit it into a normal inseam?

Um, the thigh rash problem. Such a fashion does not protect one from the chaffing of the chubby inner thighs rubbing together. In hot, city in the summer weather. Some people I know have that problem. I’m just saying… But those bitc*es who have those legs that don’t come together at the top. The ones you can see light through. (hate ‘em). I realize this is not THEIR problem if they wear these silly pants. But if you have legs like that why would you wear these pants? What could they be hiding?

Hmmm. It is tempting. No frustration in the fitting room. No binding. No straining with cramming your leg into those of pants. Ones that the label size fit two weeks ago. No tears and cussing. At least until you look up to the mirror. Can you imagine the horrors? These things looked ridiculous on the thin Italian fashionistas. The most unflattering things ever. How would they look on real sized women? May we never find out. I mean really.

I nearly choked on my gelato. The yummy three scoops of creamy goodness. The delicious nectar of the Gods. The reason I’m now considering the purchase of similar pants. Because, despite all the reservations I have about these hideous new fashion statements, one could fit a lot of gelato into those pants. If you see me walking down the street in these pants, in my “have sex with me now” shoes, taking little constricted steps, please understand that it’s not the gelato. It’s a new trend. I will take it in the thighs (with a rash) to show you how to be fashionable.

No pictures please.

What a Wonderful World....

I am home. The jasmine is in bloom...just like in Tuscany. What a wonderful greeting...the sweet smell of jasmine. My plants were watered well. The weeds thrived, as did everything else. I will be squeezing in weeding time this weekend. Satchmo and Andy were here to greet us (Julie and I arrived at Sea Tac within a few minutes of each other. Nancy was kind enough to pick us up at the airport and I got one last night with my sweet Sis before she returned to her family). Unfortunately, the shower wasn't quite completed. A major disappointment, especially after two days of travel. But it is close. And at least the kitchen ceiling has been reinstalled.

I still LOVE Italy. A land on which my daydreams are based. A place that powerfully awakens every sense. Every breath. Sharing the adventures with dear friends only sweetens something that seemingly could not otherwise be improved on.

There was only one negative: driving. Getting nailed on the first night only added to my angst about driving a manual transmission in a country with signs in a different language, weird signage, hard to find parking and lots of hills that are impossible with a stick shift. While we had some wonderful day trips, it was hard to leave the stress of driving behind. But that was truly the only negative. The beautiful views from our casa, the fun people we met, the hilarious times we had, the scrumptious food (cooked by Melinda and Anne as well as the dinners cooked by villa staff and all our meals out) and so many other things too plentiful to list: they all more than made up for the strenuous driving.

I have hundreds of pictures and even more good memories to remind me of how beautiful this world is, which I will try to hang onto as long as I can before the pressures of work and the disgust of my credit card bill brings me back to reality.

Ciao!

Ciao from Tuscany. I am not spending much time on computer as there is only wireless internet at the office. I am just busy making experiences to write about and taking notes to remember. Rome was nice and short. Good room. Anne and Julie were delayed a day getting here so I was in the room alone. Met the others for a nice stroll and dinner. Same thing next day. Picked up cars and the girls at the airport. Julie and I drove one car with lots of the luggage. We were unfortunately the target of a BMW driver who fell asleep at the wheel. We are OK but the car was wrecked. Fortunately the woman running the villa where we are staying is very, very helpful. Eventualy we made it. The others got lost some too. But now all is well. We are sharing lots of laughter and Chianti. Will post more later.

Arrivederci!
Jennifer

Scotland Days 2 & 3

I’ve gotten lazy about writing. Hope that’s OK. It’s just that…well…I’m tired. And at peace. Son and I are getting along comfortably. The only thing that we haven’t done that I wish he could experience, is talking with locals. In spite of all the adventurousness he’s showing, he’s still shy and easily embarrassed by his mom if she interacts with strangers. So, so far, we haven’t really gotten in conversation with the locals. But I’m not giving up on that experience for us yet. There’s still time. Andy likes to blend in, so, while he hasn’t ventured to talk to locals, he was pretty excited to tell me that as he was waiting outside the market for me, someone asked him for directions and expressed surprise when he explained, in his American accent, that he wasn’t from here. That was more important to him than actually talking to the locals. That’s my son.

