Day 364: Birth Chart Reading, A Red Harvest Moon & Coming Full Circle

Monday, September 15

This evening, after work, I drove over to my friend Carolyn’s house in Dundee. I spent a little time hanging out with her adorable children. At around 7:00, we headed over to her neighbor Maggie’s house, a few blocks away.  When we arrived, we signed up for what brought this evening gathering together – a birth chart reading party. 

I was last to go, so while the other ladies took their turns meeting with the medium, I sipped on some wine, engaged in some great conversation with a small group of nice women, and I snacked on some veggies and chips and salsa.  While we were hanging out, someone noticed a great, big harvest moon.  It was huge and a brilliant amber color.  It was beautiful.  Eventually, it was my turn.

I pulled out my little notepad and pen and listened intently as my birth chart was interpreted.  Now, it’s not like I frequent an astrologer.  I don’t even look up my sign in the daily paper.  But I’m not a skeptic, either.  I believe that we are connected to everything – the moon, the stars, the trees…  I believe in the Cosmos, and I believe it’s all divinely created.  That said, I was open to the connectedness the universe offers to help us understand our personality traits, the patterns in our lives, and our soul-driven purpose.

That said, here are my notes on what the astrologer said: 

First, I am a pure Capricorn, not born on any cusp, and I entered this world on January, 9 at 3:35 p.m. in Havre de Grace, Maryland, in the middle of a snow blizzard. 

I was born in the House of Capricorn and my sun is in Mercury – I’m not all too sure if I’m getting the latter details correct, but all that means I am driven by Mercury and, therefore, my strength is in communication, speaking and writing.  As for the ideal career, I need to eventually work toward being a ‘free agent’, working independently where I have great freedom.  With my sun in Capricorn, I am energized in things that allow me to work independently, solitary, and I needed to take on the next challenge, always looking for the next mountain to climb.

My moon is in Leo, which is all about creativity and play.  It’s how I get emotionally nurtured.  I need to give myself plenty of play time, I must set time aside for it, but I also benefit from spontaneous play, as well.

My rising sun is in Gemini, which is ruled by Mercury – a planet that shows up again.  This emphasizes my innate ability to teach, to share my wisdom and “sageness”, as well as writing and speaking.  I engage socially as a speaker, I can talk about any topic.  I am not an expert in one discipline, but rather, I know a little about a lot of things, which means I can talk to anyone and have engaging conversation with anyone.  This also means I am very curious and have a deep curiosity to learn.  I need a great deal of intellectual stimulus.

She also mentioned something about Sagitarius, which is about taking risks.  She went back to partnership, and that I need to start taking leaps of faith in partnership.  She told me I needed to have optimism, that I had been cynical or have felt perhaps “I don’t need one” when it comes to a relationship.  She said I need to put an end to that cynicism and open up to possibilities.  I wasn’t sure about this one, because I really do like my solitude.  But, I listened and decided it couldn’t hurt to at least be open to something different than what I have been accustomed to.

She then looked very serious and changed the subject.  She said in a couple of years I would go through a phase of Pluto square, which represents a time of change.  She said I have been moving toward this great change for some time now, so it won’t be a big shocker when it happens.  It has been a gradual progression, with the momentum toward this change already underway.  She said that what I have been doing, career wise, will be affected in the next 2-3 years.  This Pluto square phase should peak in 3-4 years, opening up to a highly creative cycle and I’ll need to let go of the old ways of doing things.

When the reading was over, I joined the remaining party guests.  I shared some aspects of my reading.  We all looked out the window in awe.  The moon was blood red.  It was eerie.  I had never seen the moon turn red, not even during a lunar eclipse.  I was a little nervous walking back home with Carolyn in the quiet, dark streets with a spooky, huge red moon.  It reminded me of a mythical omen, like something from the Seventh Seal.  Later, I discovered it had everything to do with atmospheric particles and dust, and forest fires. 

To me, this also signfied change.  A no-brainer, as the moon is inherently connected to change.  But, irrespective of whether or not it’s a change of season, change in politics, change in social order, or change in the global climate – it felt like a real sign.  And I’ve been feeling this, really intuiting this for quite some time.  It’s a powerful tide of hopeful energy. 

I’m not just sensing this in the form of a charismatic political leader of the moment, as crushes and infatuations with political celebrities of the moment will soon fade.  The seemingly immortal become mortalized soon enough.  And the political climate will return to status quo, once the excitement of icon seeking (a.k.a. this election) is finally over.  This idea and hope for political change is a fleeting, fickle fancy, as much a passing trend as carrying miniaturized dogs in little designer handbag carriers or wearing ridiculously oversized furry Australian boots.  Everything hot now is green, organic, sustainable, or about change. Real change. Right?

When I got home, I meditated.  I closed my eyes, burned some Sweetgrass incense, and took in some deep, purposeful breaths.  I felt centered.  And I felt the roundness of coming full circle.  I hadn’t meditated in months, but since have learned there are all kinds of meditation, and I didn’t have to limit myself to the clear-minded, free-from-thought-stillness that Tibetan Buddhism meditation required.  Instead, I focused on my breath and allowed my mind to wander…

I thought about the birth chart reading from this evening.  It has been clear to me that I needed to take risks in love, to trust more and allow myself to be optimistic.  Part of the challege was to get over the cynicism or craved solitude that’s been a part of my being for so long, perhaps over many lifetimes.  This is both refreshing and terrifying.  My solitude has been a source of my strength, a source that has energized me.  The notion that I need to start taking risks changes everything.  And the idea of a creative direction taking hold for me in the next couple of years is quite exciting.

Further, reflecting on the week, my diet has been better.  I haven’t been eating out as much (less change of gluten contamination).  Plus, I’ve started taking a really good probiotic for better digestive health.  Aside from some seasonal allergy symptoms, I have been feeling pretty good.   I haven’t morphed into a totally different person since I first began this blog a year ago.  But, I have come to know love better, and thus, I have become better acquainted with myself.  I couldn’t really predict what I would get out of this, exactly.  But I liked this idea of coming full circle.  It’s validating and it’s comforting.

