“You always think that a bolt of lightning is going to strike and your parents will magically change into the people you wish they were or back into the people they used to be. But they’re never going to. And even though you know they’re never going to, you still hope they will.”

— Nora Ephron in “My Life as an Heiress,” New Yorker, 10/11/2010

So, just about a year ago we put our house on the market on a Monday. By Friday, we got an offer and that was that. Sold to a young couple from Oakland who were picky and fussy and kept bitching about this and that. Yeah, that’s precious. Have fun, kids. Maybe you should start a blog? Call it “This Old House is 100 and Fussy as Hell Just Like Us.” Put a bird on it, it’ll be fine.

The decision to sell came after years of… this and that. Go read the archives under “School Politics,” “Pets, Stupid” and “Remodelling” if you’re interested in trippin’ down Wacky Family Memory Lane.

We found a new house, it had just gone on the market that day. Made an offer, snapped it up, off we went. (Now I’m thinking we didn’t move far enough away — working on the next ten-year plan and am thinking out of state, or country, even. Really fucking sick of the rain. But it is sooooooo nice to be closer to Steve’s work.) We moved over Easter weekend and our son’s birthday, and everything for the last year has honestly been one big blur. April to April, and I realize I haven’t written much about what the transition has been like, how things are for us. Geez, I have about four readers now (hi, lovies!) so this is more of a diary entry than a blog entry, ha.

Good, is how things are. Good and good. Yeah, people drive like maniacs on the west side, but it’s “car culture” that is more L.A. than crazy-ass North Portland, so that’s alright. They mostly stop for pedestrians in cross walks. They mostly follow the rules, good enough.

Culture shock? Little to none for Steve and the kids; a whole lot for me. I’ve never really been around middle-class and upper-middle class people in my life, it was lower middle-class and poor people up until now. I have friends from grade school, high school, college, various jobs, The Internet, neighbors… so there is no shortage of socializing, if I want it. I’ve made good friends over the years, I am blessed.

I do miss my old world, but you know? I never fit in with a lot of ’em. A number of our friends had moved away, and even the ones who were still in town? Good luck finding time to see each other, especially with everyone at different schools, with different schedules, different sports teams. None of us on our block and the blocks surrounding us went to the same schools. My daughter had one buddy down the street she went to school with, that was about it.

My son is supposed to be writing an essay for school: “Tell about an experience you had visiting Portland.” I told him to write about the SWAT teams and the sharp-shooters who wouldn’t let us go home cuz there was a bad guy in our driveway, and about the pitbulls and the drunk neighbors who used to play YAHTZEE!!!!!!!!! all night long and… yeah. Portland! Wow! Portland is rilly rilly fun and put a bird on it, why doncha? Right away!

When we went to a birthday party (years ago), and all the grandparents were my age, and were making drug references that ha! ha! they were so sure that the kids weren’t getting. Yeah… that didn’t work for me. Grade school, high school, fights and messes and people burning their houses down for the insurance money and almost killing their kids in the process, and having to learn how to drive when you were 11 or 12 because if your parents were drunk, or the dad you babysat for wanted to drive you home and he was loaded, you did not want those people driving you around, fucking give me the keys and I’ll drive. “I know how! It’s OK, give me the keys. Thanks.” That was my neighborhood, growing up. Put a bird on it!

People bragging about their guns, their fucking stupid dogs and their stupid dog parks (“He is like my child!”), their wildass, tattooed, branded and pierced lifestyles. Mmmmmmmmmmmmm, how avant garde you are.

Then there’s the truly harsh stuff. The desperation that comes with poverty. The neighbors who don’t look out for each other. The sadness of realizing that no matter how much time and money we threw at the neighborhood public schools, it wasn’t going to help. All of the work we did. All of the money we raised, grants we wrote for playgrounds and everything else. Whatever.

There are a whole lot of well-to-do families in the Portland Public Schools district who count on the “generosity” (ha. a bitter, bitter ha.) of the poor kids to finance their kids’ education. Cuz if you only have so much to spread around, well. They think they deserve it all and they just fucking take it. Take it and run and say mean, crappy things like, Sucks to be you, doesn’t it, poor people? Here is what I say to them: Backstabbers.

It’s different out here, in the suburbs, miles and miles from where I grew up, from where my son spent his first eight years and my daughter spent her first ten.

It’s equitable, for the most part. The schools do their funding differently — the rich parents can’t all get together and “buy” a music teacher (or any other teacher, for that matter) cuz then… you would have the haves and the have-nots, and the rich schools would have all the goodies. Hear that, PDX? So it’s sauce for the goose/sauce for the gander, so to speak.

It’s ethnic (Oregon, overall, is white as hell, so that’s not saying much, in any part of the state), but it is diverse. There are 90 different languages spoken out here. That is a trip to me.