Andy did tell me yesterday that he wished he had brought more than one pair of boxers. I asked if he meant in addition to the ones he wore over. He said “no. That includes the one I wore over.” We will be buying at least one pair of boxers in Liverpool today!

In the meantime, here’s a bunch of things we have done and discovered in the last few days. In no particular order. Took a long, long morning walk, with no direction in mind. Ended up discovering two fabulous cemeteries and a spectacular view of the City. Explored the underground city (a bit like Seattle’s underground, though closed up for the plague, not a fire) where ghosts are said to hang around. Found the “Writer’s Museum” which featured items and photos from the lives of Robert Burns, Robert Lewis Stephenson and Sir Walter Scott. Wandered through the Edinburgh Castle, especially soaking in the Soldiers’’ Memorial and the war museum. Found that non Scottish food (like Indian and Italian) is the best food in Scotland. Andy learned the importance of sipping cappuccinos at an outside table wherever you are in Europe. Partook of the “Scotch Whiskey Experience” where we learned about how it’s made, what makes each distillery’s product different, how to discern Scotches and then tried some really good ones. Listened to fantastic folk music in a good pub where I fell in love (from a distance) with the guitar player who also has a singing voice so sweet and strong it made me want to cry. Good tears. Had long naps in the middle of the afternoon. The one after scotch tasting was particularly deep and included interesting dreams. This was however before I fell in love with the guitar player. The dreams may have been more wonderful if it was the other way around.

We catch a train in a few hours to Liverpool where we’ve booked a Beatle’s Taxi Tour. Ooblah

Dee!

Scotland Day One

Thoroughly enjoyed our first day together in Edinburgh. It took Andy an hour or so to relax and learn how to travel my way, which is not to plan too much. To wander up alleys and away from crowds. To check out things that catch your interest. To listen in to other people’s conversations, and to people watch…though with some subtlety. To forget about the clock unless there is something specific you need to catch. After a long day of taking things in and wearing out our feet, as we sat in a pub waiting for the local musicians to start playing, he said “I feel like I’m returning to my native land.”

Here are some of the things we discovered in Edinburgh. We found that we both enjoy the hard cider better than beer. One should not wash his jeans with his passport still in the pocket (it’s trying to dry out, pages pressed between wax paper and weighted with heavy books to try to cancel out the curling). Young engaged men and women in Scotland are paraded around in attention getting garb (men in women’s dresses, heels and makeup, women in fishnet tights, sleazy dresses and sashes) by their friends and wedding parties, taken from pub to pub and all about town, said friends dressed in matching T-shirts or sashes, etc., so as to be fully recognized and embarrassed by their impending nuptials. You have to remember to look up, behind and to the sides as every view seems to offer something interesting to see. There is less likelihood that couples will be making love on the ground outside your windows when there has been rain. That means that rain isn’t all that bad.

Edinburgh definitely does not have a Design Commission as old and contemporary architecture are crammed in side by side without a thought as to how they look together. There are huge rock outcroppings right slam next to and in the town. Edinburgh Castle is built on the top of what looks to be the highest of them, the old part of town running right up to it. The Royal Mile is the street that leads to it. Our flat is right off the Royal Mile in Chessels Court, about 12 blocks from the castle. It is very comfortable and well equipped.

We had a wonderful dinner in the Grass Market area (about a fifteen minute walk from our place). The first few places we wandered into had long waits. But we stumbled upon a lovely little Italian restaurant and shared mussels (Cozzi) steeped in garlic broth, a pizza carciofo (sp?) which was topped with light tomato sauce, mozzarella, artichoke leaves and capers, and a half carafe of the house red wine. Then we walked another ten minutes to the Two Bells pub that was recommended by the landlord for folk music and neighborhood atmosphere. We got home around midnight and haven’t figured out yet what we’ll do today. On our list to do before we leave are the Scotch Whiskey education centre, a dungeon tour, a town bus tour, a tour of Edinburgh castle and finding more local pubs with music and fish and chips. We’ve booked a day tour (about 12 hours) around the country side for Wednesday. Tuesday is our trip to Liverpool.