As I took in my final meditative breaths, full of languid purpose, I allowed my newfound awareness of this plight toward change to lead my mindfulness.  I decided to let this grow in the center of my being, like a soft tendril unfolding, opening, sprouting, like my brightest chakra giving me strength, focus and light. 

 

 

 

 

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Day 360: Anniversary

Thursday, September 11

Love.  Perhaps not the first word that comes to mind on this day, a Memorial to America’s most devastating tragedy.  When I think back to seven years ago, I remember waking up to a morning that was glorious in Washington, DC – there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the sun was illuminating.  I lived in an apartment with my sister in Pentagon City, in northern Virginia.  At the time, I worked for a quaint wine shop in Dupont Circle.  I got up, got ready for work and just after 9:30 a.m., or so, I was on the metro headed for L’Enfant Plaza, where I switched trains from the yellow line to the red line, leading to the Dupont Circle station.  Only, just as we left the Pentagon station, just as we emerged from below ground to cross a bridge over the Potomac, in a sudden flash a bust of fire plummeted into a side of the Pentagon, thrusting a black plume of smoke into the unblemished sky.  My first thought was that we were getting bombed.  It was utter pandemonium on the metro, and in a flash, we were back underground, nearing the L’Enfant Plaza station.   

To make a long, horrific day short, I was stranded in DC overnight.  It was and remains to be a day of horror.  I was stranded and feared we hadn’t seen the worst.  A sleepless night kept me frightened about what might happen next – biochemical warfare?  Bombs?  More kamikaze airplanes falling from the sky?  If it was a perfect sky that day, it was a perfect patchwork of glittering stars that night.  And it was quiet, except for the occasional helicopter pounding through the night.  We listened carefully to the silence, wondering if the sound of airplanes would cut through with sonic booms and possible explosion.

But, back to love.  My parents celebrated their 42nd Anniversary today.  How inconvenient to have a birthday, an anniversary, or any other happy occassion on such a dark, sad day.  That was true for them in 2001.  And perhaps in 2002, as well.  But, since 9-11 became synonymous with a cowardly terrorist act on the Twin Towers and in our nation’s Capitol, my mom and dad have quietly celebrated their marriage without diminishing their respect for the nation.  But, then again, they really celebrate their love and commitment to one another every day. 

It amazes me how they have managed to treat each other with such honor and respect for nearly a half century.  A reminder to me and my siblings about what it means to have a good marriage.  It’s kind of bittersweet for me, because their marriage has been the benchmark for what I expect out of a potential marriage for myself.  I want no less – to find a partner who loves, honors and respects me, who holds his tongue before lashing out before it’s too late to take unkind words back, who feeds my dreams and my soul, who stands strong by my side with an open hand reaching out to mine.  This is the example they have given me.  And it has proven to be a challenge to find and keep the right partner to share my life with – but I’m still grateful that theirs has been that shining example that continues to give me hope.  I’d be so lucky to have a marriage like that.

Okay.  Here’s a photo of my parents on their honeymoon.  They married in Pennsylvania, in my mom’s hometown in the Lehigh Valley, and then headed across country.  Here, they visited my dad’s family in Eugene, Oregon.  My Uncle Ken and Aunt Kathie were married exactly one week before them, on September 4th, 1966. 

 

Pictured on my grandparent’s front steps, Eugene, OR, clockwise from left: (back) my dad, Kurt, my mom, Marie, dad’s brother Uncle Ken (front) dad’s sister Aunt Irene and Ken’s wife, Aunt Kathie 

This photo is of my mom and dad on the Oregon Coast, still on their honeymoon, with my Great Uncle Johnny.  They were clam digging.

And, finally, this photo totally deserves another run.  This is dedicated to my mom and pop – married on September 11, 1966.  Here – they’ve been married five years, still two kids in love.  God bless them!

Okay, so that’s how you go from 9-11 to love.

As for my day.  Well, it was a good one.  Lot of self lovin’ going on, lot of positive energy.  And a lot of big winning.  I went to my friend Lota’s house to play poker.  We started off with a nice spread of bountiful seasonal goodness - a Caprese salad, a garden vegetable salad and I made my Pico de Gallo with three different heirloom tomatoes.  Then we cleared the table and began playing poker.  I hadn’t played in years.  It was so much fun.

And, one of the players brought Red Bridge gluten-free beer.  I had a bottle and began losing on five card draw, seven card stud, and then my luck turned for the better with a fun game called Aces Duces, which I kept calling AC/DC.  I won several pots and took home $10-15 dollars in quarters.  We all had so much fun we decided to do this semi-regularly.

 

Bottle of Red Bridge gluten-free beer with some of my winnings…

And, to end a note on love…well, like poker, it’s a gamble.  Okay, that’s pretty bad.  But, if it were true, and if it were anything like last night, then that would make me a winner at love.  And that’s cool with me.

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Day 352: L’Amour Français, Worries and Woes, & A Narrative Nonfiction Plot

Wednesday, September 3

I got an email from my former French boyfriend.  Well, on Facebook.  It was sweet.  And it made me feel bad for avoiding his last two emails.  On Facebook.  I don’t know.  I’m bad about Facebook.  I forget to answer emails there.  I’m not sure if I should respond when people write on my wall.  I drink and Facebook.  I’m not the most diligent or responsible Facebooker. 

But, then again, I got a message like this one in my inbox which made me love Facebook:
Hello ! just a little kiss from Paris. I wouldn’t mind talk to you a little. hopefully soon
xoxo

Now, what girl wouldn’t swoon from such a message in her inbox?  The one thing I will give this man, my former French boyfriend, is that he knows how to do romance.  When I last visited him in Paris, ten years ago, I would wake up at his father’s apartment in the Montmartre (he had a couple of fabulous apartments) and Jean would have a fresh pastry, French press coffee and a USA Today on the old, wooden table in the kitchen, waiting for me.  He’d kiss me on the forehead and I’d wonder when he had left and for how long.  He’d wake early and go to the same patisserie on the block.  There were usually some flowers on the table for me, too.