As far as the flora and fauna… It’s nature preserves and greenspaces and rec centers that are clean and up-to-date because people pay their taxes to keep ’em that way. And signs that say NO DOGS and when I see those signs I say, Ah, good.

So to people from that part of town who ask (snotty, always snotty), “Don’t you miss the diversity?” i say, It’s more diverse out here than in my old neighborhood.

“Oh, the ‘burbs, your nice little bubble…” (that’s another comment I hear, from time to time.) It’s not a bubble. You take your demons and your dreams wherever you go, don’t you? My writing, my kids, my lover, my gardening, my nightmares, my fears, my tears and sweat — those are with me for the rest of my life. (“You can run/but you can’t hide.” — anon.)

Radiated Japan, the wars in Libya, Afghanistan, Iraq… the embarrassment and shame I feel as an American, knowing that we’re spending billions on bombs and rockets, and cutting billions on education spending and healthcare, food stamps, pre-natal care, Planned Parenthood and… everything. Our priorities are all fucked up in this country.

That goes with me wherever I go, it haunts me. Yeah, maybe Canada, next, if they’ll have us.

My daughter left a school, started a new school, graduated from that school and started middle school. My son left one school and started at a new one. I left the school I was working at, started at a new school, started grad school, quit both. That has been a lot of upheaval and again, harder for me than for the kids.

“Flexibility is a lifeskill!” — anon.

I need to focus on the writing, the kids, Steve. We are liking it. I have my own library now; he and Wacky Girl share a music studio.

The kids both love their new schools (Steve and I do, too), they’re happy. They have music, band, art, friends whose houses they can walk to, bowling, pizza, sushi and the mall, movies and starry, starry nights, choruses of frogs… all kinds of stuff. Lego Robotics and swimming lessons and hikes where we look for mink and beavers and deer — and see them. We’ve seen deer on our street, how crazy is that? (We’re not far from the woods, any direction we go.) My daughter has started skiing and my husband has taken it up again. They love it.

Everyone out here is really, really, really into sports. Maybe it’s cuz Nike has such a big presence, who knows. We’re into hockey, swimming and nature walks, that’s about it. Ducks or Beavers, Ducks or Beavers? We’ve been asked that, I dunno, twenty times a week since we got here.

OK, Beavers it is. My son’s teacher is over the moon about it, YES!!

“It’s a different world/from where you come from…” is the song most likely to be running through my head, on any given day. I miss my friends, I miss my family, but I don’t miss all the bullshit. I don’t miss so-called friends stabbing us in the back and leaving snotty messages on the blogs, on other websites, on e-mail and voicemail. Someone actually left us a message once (the person wanted a favor, was the funny?? part), saying, You seem like the kind of Republicans who would…

Whatever. I mean, WTF? I’m Socialist, do you not get that? Marxist Feminist, thanks. But… whatever.

So. How is it out here?

Walking home from school with my son about a half hour ago, we saw a hawk, swooping and gliding and putting on a show, just for us.

It’s good.

How’s it with you?

You know, when you’re on a road trip with your rowdyass family, there is nothing better than stopping at a family restaurant/diner-type place for some pie. Especially when that pie is accompanied by mashed potatoes and gravy and roast beef on an open-faced sandwich. Or perhaps a grilled cheese ‘n’ fries, with a chocolate milkshake. Or a gardenburger with extra pickles and some homemade potato salad.

(Here is my tribute to pie, my grandma, and my cousin Travis.)

I like to eat! Food tastes good, that is why. Especially when you’re in Salina, Utah. The only way Steve talks me into traveling is by telling me, “I’ll take you out for pie, c’mon…” and we’re good to go.

For my kids, a “good” restaurant means “gift shop.” We found that at Grandma’s House in Yreka, California, and that’s where I bought one of the craziest cookbooks ever. It now has a home in my collection and I will treasure it always. It has all the usual recipes you’d expect — Sweet ‘n’ Sour Meatballs, crockpot recipes galore, caramel corn, Oompa-Lompa Bread, Stroganoff for Nursing Mama’s Or Picky Kids (OK, those are different ;) The latter calls for oyster sauce, IMO and cream of chicken soup…) plus lots of standards that call for Rotel, jello and/or mayo. Lots of recipes from Sis, Cheri, Flo, Taffi and Laverna. (Why did I not name Wacky Girl “Taffi”? Man.)

my Dear, Late Granny: “You don’t eat enough bacon, that’s your problem.”

But this little gem has something out of the ordinary, and that something is… Jade. Here is one of her recipes:

Baked Beans
14 bean seeds
1 big bottle ketchup
Only 1/2 bottle mustard (because of how it tastes)

— Jade

I’m assuming Jade is the owner’s granddaughter, or perhaps just a kitchen sprite, but whoever she is? Funny, funny, funny. It also contains poetry!