These are some of the pictures of Edinburgh plus one of an old man that I took at SeaTac waiting for the plane to London. Could you look more British than this? And as for the picture of me with the castle in the background: don’t you think that Andy could have told me I had my coat buttoned crooked?

Making Love In Edinburgh

I made it to our flat last evening and have now gathered up Andy from the airport. He was anxious to get cleaned up and shaved after the long flight. Then our adventures begin. I'll have some pictures to post after we get some people watching and sightseeing done. The flat is just perfect and in a good location. I was lulled to sleep last night (well lulled isn't the right word) by a young couple doing it in the open air couryard below. From what I could tell the guy must have been quite good and have incredible stamina. She was very expressive and oblivious to all the bedroom windows facing the courtyard. If this repeats itself Andy will have quite the entertainment. Of course he just left a college doorm so maybe it won't be as noticable to him as it was to me.

Cheers

I AM FIFTY

Tonight it dawned on me that God's plan for me does not include requiring much sleep. I am sure I've written about this a bajillion times: for as long as I can remember, I have gotten by on very little sleep. I usually can fall asleep very easily (once in a movie theater...in my defense it was a Friday evening and it was a 10:00 movie showing...I snored loud enough to embarrass the person I had come with). But I cannot sustain it. Two to four hours of sleep and, without aid (as in prescription sleep help) I am done. Even with sleep help, I rarely sustain anything over five hours. Only the heavy duty horse strength pills will knock me out, and then I feel terrible in the morning: a sleep hangover, and it takes me most of the following day to get back to my alert frame of mind. I can function on little sleep: it is part of my original and unique design.

This is all to say that it's 3:45 in the morning. I turned out the light at midnight. I've been awake for an hour or so just thinking about things. Lots of things to think about since I've got two more days of work and about two weeks worth of things I need to wrap up in order to leave, and I still have lots of loose ends to take care of before I go (like ceiling contractors and stopping the mail and calling the credit card company and getting all the info together for all my travelling companions and instructions for Andy's travel, and how to help my friend who is going through a terrible time...).

I've had a nice conversation with God about turning fifty and how grateful that I am for His love and care. How impressed I am with his exceedingly abundant plans for me that have turned out to be more than I could ever have thought to ask for. One is having a wonderful loving supportive family (yes, I know I vent about my father, but I know he loves me and would do anything to help me...all I would have to do is ask...and I know he does the best he knows how to. That his hurtful words are unintentional and something about him and not meant to hurt). My sister is the best anyone could have and she's mine! My brother is the most positive person I've ever known. My mother was an angel here on earth and, though she wasn't here nearly long enough, I look forward to spending eternity with her. I know people whom would not be so pleased with such a blessing. I am a fortunate one!

Next are the incredible people He's put in my life. I could have never imagined having these really great friends in my life who love and watch out for me. Who I can be myself with. Who reach out to me. Who trust me with their feelings and secrets. Last night I got a call from Mary Nelson whom I've known for about 25 years. Whom I don't get together with, or even speak with very often, but when we do we never have to start from scratch. Who always remembers my birthday even though I rarely remember hers. It was a great reminder of just how much I'm loved. Other friends checked in on me almost daily when I was sick this spring. Some started celebrating my birthday two weeks ago sharing dinner (they brought) on my deck. Some are taking me out for drinks tonight. Some are sacrificing a week of their life to hang out in Siena with me. Many others have already called or emailed me today. I am blessed with really, really wonderful friends and I often find myself thinking about what a wonderful blessing it is. I don't have time for loneliness.

He gave me a son to care for and learn from and see grow and turn out to be someone whose company I can enjoy, who is trustworthy and who has turned out pretty well despite the stress and heartache that he grew up in.