His previous email, that was sent about a month ago, asked me when I was planning to return to Europe.  Ah, Europe.  Let’s see.  I have no vacation time to use.  I can’t afford to take leave without pay.  Um.  That would be never.  Or at least not until I win the lottery.  I’m glad I frivolously traveled in my twenties.  Because I practically live paycheck to paycheck now, which is ironic.  And I just found out today my rent is going up.  My limited funds seem to be flying out the windows.

Not ideal.  Not ideal, at all.  I made a list of where to cut spending.  I am worried about paying for my heating bills this winter.  They were pretty bad last year and will probably be worse this time around.

I worry.  I worry about taxes going up.  I worry about gas prices continuing to skyrocket.  I spend a lot of my time worrying. 

I know it doesn’t help to worry.  But it’s feeds the woe that makes me feel like it’s impossible for me to do this all on my own.  I remind myself how much easier it would be if I just married someone and got it over with.  You’re either taken care of or you split the bills.  Either way, you come up ahead.

It’s useless to lament over my inability to travel.  Which is more or less why I let my French ex’s messages go unanswered – it just isn’t plausible to get over there.  And, even if I could take a leave of absence, what next?  The thing is, Oregon is my home.  It’s funny that the few men I’ve met over the past year or so, that I’ve actually been interested in, all live elsewhere.  Not in Oregon.  I am unwilling to pick up and leave my beloved Oregon.  So, I have already decided it’s not worth getting the heart mixed up with anyone who doesn’t already live in Oregon or love it as much as I do.

As I drove home from work, I thought more about this.  I came to no new relevations.  It’s in Oregon I shall stay, loved or not loved.

At home, I changed and met Susan at Tryon Creek Park, up Terwilliger Boulevard.  We hiked a trail for about four miles or so, possibly more.  It was a nice change from the gym, an old growth forest with perfectly manicured trails and a nature center.  As we hiked, we chatted at length about Sarah Palin.  I have no idea how I’m voting for this coming election, but, because I am an Independent, I am interested in listening to what each of the candidates have to say.  It’s a thrilling election.

When I drove home, I caught the first half of her speech on NPR.  She had my attention.  I was surprised that this was her first major national address.  She sounded confident, competent and she had her own brand of charisma.  She has my attention.

I quickly made a gluten-free pizza for dinner.  This one had a touch of tomato sauce topped with thin slices of yellow heirloom tomato, buffalo mozzarella, shreded Assagio and Provalone.  I then topped it with fresh basil from the garden.  It was my seasonal Margherita Pizza.

While eating, I worked on my latest writing project.  I’m in the process of collecting the copy for each of my blog entries and separating them out in Word files by month.  I plan to organize the entries in a way that I can build a new narrative – the book will be based on the blog.  I don’t want it to be the blog reprinted word for word.  Instead, I plan to highlight themes and begin a meaningful narrative that reads more like a novel. 

I’ve been struggling with writing the book proposal for this, as most nonfiction book proposals are constructed for writers who are experts in a field or promise to help the reader accomplish something (learn how to cook, self help, etc.).  My nonfiction book is all narrative, so it doesn’t really fit the typical model.  I’m not claiming to be an expert on finding love in all of its manifestations, nor am I trying to teach anyone how to find love in all of its manifestations.  I am simply writing about my own experiences that have helped me to seek out and sometimes find love in its many manifestations.  And I’m satisfied with that.  Now, I have to figure out how to get an agent or publisher on board.  Between that and figuring out how to launch my new website, I’ve got a lot to do in my few hours of ‘free time’.

 

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Day 351: No Snooze Button, 5 or Less Dried Plums & Developing Marketing Strategies for My Writing

Tuesday, September 2

Things don’t seem to change.  This does not surprise me.  I shrug, even.  But, alas, I went to bed at 1:00 a.m.  That’s when I get tired, that’s when I’m ready to actually go to sleep.  And, the alarm went off at 7:30 a.m.  I don’t have a snooze button.  My alarm clock is a tibetan gong.  I stop the alarm and then either get up or lull back into a half-sleep.  Which is what I did this morning.  I finally got up at 8:00 a.m.

I had breakfast, including some of the dried plums my friend, Susan, gave to me.  These aren’t your grandmother’s prunes!  These were sweet, delicious with a hint of cinnamon and nutmeg, meaty, and more like figs than the dark, slimy prunes I remember at my grandparents’ house.  Susan’s family has a prune ranch in northern California.  She just returned from harvest.  It was a nice treat for her to bring back the freshly dried fruit.  Susan did warn not to eat more than 5 per day, when you’re not used to eating dried plums regulary.  Good thing she did that – otherwise we’d get more fiber than our young bodies could handle!

 

I got to work at 10:00 a.m. and was busy all day without even a stop for lunch.  I made a turkey breast sandwhich on gluten free bread and ate at my desk.  I worked until 7:30 p.m.!  I was waiting for a bunch of photos to upload on flickr for our event photo galleries.  It took forever.  Plus, I was working on website updates.  I didn’t even realize what time it was.  I get in a zone.

When I left, I locked up and drove home with every intention of going to a driving range to hit some golf balls.  But by the time I got home, it was too late.  I dropped off my bags, with a handful of basil I brought home from our garden at work, and put it in water.  I changed and went to the gym to ride on the exercise bike by 8:15 p.m.  I got a good 20 minute workout in, and my legs were wobbly and sore by the time I made my way back down to my townhome.  That was a nice change from my usual jogging on the treadmill and yoga.

I quickly got to cooking.  I boiled in water with a dab of olive oil and a pinch of salt some Tinkyada brown rice spaghetti.  I cooked up two small spicy Italian pork sausages in garlic and olive oil.  I then cooked up some homemade tomato sauce.  I topped the cooked pasta with a mozzarella-assagio cheese blend, the cooked sausage and garlic, the tomato sauce and then some freshly chopped basil. I love to show how you can make delicious gluten-free options for your favorite meals.

After dinner I had a cup of hot Yogi India Spice tea.  I then cleaned up the kitchen and wiped down the counters and floor.  I have been so nervous about the ant situation this summer, that it has forced me to be obsessively clean.  Which is probably a good thing.

