Yesterday I drove eight blocks or so out of my way to go to the Starbucks drive-thru because I was feeling so dreary that I didn't want to have to actually talk to anyone. The line was very long and I needed to get to work and I just felt lousy.
When I got to the window to get my Grande Latte, I was told that the car in front of me had paid for my drink and that I was the 23rd car in a string of people paying for the drinks of the car behind them. Wow! I said I wanted to continue the trend and she said great, that'll be $7.87. (My latte was only 3 something, but it was worth it.) I only had 7 bucks, but she took it and said that'd count.
It greatly improved my morning.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
It's Official
I guess I need to change the name of this blog. "Intra-Urban?" Maybe, "Post-Farm Urban Wife"?
We are moving back to the city as soon as possible. The commute has been too hard and too expensive. You haven't heard much from me here since I took the Swinery business manager job, and, well, part of that is because 10-15 hours of my week is spent commuting. Gabe goes in almost every day, so he's looking at more like 15-20 hours. Two ferry passes, $140 per week, and gas... The truck may be cool but it gets a cool 8 to 12 mpg, which means it's about a gallon each way, so what's that, $42 a week for him, about $15 a week for me.
We've been approved for a house in West Seattle, a far cry from this one, but nice in its own way. It's a 1927 Tudor, with cool built-ins and a full basement. The biggest down-side is that it doesn't have a dishwasher. We'll have to buy a portable. Yuck!
We go to sign the lease tomorrow and I'll take pictures then.
We are moving back to the city as soon as possible. The commute has been too hard and too expensive. You haven't heard much from me here since I took the Swinery business manager job, and, well, part of that is because 10-15 hours of my week is spent commuting. Gabe goes in almost every day, so he's looking at more like 15-20 hours. Two ferry passes, $140 per week, and gas... The truck may be cool but it gets a cool 8 to 12 mpg, which means it's about a gallon each way, so what's that, $42 a week for him, about $15 a week for me.
We've been approved for a house in West Seattle, a far cry from this one, but nice in its own way. It's a 1927 Tudor, with cool built-ins and a full basement. The biggest down-side is that it doesn't have a dishwasher. We'll have to buy a portable. Yuck!
We go to sign the lease tomorrow and I'll take pictures then.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Monday Afternoon, While the Kids are Watching Disney Upstairs
Does splitting
wood in the rain wash
blood off the axe?
"New agrarianism" sounds
pretty fantastic in print.
Feathers in the kindling,
new, chaotic red flowers
on my pink barn boots.
wood in the rain wash
blood off the axe?
"New agrarianism" sounds
pretty fantastic in print.
Feathers in the kindling,
new, chaotic red flowers
on my pink barn boots.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Nightmare
I used to be in the habit of using the phrase "it was a nightmare" to describe an unpleasant situation. No more. Two nights ago I had the worst dream of my life. In short, it involved my preoccupation with the business resulting in the decapitation of one of my children. I will not go into detail but let me assure you that the dream was extremely graphic.
I've just written down the entire dream--first time I've ever done anything like that. I had one other horrible dream about a child's death once, a long time ago, and it still haunts me. (Same method, interestingly enough. I'm sure you wanted to know that.) I'm not saying that writing this one down made it any easier to deal with. I can't close my eyes without thinking of it, yet. But it felt right to do, and that's a start. I wrote it in a dark place, although I had considered posting it here for catharsis. I decided none of you need that kind of horror in your minds. Holding that image makes me feel dirty, but it won't go away.
I've just written down the entire dream--first time I've ever done anything like that. I had one other horrible dream about a child's death once, a long time ago, and it still haunts me. (Same method, interestingly enough. I'm sure you wanted to know that.) I'm not saying that writing this one down made it any easier to deal with. I can't close my eyes without thinking of it, yet. But it felt right to do, and that's a start. I wrote it in a dark place, although I had considered posting it here for catharsis. I decided none of you need that kind of horror in your minds. Holding that image makes me feel dirty, but it won't go away.
Friday, October 16, 2009
And How Was Your Day?
Is everyone's life this surreal?
I mean, it's been a helluva day already. Crap you don't want to know and/or I can't tell you. From finances to smeared poop, it's been a doozy, okay? And I'm quietly enjoying my first moment of peace, halfway down a Mommy Magic*, when headlights paint the dining room and the phlegmy rattle of Gabe's Chevy sounds down the driveway.
I brought him a Maker's at the door, but he only took it and gave me a pained look and said, "I need your help," and backed out of the doorway again. I belatedly mentioned the chickens' considerate attention to our doorstep; it is covered in shit. Gabe looked dolefully at his feet and continued back into the yard.