There's this awesome house that He put in my care. It's my rose covered cottage in the heart of Bellevue? With a lake view and shared waterfront. A wonderful garden to tend: not too big, not too small, just right. A place that inspires creativity. A gathering place. Interesting neighbors who keep an eye on me, in a good way: friendly, but not too friendly. It's the most perfect place for me. Exceedingly abundant.

There's my personality packed puppy that helped bring me out of a place of isolation and has turned out to be such a wonderful addition to my life. He always makes a great entrance for me, warms his way into people's hearts, is good at home for long hours while I work, and is sleeping soundly next to me (but not under the sheets!) at this moment, taking up very little space.

There's my work, that has provided for me well, and is, for the most part interesting. Though stressful at times, I realize that that kind of responsibility is what makes it provide well for me.

There's my health that ain't too bad considering my age!

There's the travel I've gotten to do. Parts of the world that I've gone to with family and friends that are far beyond what I ever thought I'd experience. I can't believe that He's made it possible to go to such extremes this year: letting me experience His love through the bedraggled yet hopeful and incredibly loving Sudanese. And now, in the next few days, spending quality time with my son as we discover Scotland followed by hanging out with some wonderful women at a villa in Tuscany. It just stuns me when I think about it. Talk about exceedingly abundance beyond what I could have ever dreamed of.

Six years ago, when things weren't looking so good and I had to give up on the life I thought I always wanted I had no idea what was in store for me. And now, at fifty, it feels like I'm right where I should have been all along. I'm not bothered by turning fifty at all.

This writing started with my sleeping patterns, or lack thereof. One of the things I was thinking about this night involved trying to remember the story of how I cheated death as an infant, just so I could get to fifty. I need to check with my dad to find out how old I was. An infant though, small enough so that when I stopped breathing in my mother's arms during a family car trip, back in the days when baby's rode in arms and not in car seats, a Sheriff they were able to flag down was able to drive down the highway at ninety miles an hour holding me upside down by my feet with his non-steering hand to deliver me to a hospital. By the time we got there I was breathing again. They kept me overnight and everything checked out. They figured it was an S.I.D. occurrence and it never happened again. I cheated death because there were things God wanted me to do and experience this side of Heaven. Turning fifty must have been one of them and so I celebrate.

Maybe my lack of sleeping skills relates back to that time I almost slept too soundly as an infant. Tonight it gives me time to reflect on reaching fifty and what an incredible journey it's been. How exceedingly abundant and beyond what I could ever have asked for it is.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Post Script: It is going to be a special day. The sun is out and beautiful. And I just have to report that my 20 year old son called me before 8:00 this morning to wish me a Happy Birthday. He also told me that at the radio station banquet last night he won an award for all of his VOLUNTEER work! I am a proud mama. Yes I am.

Who Am I? Mail Call

Just a few minutes here before I run to church. I have to write something about how it feels to receive my personal invitation to join AARP in the same mail batch as a birthday card from Rocky, Buttercup's salesman, on whom I have a teenage crush. I'm so confused. (btw, the card "from Rocky" is just an automatic send from the dealership. I'm not kidding myself that he actually knows it was sent. A girl can dream, though, can't she?) Talk about a hormone hit.

Hard Hats and Show and Tell...Friday Summary of random thoughts

Yesterday I got to spend the morning with Sarah, one of our young design engineers, at my University of Washington Medical Center Expansion project. One of our construction revisions goes live on Monday and we were there to walk the site with the construction crew. Field checking sign locations, pavement markings and the like. There’s something invigorating about walking around in a hard hat and a bright orange vest that makes me feel so alive. That, and hanging with buff, young, handsome, and polite construction workers who value our input. Makes me wish there had been a degree in Construction Management when I was in school. I am hoping to get more projects with this aspect involved. Might as well try to do more of what I love doing. Monday morning, early, we head over to do the punchlist for the project as it goes live and we can observe how it’s working and if we need any additional modifications. You can plan and engineer all aspects on paper…except the unpredictable human behavior. We can anticipate it but it’s not until things go live in the field that we see how people really behave. Since this is at a hospital setting and we know visitors are typically pre-occupied with life and death considerations, we try to minimize decisions and make things as fool proof as possible. But there’s almost always something that needs adjustment once we see how the common population (i.e. those that didn’t design the plans) behaves.