I missed the Republican Convention this evening.  Because I am registered Independent, I don’t believe in voting for a party.  I vote for the best person.  And I feel I must listen to both parties present their cases.  I am curious about Sarah Palin, especially after her controversial announcement of her 17 year old daughter’s pregnancy.  Unfortunately, politics get ugly, and it will be interesting to see how the Democrats rip these people and their families apart, and vice versa.  This is the part of politics I hate.

Today, I received my order of a USB desktop microphone to record myself doing readings of my literary work for my new website.  I can save them as mp3 files and make them available on the new site.  I noticed today that my friend cleared up my current website with a “new site coming soon” announcement.  I am excited about creating my new site.  This will go to show potential publishers (and agents) that I am a “dream author” who knows how to market herself.

When this blog comes to it’s end in two weeks to this day (wow!), I will start a new blog on my writer’s website.  I won’t stick to a daily entry cycle as I have with this one, it’s a totally different kind of blog.  I am happy to see this blog come to it’s end.  I will still keep it up and accessible via my new site.  I am proud of this blog and I am still hopeful I can get a book deal based on the content of this site.

As I began to wind down for the evening, I realized how promising my writing career has been since I committed to this blog.  It was one great step for me, one that will surely turn things around and land me my first book deal.  I am sure of it.

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Day 349: Gluten Free French Toast, A Cat Nap & Une Film Français

Sunday, August 31

I got up rested and made myself French toast for breakfast, made an egg mix of organic, free range brown eggs, ground cinnamon and Grand Marnier; I then dipped Ener-G brand Seattle brown loaf bread slices (which is the best gluten-free bread for French toast, as well as toasted cheese sandwiches) in the egg mix and cooked it up in a buttery frying pan.  I served this up with sliced organic Gala apples topped with Rivers Edge Chévre, known as The Little Goat Dairy by The River, in Logsden, Oregon.  I poured myself a small glass of organic orange juice and enjoyed my quiet morning.

After I ate, I worked on revising my third chapter for my writer’s group.  It took me about an hour and a half to do the revisions.

I read for about an hour and then curled up on sofa with my cats and took a nap.  It was dark and kind of gloomy out.  Occasionally, the sun would break through the sky to make an appearance.  It rained hard for about an hour and then was clear again.  And it was cool out. 

My body was reacting to the weeks of late nights and early alarms, and lack of proper sleep.  I welcomed the rest, I gave in to it and fell dreamily asleep surrounded by my soft, snuggly cats.  I was feeling a little congested and got a little anxious about it, as I had been clear for almost two months.  The last thing I wanted was a return to those weird non-allergic rhinitis symptoms.  

When I woke up, three hours had passed.  That was crazy.  I checked my voicemail messages and hurried to get dressed to meet Kerry downtown to watch a French film at the Living Room Theater, next to the Ace Hotel and Clyde Common.  The Living Room Theater has been on my list of things to do, as I love art house films.  This venue reminded me of a place I used to love to go to in Dupont Circle in Washington, DC.  We bought tickets for a French romantic comedy starring Audrey Tatou, from Amelie and The Davinci Code.  It was called Priceless, a charming story about a young woman who only dates wealthy men to ensure she’ll be taken care of.  She glitters the screen with her gorgeous haute couture.  She meets a handsome young man at the hotel bar, where she’s staying on her birthday, and she mistakes him for a rich guest.  He actually works for the hotel.  They drink a bunch of cocktails and end up in the hotel master suite, which she thinks is his room.  In the morning, she is gone.  A year later, she returns with the same older gentleman and runs into the hotel worker again.  It’s a great comic play on mistaken identity and then the old story of girl will only date rich not poor men.  The best part comes when the young man plays her game and becomes a boy toy to a wealthy much older woman.  It’s a fun story and, at times, is quite sad.  But there’s a redeeming moment when Audrey Tatou’s character wakes up and realizes what’s really important.  It’s fun, it’s light, it’s very French.

 

After the movie, we made a refreshing and bold move.  We didn’t go to one of our typical foodie spots.  We headed over to Henry’s and sat at the bar.  I was starving.  It was happy hour.  So, I ordered a medium rare cheeseburger without the bun and a chopped salad with mango and avocado.  They have an extensive beer list – probably the largest in town.  No gluten-free beer, of course.  So, I ordered a pear cider.Kerry and I caught up, as it’s been about two weeks since we’ve hung out.  We talked about what we’ve been up to, and then our smug married friends (not saying our married friends are all smug, we’re talking about very specific married friends who happen to be smug), and then our latest bad behavior.  I told her about my drinking and facebooking episode a few weeks ago, which was, of course, funny.   By 11:15 I was ready to go home.

It was so cold out, it felt like we were being robbed of a decent summer, of a decent Labor Day weekend.  It really felt like early spring or late winter out.   It was really annoying.

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Day 346: Last Thursday, Bourbon Cherry Sour & Braised Pork Cheeks & The White Ninja

Thursday, August 28

This evening marked the last Last Thursday on Alberta Street for the summer.  I hadn’t been to one in, gosh, about two years, maybe.  It’s unlike any other street fair or art walk on the planet.  Really.  There’s this wild confluence of hippie dippie, antique chic, hillbilly, and soulful art and music.  I wandered around up and down Alberta, loving Portland with my whole heart. 

On every corner there was different music – jazz, funk, bluegrass, folk.  I tried to stop here and there and give a listen. I looked at some really good paintings that were patched in between some creative but not-my-taste artwork.  I came very close to buying a painting of a beautiful tree in golds, oranges and turquoise blues, which would have been perfect for my meditation room.  It wasn’t meant to be.

As I walked down the street, a thirty-something guy with a hoodie on, a trucker-style mesh baseball cap sitting high on his head, was riding a bike pulling a wooden cart.  Inside the cart was some kind of cooler.  He yelled out, in a sarcastic, goofy tone, “Frozen…” he paused.  I thought what?  Treats?  Ice cream?  Popsicles?  What??  He finished, “stufffff!”  And continued along.  It was pretty funny.