I called her an angel when we were wed,
But it did not long endure,
For a year had not passed
When I really did wish
That she was an angel for sure!

Man! I can’t believe I only paid 14 bucks for this.

One more from Jade? OK.

Chocklit Cake
1 box of cake stuff
20 eggs
A drop of milk

— Jade

Demos/Repairs
Hot Wax

— sign outside the rentals shack at SkiBowl

you know what i would like? if i had time to 1) clean the house 2) finish writing my book 3) write a post about skiing in Oregon (“It’s either rain or ice, or sweet, sweet powder and spring skiing, do you have a preference?”) that gives the subject its just desserts. If i only had one of those timepieces like Hermione, I could twist twist and get it all done, but alas, alack, etc.

My daughter loves to ski, we just found out. (Lie. We’ve been knowing it.) she’s been begging to go skiing for a few years — she’s eleven now — and Steve finally got around to taking her for the first time last year? She loved it loved it, nothing above it, she’s our little hotdog. “We’ll go again next weekend.” Next weekend turned out to be… yesterday!

god.

okay, we’ve been busy. Do i ski? not anymore. my entire family used to ski (mom’s side), my boyfriend growing up was a total maniac (him: “You can’t go, you wouldn’t be able to keep up.” me: “Screw you, anyway.”) So i started skiing with other friends, friends who didn’t insult me, WHEN I WAS 16. (that’s old for skiing, around here.) Downhill, cross-country, tore the shit out of my ACL (that sweet little bit of cartilage that holds your knee together), refused to have surgery because I Am Stud.

me, spring skiing, age… whatever. (a long time ago.) wearing a tank top, bibs, my goggles, happy as hell getting a tan and flying as fast as I could go. Guy next to me starts singing, I wish I was in/Tijuana/having sex with an iguana… and goes hurtling down the mountain.

Pure bliss. Good times.

Then one day, i was skiing at Mt. Hood Meadows, crappy conditions, and I was standing balanced way up at the top of this icy, icy run, pointing my skis straight down, teeter-tooter, teeter, and i thought, I could be swimming somewhere warm right now. Or doing yoga and drinking mint tea. What the hell am I doing at the top of this damn mountain? And how am I going to get down it? (step/slide/step/slide/glide glide glide was how.)

Unlike some people, I’ve never looked at a mountain (climb it, why? because it was there) and thought, Need to conquer. No. I look at mountains and think (tiny voice), You don’t scare me, cussing mountain. OK, let’s go drink at the lodge now! (Hot Apple Pies, mmmmmmmm…)

Steve telemarks. Do you know what that is? No, I don’t, either. Maybe he’ll be sweet (“you wouldn’t be able to keep up”) and leave a note in comments. I think it involves downhill/cross-country/total insanity/back-country and having the need to carry an ice ax with you, in case you need to build an ice cave and hide out ’til spring.

My ex-boyfriend was a studly jock and all, but Steve? Steve is from Iowa (no mountains) and Colorado (all the mountains) so he knows how to paint a barn and ski Loveland AND A-Basin AND Cooper, wooooooooot.

For vacations, I’ve been to Sun Valley, Denver, Banff, Vail. (when I asked my sister-in-law if I was dressed fancy enough for Vail, she said, all casual, “Eh, it’s not Telluride.” Steve was all, “Or Aspen, God. It’s not Aspen.” Everybody, Ha, ha, ha…)

Oh, God, of course, what was I thinking. It’s not Aspen.

Seriously, i am not snow bunny, so i find the whole thing kind of hilarious. But I do enjoy the apres ski, yes, I do.

But then he discovered his Love Of Hockey and stopped skiing. And my mom’s family stopped skiing years ago, when it got too fancy and all.

Me? I still long for the Caribbean but whatever. I live here and I can’t fly anymore (inner ear problems).

Anyway, back to Wacky Girl. We all had a blast, even tho she was the only one who skiied, and it did us all good to take a fast vacation. Stayed the night at an inn in Government Camp, hiked and played in the snow, had dinner at a the Rat’s Cellar and watched the snow fall, bought candy bars at the little store and watched American Idol… Then got up and skiied and played in the lodge for all morning.

Blew out of there, had lunch at the Elusive Trout in Sandy (my other favorite mountain restaurant/pub), drove through Boring (“the town that lives up to its name) (HA! KIDDING) (not really).

my favorite sign on the way home

BORING
OREGON CITY

Are you looking for a boring-ass city, somewhere in Oregon? C’mon over this way…

We were home by 3.

And we have the rest of the weekend left.

Maybe we should head back up tomorrow?

Question for the day is: Do you ski? Do you like it? Does it scare you? How about water skiing? How about lying at the beach? That I can handle.

xoxoxo HAPPY FRIDAY.