Noelani remembered what was up before I did. "Can I see them?" she asked.
"Sure," came Gabe's reply from the darkened driveway--damn motion sensor light is burned out--and the details of our phone call 30 minutes ago came back to me quickly. I'd been in a flurry, between wiping bottoms and vacuuming up mouse-sized spiders, so no wonder I'd shoved it to the back corner of the brain.
A farmer had come by the kitchen this evening to drop off two veal cows and some mutton. And some ducks. Gabe had called him in a panic a few days before to add the ducks to the order. The farmer had asked whether we would pluck them. Having done this before (oh, god, that's a story), Gabe had hesitated, but agreed just this once.
The farmer brought the veal cows. He brought the mutton. And he brought the ten ducks, stuffed into a large sized dog crate... still quacking.
Apparently the scene at the kitchen, with our chef, Brian, screaming like a drill sergeant and our biggest, burliest apprentice in tears, had been comical and intense. The farmer volunteered to axe the ducks right there in the parking lot; having been turned down, he shrugged and left. Who the hell knows what happened between then and now, but here I was, mincing around chicken shits down the walk toward a quacking truck.
And then there I was, walking backward down our rain-slicked lawn, clutching half of the gawd-awfulest-smelling dog crate to my chest (the door latch was broken and the door kept flapping open otherwise), and then slip-sliding down the stone steps with said crate still so clutched. And then stepping gingerly into the too-soft straw in the chicken coop, setting the crate down, slapping open the door, and waiting for the ducks to emerge.
"Are you sure they're not dead?" I asked, referring to both the lack of motion within the crate and its hideous smell.
"I'm sure," Gabe said. Noelani stood with us and I was sure she shivered, thinking she'd just helped carry some dead ducks down to the chicken coop. But there was a stirring in the crate, and a muted "aahck," and then a progression of such, and soon the ducks were tumbling over each other, out of the crate.
From inside the chicken house came the indignant cackle of a very indignant-sounding hen.
"Let's go to bed," I said.
"Where's that drink," Gabe said.
"We're not going to kill them, are we?" asked Noelani.
"No, honey. We're not."
I mean, it's been a helluva day already. Crap you don't want to know and/or I can't tell you. From finances to smeared poop, it's been a doozy, okay? And I'm quietly enjoying my first moment of peace, halfway down a Mommy Magic*, when headlights paint the dining room and the phlegmy rattle of Gabe's Chevy sounds down the driveway.
I brought him a Maker's at the door, but he only took it and gave me a pained look and said, "I need your help," and backed out of the doorway again. I belatedly mentioned the chickens' considerate attention to our doorstep; it is covered in shit. Gabe looked dolefully at his feet and continued back into the yard.
Noelani remembered what was up before I did. "Can I see them?" she asked.
"Sure," came Gabe's reply from the darkened driveway--damn motion sensor light is burned out--and the details of our phone call 30 minutes ago came back to me quickly. I'd been in a flurry, between wiping bottoms and vacuuming up mouse-sized spiders, so no wonder I'd shoved it to the back corner of the brain.
A farmer had come by the kitchen this evening to drop off two veal cows and some mutton. And some ducks. Gabe had called him in a panic a few days before to add the ducks to the order. The farmer had asked whether we would pluck them. Having done this before (oh, god, that's a story), Gabe had hesitated, but agreed just this once.
The farmer brought the veal cows. He brought the mutton. And he brought the ten ducks, stuffed into a large sized dog crate... still quacking.
Apparently the scene at the kitchen, with our chef, Brian, screaming like a drill sergeant and our biggest, burliest apprentice in tears, had been comical and intense. The farmer volunteered to axe the ducks right there in the parking lot; having been turned down, he shrugged and left. Who the hell knows what happened between then and now, but here I was, mincing around chicken shits down the walk toward a quacking truck.
And then there I was, walking backward down our rain-slicked lawn, clutching half of the gawd-awfulest-smelling dog crate to my chest (the door latch was broken and the door kept flapping open otherwise), and then slip-sliding down the stone steps with said crate still so clutched. And then stepping gingerly into the too-soft straw in the chicken coop, setting the crate down, slapping open the door, and waiting for the ducks to emerge.
"Are you sure they're not dead?" I asked, referring to both the lack of motion within the crate and its hideous smell.
"I'm sure," Gabe said. Noelani stood with us and I was sure she shivered, thinking she'd just helped carry some dead ducks down to the chicken coop. But there was a stirring in the crate, and a muted "aahck," and then a progression of such, and soon the ducks were tumbling over each other, out of the crate.
From inside the chicken house came the indignant cackle of a very indignant-sounding hen.
"Let's go to bed," I said.