I felt like I was wandering aimlessly.  But there was nothing aimless about it.  I followed the music, the smells, the sights.  Ahead, someone opened up their window to their loft apartment facing the street, put a speaker up to the window and blasted out Obama’s Democratic presidential nomination acceptance speech.   People of all walks crowded around to listen.  It was something.  It was just another moment in the midst of American history happening.

As I continued along, looking at the wares of street vendors, walking down the free spirited vanity faire, I ascertained that one couldn’t help but feel the change in the air.  People were happy, no – hopeful.  Well, both.  But the mix of different colored faces, hair and style – the happy hopeful mix was so different, so unique, so diverse, so weird, so Portland.

I actually stopped for a moment on a corner where a blues band was performing.  I missed my sister.  I thought about summertime in Chattanooga, the sweeping heat and humidity that wrapped around the Riverbend Music Festival on the edge of the Tennessee River each year.  I thought this street festival was something like the Bessie Smith Strut, a mid-week celebration during the Riverbend Music fest that celebrated the famous blues singer, a similar event by way of mood, colors, art, jewelry and food, but mostly the music and diversity.

I peeked into the window at Ciao Vito and wanted to go there to eat so badly.  I’ve never had a meal there before.  With its dark mood lighting, and especially its lovely dangling chandeliers, the place dripped romance.   I decided I’d wait for a date to go there.  That may be a long wait, but that’s okay.

I was surprised at how many amazing restaurants and eateries have popped up on Alberta over the past couple of years.  And cute boutiques.  But, mostly the “fooderies”.  Thinking about this made me hungry.  I briefly met Susan in the streets to say hello and walk a few blocks while totally distracted by all the pandemonium all around.  She ended up leaving soon after with friends, and I headed to the Alberta Street Oyster Bar – another place I have been meaning to go to.  I entered the dark front room, a throwback to another time with its dramatic black and red color scheme.  It was cozy in this room.  Another good date place, I thought.  I grabbed a seat at the bar.  That’s my thing.

I ordered a Cherry Bourbon Sour, per the recommendation of the friendly bartender.  It was a cherry-infused Bourbon cocktail with lime, orange and club soda.  Lying across the top of the tall, thin glass was black plastic toothpick lined with three amaretto cherries.  I was pleased.  I often judge bars and restaurants by the kinds of cherries they use, usually in Manhattans, my staple drink.  If an establishment offers maraschino cherries, I judge them harshly.  Gross.  If they serve up Amarena cherries, I am a life-long friend, a fan, a patron.  I asked the bartender where one could pick up the Amarena cherries, and he advised at Pasta Works.  Toschi brand.  Good bartender.

I started with a duck salad on wilted greens.  It was nice and actually tasted really good with the Cherry Bourbon Sour.  Then, I had the pork cheeks from Carlton Farms with artichokes and fingerling potatoes.  It was amazing.  I heart pork cheeks.  It’s like braised pork and just pulls apart effortlessly, almost sweet in flavor.  Delicious.  I finished with a scoop of molé ice cream with chunks of chocolate.  It was lovely.  I enjoyed it with a cup of Stumptown coffee.  Another reason to love the Alberta Street Oyster Bar – amaretto cherries, Stumptown coffee and really good food.

A few days ago I wrote about lonely.  But, truth be told, I signed up for lonely.  When I packed up all of my treasures, watched four young men load it all up on the moving truck an stood in line with a one-way ticket to Portland, Oregon, my poor, anxious cats in their carriers, yup, I signed up for lonely.

And lonely is not so bad.  It’s not as foreboding for me as it might be for others.  Because, I love my solitude.  I love the quiet of eating dinner out and sitting at the bar and savoring food as only a foodie can, without forced conversation.   I don’t need or require company.  I am delighted in my quiet, reverent moments of alone.  It’s not bad when it’s wanted.  Just like anything else.

But in the event that it’s not wanted, that I’m missing my family, or I’m bored with my routine, sometimes I have my moments of lonely that make my taking on “alone” sometimes a little sad.  And it’s okay to be sad every now and again.  I say this with strong conviction, because before I was diagnosed with celiac disease, before I went gluten-free,  I had endured many, many very dark days of lonely.

As I walked mistakenly down 31^st Street, happily full from my savory dinner and sour cocktail, I ducked down for a moment to pet a very cute kitten.  I heard giggling just ahead.  Then, a wiry, medium build young man climbed down a small tree all dressed in white.  He startled me.  His two friends, a guy and a girl probably in their thirties, were sitting on a patio cracking up.  The guy approached me in white sweat pants, sneakers, a plain white zipped-up hoodie, and a white cloth wrapped around his head, covering all but his eyes and mouth.  He had HUGE white Mickey Mouse clown handed gloves.  He kept asking me in a bad mockery of an Asian accent, if I feared the White Ninja.  It was pretty flippin hilarious.  His friends were practically rolling off the patio. 

It wasn’t scary or threatening.  It was a joke.  He was up in the little tree waiting to spook unassuming passers-by.  It was magically hilarious.  The little kitty had run off.  When he asked one last time if I feared the White Ninja, I casually told him no, but at least the White Ninja scared the cat.  He and his friends cracked up.  It was a fun night.

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Day 345: Girls in Trucks & Fashion in Politics?

Wednesday, August 27

I have finally picked up the book, Girls in Trucks, again.  When I first opened it, I wasn’t really getting into it, plus I was reading two other books at the time.  A few days into it and now I was nearing the end.  I don’t have the time I would like to read as much as I would like.  I have been staying up late, eyes lilting with sleepiness, trying to stay up later than need be, hypnotized by the story unfolding, I’ve been forcing myself awake, lulling over previously read paragraphs that I barely comprehended because I’m so tired, so I’m lazily re-reading sections over again until I’ve accepted the fact that I can no longer succumb to sleepy reading.  Thus, I pick the book up again first thing in the morning, like when I pee or when I eat my Leaping Lemurs or apply my make-up.  I had mastered the skill of multi-tasking long ago.