Monday will be fun.

This morning was my last morning at Jubilee Reach before school program before it’s out for the summer, since I leave on Thursday for my trip. As a special treat I brought Satchmo with me. He was a real hit. Boys and girls that don’t usually play together were taking turns. Little kids and big kids were mixing like they don’t usually. One kid asked if I could leave him with the Center forever and ever. I told him no. He’s my best buddy and I need him. When I ran Satch home before heading to work he was wiped out. Yoohoo. I promised the kids when the weather is nice next year, and when I don’t have to rush to work after JRC I’ll try to bring him. At circle time, before we walk them to school Satchmo was the Show and Tell item. Reminds me of the time, when I was little, that I brought my grandfather as my show and tell item to school. I think I was the only kid to bring a person as my item. Remember show and tell at school? What did you bring?

I thought Grandpa was a good item because he was “so old.” I remember telling them that he always bought us fresh roasted peanuts from the drugstore so we’d have “peanut power” for our walk up the hill. He traded off popping nitroglycerin tablets for his heart angina and peanuts to get him up the hill. While we were walking, he’d randomly say “there are fools on the road” to which we had to respond “there are stars in the sky.” I had no idea what that meant at the time. Just knew that was the response. And he would have us recite after him “Watta gooze Siam.” One word at a time. And then all together at once in a sentence and then he’d laugh. He looked like Colonel Sanders before KFC was well known. He liked to watercolor and we’d head out to the Palouse hills where we’d play around while dad looked for pheasants and we looked for treasures like Indian Arrow Heads. He and grandmother lived in a little farming town in Illinois that was so small and boring that, for entertainment, we’d try to kill flies in the garage window, for which grandpa paid us a penny for each dead fly. When we had enough pennies we’d walk to the small general store and buy a big dill pickle for the walk home. I’m envious of my friends who still have living grandparents. The last of mine died (my Mom’s mom, Grandma Louise) when I was a Jr. in High School. Her husband died when Julie was just a toddler. Grandma and Grandpa Harwood died when I was in middle school, I think. Mom died when she was 59. Dad is still going strong. I’m turning 50 next week. Enough random thoughts. Back to work…

Caught In The Act

Yesterday, in the mail, I received a letter from the City of Seattle Photo Enforcement Program. Hmmm. That couldn’t be good. I opened it up and there was a picture of my ex-Jetta’s license plate and two photos of my ex-car running a red light at 6th and James, in the morning on May 15, just over two weeks ago. The fine was for $124. My stomach sunk and then rebounded as I realized that I had signed over ownership of the Jetta when I bought Buttercup, end of April. It was traded in at the Mini dealer. I had done the transfer of sale on line the day I bought the car so all was in order. Except it’s not. Somebody is driving my car around and hasn’t claimed ownership of it.

I called the Mini dealer to find out what’s going on. I should have thought to ask for Rocky to help me out (sigh….). But I wasn’t thinking. So instead I got transferred a few times until I talked to the Title expert. She assures me the car was sold and the paper work turned in. The sale to the new owner wasn’t finalized until May 21 (week before last) so the violation happened when the car was in “no man’s land.”

Here’s the lump in the throat part. The violation form lists Registered Owner as me and the Wasband. I did a little panicked breath, worrying that they would send a copy of the violation to him as well. And suddenly I felt like I was in middle-school, wanting to beat my parents home so I could intercept the mail before my bad grades arrived. If Mark gets a copy of the violation I could be in trouble. I know that’s not true. #1: I have proof that I didn’t own the car when the violation was caught. #2: So what if I had, and still have been married to him. I am an adult. How come I feel so vulnerable to his wrath if anything was wrong?