"Where's that drink," Gabe said.
"We're not going to kill them, are we?" asked Noelani.
"No, honey. We're not."
My Son the Super Villain
Me, upon tucking his red plaid Ralph Loren shirt (yes, Value Village) into his navy trousers: "Rhone, you look so handsome."
Rhone: "Do you mean I look... fantastic?"
Me, laughing: "Yes, you do."
Rhone: "Bella! Look at me! I look fantastic!"
***
In the car on a long freeway drive, Rhone suddenly began laughing the evil genius laugh: "Mwah-ah-ah-ah." He did this over and over again and then declared, "Mom, I'm a super villain."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. And my name is... Yucky Man!"
"Wow, Yucky Man?"
"Yeah. And my super power is, I can spray yucky goo all over everyone."
Now where the hell did he come up with that? However, Yucky Man was short-lived. After he had covered me, Jezebel, Noelani, and all the passing cars in yucky goo, he had a personality alteration.
"I'm not Yucky Man anymore. Now I'm Dr. Shrinky."
"And what's your super power? Let me guess."
I couldn't help but wonder how Rhone had stumbled upon this fact of nature on his own at the tender age of three. Because I realized that it's true: after spraying the goo, all men become Dr. Shrinky.
Disclaimer: I swear to God (ok, yes, that's not super binding for me; how about swearing to my garden) that I did not make up anything about this exchange.
Rhone: "Do you mean I look... fantastic?"
Me, laughing: "Yes, you do."
Rhone: "Bella! Look at me! I look fantastic!"
***
In the car on a long freeway drive, Rhone suddenly began laughing the evil genius laugh: "Mwah-ah-ah-ah." He did this over and over again and then declared, "Mom, I'm a super villain."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah. And my name is... Yucky Man!"
"Wow, Yucky Man?"
"Yeah. And my super power is, I can spray yucky goo all over everyone."
Now where the hell did he come up with that? However, Yucky Man was short-lived. After he had covered me, Jezebel, Noelani, and all the passing cars in yucky goo, he had a personality alteration.
"I'm not Yucky Man anymore. Now I'm Dr. Shrinky."
"And what's your super power? Let me guess."
I couldn't help but wonder how Rhone had stumbled upon this fact of nature on his own at the tender age of three. Because I realized that it's true: after spraying the goo, all men become Dr. Shrinky.
Disclaimer: I swear to God (ok, yes, that's not super binding for me; how about swearing to my garden) that I did not make up anything about this exchange.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Palpitations
Are you supposed to be able to feel your heart whacking against your ribs at times of stress? I consulted WebMD and it seems I shouldn't worry unless I also can't breathe at the time. Right. I'll keep you posted.
[
Rhone, to me after I began singing in the car the other day: "Mom, I think you're a bad singer."
Me: "Rhone! That's not very polite. If you don't want to hear me sing right now, how about, 'Mom, I'd rather you didn't sing right now.'"
Rhone: "Mom, I'd rather you didn't sing right now forever."
]
Basically: same shit, different day. I discovered an enormous quilt-batting-looking cobweb (made by those elusive cob spiders, I'm sure) in my dining room today. But... it's still there, because I didn't have time to embark on a cleaning campaign.
Got another paycheck today, but can't cash it til the business has the money. Sucks being the one employee who knows those details. I only had 20 hours of overtime on this check, so it's getting better. Remember this was a part-time job.
I'm uninspired. No, beyond that; I feel numb, like I can't write or don't remember how. Usually phrases flash through my mind or at least I am struck by interesting words. Right now I feel insulated from that, and not in a good way. I want it back, but... I don't have time for it anyway. Just another depressing thing to add to my list.
[
Rhone, to me after I began singing in the car the other day: "Mom, I think you're a bad singer."
Me: "Rhone! That's not very polite. If you don't want to hear me sing right now, how about, 'Mom, I'd rather you didn't sing right now.'"
Rhone: "Mom, I'd rather you didn't sing right now forever."
]
Basically: same shit, different day. I discovered an enormous quilt-batting-looking cobweb (made by those elusive cob spiders, I'm sure) in my dining room today. But... it's still there, because I didn't have time to embark on a cleaning campaign.
Got another paycheck today, but can't cash it til the business has the money. Sucks being the one employee who knows those details. I only had 20 hours of overtime on this check, so it's getting better. Remember this was a part-time job.
I'm uninspired. No, beyond that; I feel numb, like I can't write or don't remember how. Usually phrases flash through my mind or at least I am struck by interesting words. Right now I feel insulated from that, and not in a good way. I want it back, but... I don't have time for it anyway. Just another depressing thing to add to my list.
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