The thing about Girls in Trucks is that it’s kind of disturbing and yet slightly familiar.  Not the darkest part of the main character’s life challenges, but, aspects.  I wondered if I was like Sarah Walters.  Which didn’t make me feel too great about myself.  She’s part neurotic and very cynical.  And the way she is with men in relationships, well, not the promiscuous part, but the detached, judgmental, cynically annoyed parts.  I don’t want to be that way.  I closed the book and decided I wouldn’t.

It would be remiss for me to not mention the Democratic Convention in Denver.  I watched Michelle’s speech online and was impressed with her.  She has won me over again.  I wasn’t sure about her, post commentary on ‘this is the first time I’m proud to be an American’.  She came back and put that statement to bed.  I’m over it.  This woman is a solid role model for all women.  She’s not simply a woman standing behind her man.  She’s much, much more.

I watched Hilary give her speech on Tuesday.  And it was bittersweet for me.  I was really hoping that my America would put a woman in the Presidential race this year.  It’s an understatement that the lack of a woman in this election is a disappointment to me.  I was proud of her for how she addressed this election and her support of Obama and the Democratic party.  And I continue to be mortified at how she’s judged on what she wears.  This is disturbing to me.  The same goes for the bizarre interest in who Michelle was wearing, reducing this to some kind of Hollywood red carpet nuttiness.  I wish the media would stop reducing these women to mannequins.  Else, they must begin focusing on who the men are wearing – Armani, Hugo Boss, Ralph Lauren.  Who the hell cares!

It’ been an interesting ride so far… 

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Day 343: That’s Not My Mom & Dad, Is It????

Monday, August 25

The alarm clock, albeit a Zen gong, started ringing at seven.  Ugh.  I don’t like to wake up before eight.  But I had to be at the winery by nine, so there you go.  I dragged my sleepy bum out of my cozy bed and sauntered down the stairs for a bowl of Leapin Lemurs cereal.  What can I say, the sweet yumminess of gluten-free chocolate-peanut butter cereal clears away the early morning blues.I hurried along, feeding the cats, cleaning the litterbox, and getting myself ready for work.  I spent most of the day at the winery while a producer was filming segments for a video.  I kept the time to keep things moving along.  The last quarter of my day was at my desk busily working through a long line of emails. 

When I got home, I changed and went to the gym.  On my way, I stopped by my mailbox and opened up a letter from my uncle in Florida.  In it was a fantastic photo taken of my parents from the late 60′s or early 70′s.  My mom has this huge black chignon or beehive, a little red velvet dress, looking wiped out a la Amy Winehouse style, and she’s sitting on a funky sofa (with colonial images like George Washington on a horse!) next to my dad who looks handsome in a black suit, only his eyes are totally closed.  He’s either very, very bored and tuning out his surrounds, or he’s passed out!  On the coffee table in front of them are two empty cocktail glasses.  I couldn’t stop laughing. 

My uncle is hilarious!  He included a funny note with the photo.  I’m going to have to frame this photo!  While it’s funny to see my parents in this era, and questionably sober, it’s also just cool to see them in a moment that’s so honest and real – not perfectly prim, proper and posed.  I don’t have any other photo of my parents like this, at all.  I do believe it’s now my favorite.

It’s also quite remarkable how much I look like my mom.  Aside from the black hair.  When I learned that the photo was taken in 1971, it dawned on me that I am four years older than my mom was when that photo was taken.  She had an adopted three year old little boy (which explains why they look so spent!) and, they didn’t know it at the time, but their soon-to-be adopted little girl was about to be born.  I wasn’t even a thought in the universe for another three years.

I called my mom and learned that she has to now give herself insulin shots.  Her voice was hesitant as she mentioned this.  I remembered practicing giving oranges insulin shots when my diabetic grandmother was still alive.  I knew this day was coming.  Her pills never seemed to control her irratic blood sugar.  I have worried about this, which is so fitting.  My mother spends many waking hours worrying about her children.  It’s quite the role reversal, but, I have worried about her diabetes for awhile.  But, part of me was a little relieved.  I figured the insulin shots might actually make her feel better.  This, I decided, was a good thing.

I made a thick and very cheesy two egg omelet stuffed with crab for dinner.  I had a very leafy green salad for lunch.  So, I was craving protein.  I had two organic sausage links with my omelet.  I then fixed a cup of Yogi India Spice tea, which is so darn good, with one third of a Dagoba dark chocolate bar.  I also ate two Ener-G brand gluten-free donut holes.  My sweet tooth was calling. 

Alas, I noticed a few ants around my kitchen sink.  I was pissed.  I spent days cleaning up the kitchen to get rid of the buggers.  I kept mumbling under my breath, not again.

I flipped through the latest New Renaissance book shop catalog and dog-eared pages to listings on a couple events I’m interested in attending this fall, including Images & Inspiration from Tibet – a talk and slide show on Heart Essence of the Vast Expanse, a tradition providing many pathways to enlightened being, which is scheduled for Friday, November 7th.  Another talk that I marked was Spiritual Discourse with Anam Thubten Rinpoche, a heart-to-heart dharma dialogue and exploration of the truth that is always available to us.  This class is scheduled for Thursday, November 13th.

As I made a note on my calendar about these events, I thought about my spiritual compass.  I haven’t been going to mass, still.  It’s been a couple months.  Maybe even more.   But I am still hung up on the fact that the Catholic church will not allow persons with celiac disease to take a gluten-free host for the Eucharist.  This is so offensive to me.  As if people with celiac are just trying to make a stink.  The bread is a symbol, which mean it’s not literal.  Which means Christ isn’t really wheat, water and yeast baked to crusty brown perfection.  C’mon!  It’s a sacred symbol.  I might as well have been excommunicated, as far as I’m concerned.  I’m not able to let go of this.  Communion was such a sacred, deep connection I’ve had with my faith.  It really meant a lot to me.  There are some Catholic churches out there that welcome a gluten-free host for those in need.  But, unfortunately, not mine here in Portland.  So, I’m a little bitter.  I am more or less ditching church until I am able to take a gluten-free host for Communion.