One of the things we argued about was my driving. He drove like and old, old man. I drove like a responsible adult who knew how to go places. Whenever he was in the car and I was driving, I’d try to ignore the sharply indrawn breaths and “whoas” that he couldn’t help emitting. But I was quick to snap back on how I knew what I was doing. To avoid the whole thing I usually let him drive on errands, and I would have to self talk or close my eyes so I wouldn’t show my impatience at his old man ways. For example, he didn’t like driving in the HOV lane because he was always afraid someone from the slow lane would pull out in front of him. So on a holiday weekend, as we were heading out of town, our car full of three would be sitting in the jammed freeway lanes right next to the nearly empty HOV lanes. It was torture, I tell you. The times I did drive with him in the car was when we had been out with friends and he wasn’t in shape to drive. I was always the designated driver. You can guess why. And even then he had the nerve to correct my driving. I am a safe driver. My record shows it. I like to drive. I like to move. But he could bring me so quickly to the defensive, nervous, anxious driver and I hated that. I hate that I see this violation and I immediately go to fear and anxiety just because his name is on the form. AND I DON’T EVEN OWN THE CAR.

We had a joint checking account. A few times I misplaced my ATM card. Honestly, I found them in my purse but before I found them I wasn’t worried that they would get in the wrong hands. I knew I had them somewhere. Just couldn’t put my finger on where and so I wanted to cancel and re-order a replacement ASAP. But to do so they would have to stop both our ATM cards and issue new ones. That meant that I had to tell him. When I told him I lied. I told him that the ATM machine ate my card. That was the only excuse I could think of that would not get me “into trouble.” I hate that I had to lie to my husband. I hate that I was afraid of him. I hate that he could make me feel like a bad child when I was just being a normal, functioning working mother.

It isn’t very hard for me to recall incident upon incident where I had gotten into trouble with him. I had cleanly put those things out of my head, and really not thought about that in so long. But this infraction form just sends me right back to that bad place. Thank you Jesus that I don’t live like that anymore. Maybe these feelings will go away over time. I hope so. I’m going to label this a “teaching moment” and get out of it what I can. Anyway, welcome to my world…

Mystery Dinner: Revealed

What can I say about this event? Some of it was a bust: two of the men didn't show up...remember, each person was assigned an ingredient. Of all the nerve...; the two that did show up where helpful in the kitchen...that was their best quality; and the dessert at the end where everyone got together was just crowded and strange. The upside was that the cooking together was fun and the food turned out really good; the weather was great so we could all enjoy dinner on the deck and the house was looking its finest, and; the women who showed up were really wonderful. Two of them I could see enjoying getting to know better down the road.

This is my big "aha" moment. When I looked around that room at the dessert, crowded with over 100 people, roughly a 50/50 ratio of men to women, I was thinking "there are some very sharp women here. Look successful, classy, fun to be with. Where are the men that fit that description? Where do really eligible, worthwhile men hang out?" I don't mean to be a snob. I know, at a glance, I wouldn't turn any heads, especially when there are really beautiful, available women in the room. So I should give some of these other men a chance, I guess. But even so, there are just not that many men that appear to be even an interesting opportunity out there. So where are the men hanging out? What do they do on a Saturday night? Are they sitting at home, drowning their loneliness? Are they living a fantasy life on Internet porn? Are they hanging out and drinking beer and playing pool in some dark tavern? When I go out with my girlfriends, it seems like all the other tables are filled with couples or other groups of women. Don't get me wrong: I love going out with my girlfriends. I'm just curious, with the numbers thing, there are an awful lot of single men unaccounted for. People encourage me to go on e-Harmony or Match.com. Is that really the only way to meet men? I liked the idea of this dinner thing, and I'd do it again. Small groups of men and women, getting to know each other, in a group setting, doing a fun activity. I am grateful that I am not of the persuasion that I must have a man in my life to be happy. Seeing as how I haven't figured out where the men worth having are hiding out, I feel badly for the women who are of that persuasion. And let me just finish with a rant about those men that didn't show up! How incredibly rude, selfish and uncivilized. I am going to raise my son to be better!