— wm

“Life isn’t a support-system for art. It’s the other way around.” — Stephen King, “On Writing”

My husband and daughter, playing a duet.

The first- and second-graders at my school invited me to their Groundhog Day party on Wednesday, and their teacher told them, Now, we’ll have to go get her because you know she’ll forget.

My reputation, it haunts me wherever I go.

Hmmmmmm, what’s this?

That’s right… we went to the Harry Potter exhibit at the Pacific Science Center in Seattle. (Allegedly they’re going all Star Wars for the next exhibit.) It was very cool except for Bellatrix’s black dress and Umbridge’s pink suit with the kitty-cat pin… well. Both outfits, even without Ms. Lestrange and Dolores inside of ’em terrified me, honestly, yet I couldn’t stop staring at them. And You-Know-Who’s outfit uh-uh, don’t come near me, You-Know-Who. Really good show. They extended the run and it’s there through mid-February, if you’re in that part of the world or can drive there. (We drove. Also, can you believe that even though I am a lifelong Portland girl, this was only the third time I’ve ever been to Seattle? Hahahahaha. No, seriously. They put a stamp on your birth certificate in the hospital, it says PORTLAND ONLY in red. True!) We went to the Seattle Aquarium and saw the river otters and the sea otters and it was Hawaiian day so I could’ve gotten lei’ed but, you know. No thanks. (Allegedly they’re having Octopus Week in February, so be on the look-out for that, if you visit.)

What else? Went to the Pike Place Market and the guys were NOT there throwing the fish around, their stand was closed. No reason was given. I did buy some cool little Buddha statues, and snow globes, and the kids had their fortunes told by an animatronic lady. Hmmm. Yes, in retrospect, it was a good trip, thanks for asking!

If I ever remember what else I was going to blah-blah-blog about I’ll add it later.

xo

wm

ps how cute is that that they’re having a Groundhog Day party and want me to attend? For reals, so cute.

Fundraising Congregants: “We need your money. And we need a lot of money. And we’ve almost reached our goal, but we still need some more money.”

Jr. Minister: “Now let’s do peace.”

Sr. Minister: “We know you’re all going through hard times, and don’t have jobs, but we need more money.”

Oh, my jaded, jaded, cynical family.

conversation between my ma, my son, and me:

Mom: “I’m going to the movies this weekend. We’re going to see this one about Mother Maybelle and the Carters…”

Wacky Boy: “You gonna see ‘Little Fockers’?”

Mom: “No, no we’re not. It’s about the Carter Family, you know them?”

me: “Sure he does!” (i start singing “Keep on the Sunny Side.” He shushes me. Yes, he’s nearly nine and he shushes us.)

Wacky Boy: “So why aren’t ya gonna see ‘Little Fockers’?”

Mom: “I’m just not that sophisticated, I guess.”

“…to defend and conserve oneself as a human being in the fullest, truest sense, one must defend and conserve many others and much else. What would be the hope of being personally whole in a dis-membered society, or personally healthy in a land scalped, scraped, eroded, and poisoned, or personally free in a land entirely controlled by the government, or personally enlightened in an age illuminated only by TV?” — Wendell Berry

and, one of my late father’s favorite songs:

“…once my heart was filled with the love of a girl/
I held her close, but she faded in the night/
Like a poem I meant to write/
And the leaves that are green turn to brown…”

Everybody out there, i hope you have a great weekend.

xo

wm

…what happened to my copy of “Joshua Judges Ruth” (Lyle Lovett)? Because even though it’s a cassette for the love of God, not even a CD, and even though it’s been missing for years, I still look for it. And while we’re at it, I’d also like to know how “I Love Everybody” ended up in its case? I do like “I Love Everybody,” especially “Hello, Grandma,” but dammit I want Joshua-Judges-Ruth, especially “She Makes Me Feel Good.”

Ms. New Orleans, who is from Texas, doesn’t care for Lyle all that much. She’s all, flatly, “Robert Earl Keen” and that is that.

Yes, I realize I could just “break down and buy another copy,” but that isn’t the point, is it?

We’re having some animal trauma here today, and some animal bliss. First of all, one of the hamsters apparently had a bitch fight with the other one, and now she can’t open her left eye. It’s sad. I hope she heals up. On a brighter note, the cats seem to have adjusted to no longer being allowed outdoor privileges and are fat and happy. And by fat I mean fat. That’s how it goes when you’re avoiding the coyotes.

This afternoon I was out on the deck with the kids. They wanted to practice their mad taekwondo forms while I watered the pumpkins. Here comes a hawk, twirling down, wheeling around over us, so low I could see the white feathers and brown markings on his belly. That was cool. Then my little bright green hummingbird flew by to drink from her favorite orange flowers.

Really nice afternoon.