Meantime, I am exploring other spiritual options.  This isn’t really to replace my Catholic faith, but to keep my heart, mind and spirit refreshed and fulfilled.  I miss going to Mass and feel a void in my life, but I’m taking my own stand.  So, because I enjoy the philosophy and spiritual teachings of other faiths, anyway, I have been seeking out other ways to experience spirituality.  I had been on hold, spiritually, for awhile now, checked out, even.  Perhaps these Tibetan talks will feed my spiritual needs until the Catholic Church decides to be more inclusive to all, including those with celiac disease.

 

 

 

 

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Day 340: A Start with Leapin Leamers, A Bite at Bar Avignon, Little Notebooks & Moss Garden Incense

Friday, August 22

I got up and enjoyed a sweet but moderately nutritious bowl of gluten-free Leapin Leamers cereal. 

I had to run errands for our vineyard dinner tomorrow.  I drove over to Michael’s printing for our menus, Trader Joe’s to look at flowers (I took notes in my little writer’s note pad), Haggan (which I couldn’t find anything that would work for centerpieces), the Fred Meyer in Sherwood, which, again, didn’t have anything for my centerpieces, and finally the Fred Meyer in Newberg – where I scored these adorable and beautiful plants with tiny red, orange and green-yellow peppers.  I then found some green-white hydrangea.  I also found these beautiful green ceramic pears with silver-gray stems that would also look beautiful.

The cellar had just finished bottling for the day and were offering “first off’s” to staff, the wine they couldn’t sell that went through the bottling line first.  There was perfectly good wine inside, in any case, a few of us went down to the cellar and picked out a number of single vineyard Pinot noirs, some Syrah and Gamay noir, as well as single vineyard Chardonnay. 

When I got to the winery there was a lot of work to do.  Others were cleaning up while I washed out our hurricane lamps and staged things for my flower arranging tomorrow.

I returned to the office to check emails and then headed out to Dundee to pick up a few coolers from another winery. 

Driving home, I had every intention to change and go for a run, but Susan had called and convinced me to meet her and her mom for dinner downtown.  So, I emptied the wine from my car, put it away in my cellar under the stairs and changed for dinner.

We were going to go to Nuestra Cocina up on Division and 22^nd, but there was an hour wait. So we went across the street to a new wine bar called Bar Avignon.  It was chic and cool inside.  We took a table by the window.  Her aunt, uncle and family friend joined us.  I shared an order of luscious green olives and prosciutto and sweet peaches, then an order of gazpacho and their local farm green salad, which was really fresh and delicious.  I enjoyed a glass of Soter rosé with it.

I tried to pay for my portion, but Susan’s mom wouldn’t have it.  That was very nice of her.  I sipped on a cup of Stumptown coffee while they passed around a couple desserts.

After, Susan, her mom and I went into the frozen yogurt shop next door.  I ordered a cup of the chocolate yogurt topped with a little coconut and shared it.  We proceeded toward the New Seasons on Division, where I bought gluten-free donut holes by Ener-G, a couple more of my new favorite gluten-free pizza crusts, organic, free-range brown farm eggs, organic sausage links and these cute, small recycled notepads. 

I have become obsessed with little notepads that I carry around in my purse, leave in my car and stock in a pocket inside my workbag.  I take a little notepad everywhere I go, just in case I get an idea I need to write down.  I use the little notepads for more.  Like when I was in Trader Joe’s in Lake Oswego and needed to note which kind of flowers would work best for our vineyard dinner.  I jot down notes of things to do, people to call or meals I should make for the week.  I write down names I like that may either become characters or children.  I write down addresses and phone numbers, but, mostly, I scribble thoughts that come to me when I’m driving down 99 West or I-5 or when I’m in the middle of doing something else but don’t want to lose that train of thought, that perfect description in my head, that crazy thing that just happened as I turned that corner on 21^st  and Clinton, where the two guys on their bikes nearly hit a parked wagon with the front windows slightly open where two shiatsus practically wrestled each other to fit their sad little pink tongues through the slight open crack of window.

There was a cute, smallish guy putting his groceries down on the conveyor belt as a tall, round girl with friendly violet eyes framed in old-school black and mother-of-pearl glasses checked me out.  I handed her my check card, excited about the gluten-free donut holes.  The cute guy looked at my little notepads and said they were cool.  I told him I was a writer.  When the check-out-girl gave me my receipt, I smiled happily as the cute guy kindly offered, “good luck with the gluten-free, and the writing.”  I smiled back, “thanks!”

At home, I finished the place cards for the vineyard dinner.  I watched the last five minutes of Jaws 4 (or Jaws: The Revenge).  I had no choice.  I had watched the first three this week.  I didn’t even know there was another one after the 3-D version.  This Jaws didn’t blow up.  I was disappointed.

I burned some Moss Garden incense, not that it really smelled like moss.  It was actually a blend of sandalwood, benzoinum, patchouli and spices.  Not sure what the spices were, even with my trained wine professional’s nose.  It was Japanese.  Manufactured in Kyoto and distributed in Boulder, Colorado.  I have been slightly obsessed with Kyoto.  Not the same way as I have been about Tibet or Vietnam.  But enough so that I read a whole book on the tea service in Kyoto and the spirit of reciprocity there, how everyone is keen on gratitude, even if only in a matter of politeness and gesture.  There is what is called ‘the spirit of the gift’, to which Kyotans give little gifts to patrons who dine in their tea houses or restaurants, the gifting concept carrying over in many areas of their culture. 

Anyway.  I burned the incense to relax.  It’s a kind meditative gesture to myself, really.  I read a little and headed up for bed later than I had intended.  I made a note in one of my little notebooks that I was now going to bed rather regularly at 1:30 a.m.  It started off at 11:30 p.m.  That had been my bedtime for quite some time.  But then the late hour for me crept to midnight.  Then 12:30, always reading or writing, stretching my day as long as I could to get in all of the time I needed after work to workout, cook dinner, get some writing done, meditate and unwind, read and then turn in, which no sooner turned to 1:00 a.m.  And for the past couple of weeks, this has proceeded to dip into that too-late pool of 1:30 a.m.  I made a note that I simply could not allow this pattern to continue.  I could not let the minutes charge on to 2:00 a.m.  I had to curb the restlessness, the need for more time. 

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Day 339: Moody, Bluesy, Lonely & In Need of Chocolate

Thursday, August 21

Another gray start to the day, rain channeling in and out of the sky.  I wasn’t really hungry, so I had a lovely frozen fruit pop in coconut milk and pineapple.  It’s packed with vitamins and tasted like a pina colada.

I chugged through a busy to-do list.  It’s amazing how quickly the days fly by.  I’m still stunned that we’re in the near last leg of August.  How did that happen?

I wasn’t feeling great early in the day.  Not sick.  No, more mood-wise.  I had PMS, I guess, unless that’s just an excuse I’m using for feeling a little bluesy.  I played some music at my desk today and kept it on artist Meiko for awhile.  Her song Hawaii is ethereal, delicate and haunting.  I imagined myself floating on a longboard under a pink sunset, towering palm trees behind me, cautionary fronds swaying in the wind telling me to paddle in.  It’s easy to get carried away by gentle waves of distraction.  I am rocking over the rise and fall, sweating under the languid breeze, hot and warm, while the persistent pull, the letting go rolls me along.  And sometimes I really just want to let go.

I met a photographer for lunch today at the Dundee Bistro to go over some shots we need for our stock photo library.  It’s all part of a larger piece of work I’m doing to use better images for storytelling.  I had Italian sausage with polenta and broccolini and a side salad.  It was pretty good.  My favorite sausage and polenta remains to be cooked up at Bar Mingo, mamma mia!  But this hit the spot.

After lunch, I finally went to the post office to send my cousin’s new baby the adorable Portland designed onesie and baby cap I purchased at the Saturday Farmer’s Market a few weeks ago.  I picked up a book of stamps with sunny sunflowers on them.  Very vibrant.  I needed vibrant.

I didn’t leave work until 7:15 p.m.!  What the heck??  I had a lot of work to do.  And I also emailed Kerry, who was back on the east coast for work, to give her my typed verbal diahharea on the usual woe-is-me crap that came with the said “PMS” blended with boredom and loneliness.  There.  I said it.  The dreaded “L” word.  I’m normally not so down, not so, well, lonely.  Mostly, I missed my family.  At least I’ll see them in a few weeks.  I’m looking forward to that.  And I missed my friends – we haven’t been able to hang out much these days.  I’m flailing all by myself, so I suppose it’s good that I have a lot of work to do.  It’s a distraction.

I have also been concerned with my aunt in Seattle.  I received an email this week from my cousin that she had to have surgery on her gut.  Well, apparently, there was some kind of infection.  I’m really not sure.  But, she’s back in the hospital.  So, I called my dad’s brother the other day to check in.  It sounded like she’s stable and doing okay for now.  Hopefully she’ll get to go home this weekend.  I have been thinking about them all week.  I plan to go up for a visit when I return from the east coast, which means, most likely, in early October.  Plus, that will give her ample time to recover.

I went to Fred Meyer to stock up on some fruit, salad mixings and, oh yeah, Dagoba chocolate.  I found a new organic, gluten-free EnviroKidz cereal in peanut butter and chocolate, called Leapin Lemurs.   I also picked up a box of Frosted Perky-O’s.  I don’t usually eat sugar cereals, but, well, clearly I’m jonesing for some sweets.  I got organic strawberries and white nectarines, as well!

The sunflowers on my postal stamps must have been in my head, because I bought myself a bouquet of flowers with three lovely sunflowers.  I needed some cheering up.  Sometimes a single girl’s gotta buy herself flowers.  I mean, I do everything else for myself.  Why deny myself from receiving flowers?  There I go again with my moodiness.  Well, the flowers were a treat.  And, yes, I even smiled.

My sunflowers shown with the green-leaf square ceramic plate I had painted a couple weeks ago.  Painting pottery has been another soul soother for me these days.

When I got home, I re-heated the beautiful gluten-free pizza I made last night.  I actually took a photo of it:

Yup.  Brown rice crust that I brushed with olive oil, a little bit of organic tomato sauce, fresh mozz, a little salt and pepper, super-thin local heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil from our garden at work.  It’s the best thin-crust, traditional Napolitano Margherita pizza I’ve had since I was diagnosed with celiac (hey…Dad…are you looking at that photo??  Now that’s gluten-free pizza!!).

As I ate, I turned on the genius box and watched Jaws 3.  Hell, three’s a charm!  I figured, I watched the first two the past two nights, might as well fry my brain with the 3-D version without 3-D glasses.  I was stunned.  Was that really Dennis Quaid, Louis Gossett, Jr. and Lea Thompson??  Ha, ha, ha.  This was 1983.  I was nine years old when this flick came out.  And still swimming competitively.  Though, I figured out at this point that sharks didn’t swim in pools.

 

That’s awesome… Anyway.  The 3-D made for silly television viewing.  Especially when the “35 foot” Jaws swam straight for the glassed-in control room at Sea World in the end.  It was so fake, so goofy I couldn’t stop laughing.   Oh, and then when it blew up in the end – it was hilarious how ridiculous it looked with bits bursting out in blood red ocean water, namely a large half of the jaw with several jagged teeth still intact floating to the forefront.  I laughed out loud again.  Too bad I didn’t have any 3-D glasses around.  Anyway.  Why was it that all the Jaws sharks were blown up at the end of these movies?  I guess that was done for the teenaged boys.  After Jaws 3, after the great white explosion, Dennis Quaid and his lady friend surfaced in their scuba gear and called out to their dolphin friends, who flipped and jumped in the finale.  Uh, that was the teenaged girl’s ending.  All they needed were rainbows and pegasus.  And then, Jaws 4 could emerge from the bay and take down the wing of pegasus..a segue to a final chapter.  I digress…

Anyway.  I turned on the Beijing Olympics to watch the American men win the beach volleyball gold medal.  It was killer!  Again, I am pumped to play volleyball.  That’s another thing I missed about living in Seattle.  I was part of a group that played volleyball every Tuesday all summer long at Greenlake.  I missed summer volleyball.

In any case, I had a round of crunches to get to.  And another piece of Dagoba dark chocolate.  My favorite.

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