For everyone who dreams of someday moving to Portland, listen to the interview with John Raymond at OPB's Think Out Loud. The way he speaks, the cadence of it -- his gravelly voice, his droll, self-deprecating style of speaking -- and what he says is just so Portland.
[Update: OPB has this available as a podcast which you can download on iTunes. It's also on their web site, as I linked to above. You need to click on the teeny tiny "play" icon underneath the title.]
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Distracting myself from H1N1
The Deschutes County health department just announced, "We are seeing a surge in the number of people presenting to the medical system with influenza like symptoms" — followed by, "we will only be getting a portion of our expected flu vaccine."
Children are scheduled to be vaccinated through the schools on October 30, but that's still 14 days away. I've been trying to determine whether I can (or ought to) avoid all stores and other public places during that timeframe.
Are you all freaking out about it? My daughter has viral-induced asthma, so I am. A bit. My son is freaking out, too — not because of me, but because of conversations at school. Before he eats ANYTHING, even breakfast, he washes his hands.
So, so. So. I've been distracting myself by thinking about nouns. Nouns have hampered my ability to understand electricity. — Wait! Come back! Hear me out.
"Electricity" is a noun but what we mean by electricity is not a solid, touchable thing, the way you think a noun ought to be. The word "electricity" really describes electric current: an-electric-charge-flowing. It describes an electric charge in motion, the way the nouns "waterfall" or "river" describe water in motion. Or you could say that an electric charge in motion is an event-in-progress, like a song or a lecture.
An electric charge: too many or too few electrons: a state of unbalance. We sometimes say that something "has" an electric charge, but that's a misnomer. Something is electrically charged. It's unbalanced — and it would rather not be; it seeks balance. Often explosively. Rub your feet on the carpet and then touch a doorknob, and you'll see what I mean.
Swishing your feet on the carpet gives you an electric charge. You pick up too many electrons. When you scuff your feet and quick! touch a doorknob! then ZAP. Your extra electrons leap across space to bond with the metal knob. What leaps is the current.
So the flow of that-which-is-charged is an electric current, or electricity. Science books for kids often use a water/river metaphor to explain this concept, but I rather like comparing electricity with life. (Me and Deepak Chopra, right?)
Electricity: that-which-is-charged flowing in search of balance.
Life: that-which-is-alive moving toward...
Oh, great. Now I'm thinking about H1N1 again.
La la la, la la la.
Somebody tell a joke!
Children are scheduled to be vaccinated through the schools on October 30, but that's still 14 days away. I've been trying to determine whether I can (or ought to) avoid all stores and other public places during that timeframe.
Are you all freaking out about it? My daughter has viral-induced asthma, so I am. A bit. My son is freaking out, too — not because of me, but because of conversations at school. Before he eats ANYTHING, even breakfast, he washes his hands.
So, so. So. I've been distracting myself by thinking about nouns. Nouns have hampered my ability to understand electricity. — Wait! Come back! Hear me out.
"Electricity" is a noun but what we mean by electricity is not a solid, touchable thing, the way you think a noun ought to be. The word "electricity" really describes electric current: an-electric-charge-flowing. It describes an electric charge in motion, the way the nouns "waterfall" or "river" describe water in motion. Or you could say that an electric charge in motion is an event-in-progress, like a song or a lecture.
An electric charge: too many or too few electrons: a state of unbalance. We sometimes say that something "has" an electric charge, but that's a misnomer. Something is electrically charged. It's unbalanced — and it would rather not be; it seeks balance. Often explosively. Rub your feet on the carpet and then touch a doorknob, and you'll see what I mean.
Swishing your feet on the carpet gives you an electric charge. You pick up too many electrons. When you scuff your feet and quick! touch a doorknob! then ZAP. Your extra electrons leap across space to bond with the metal knob. What leaps is the current.
So the flow of that-which-is-charged is an electric current, or electricity. Science books for kids often use a water/river metaphor to explain this concept, but I rather like comparing electricity with life. (Me and Deepak Chopra, right?)
Electricity: that-which-is-charged flowing in search of balance.
Life: that-which-is-alive moving toward...
Oh, great. Now I'm thinking about H1N1 again.
La la la, la la la.
Somebody tell a joke!
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Where
Once upon a time and long ago, this guy I know worked nights. He was going to school, too, at that time, so despite the job he hadn’t much money. He owned a truck but never seemed able to fill its tank completely. Sometimes on the way to work he’d run out of gas. He’d have to coast to the side of some silent thoroughfare. He’d swear, sigh, and then start walking, plastic gas can in hand – walking in the dark, in the rain, toward the bright lights of a gas station. Around him the city slept.
I always wondered what he encountered along the way. Surely each of these late-night hikes was a little adventure. What might he have encountered on a rainy night in Portland, back when Portland was a smaller, grubbier city?
*
I just finished reading Orson Scott Card’s book Shadow of the Giant, which was engaging but frustrating because I just couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t visualize the characters or their surroundings. Card didn’t provide enough detail. He’d write: The main characters went to Yerevan. Period. He never said if they’d gone to Yerevan during the day or at night, in winter or spring; he never said whether Yerevan was a tall modern noisy city or a short old musty village. Was it in the mountains or on a plain? Were there pine trees, or was it desert? They were in Yerevan; that’s all he said; so I couldn’t imagine the scene.
*
This past weekend my husband and I celebrated our anniversary in Portland, then drove home along a circuitous, scenic route – a driver’s route, really, following the kinds of unpopulated, narrow, serpentine roads that you see highlighted in Evo magazine. It was thrilling. I cinched my seatbelt.
When we got back on the highway (a one-lane state highway with no traffic; it was fun driving, too), my husband exclaimed at the gauges on his BMW. “We may run out of gas,” he commented. Oh, said I. Hm. We were just outside Dufur (population: 500), an outpost among rolling hills of wheat – hills rolling on and on, as far as one can see, covered in wheat and then patches of sagebrush and then wheat again. If we ran out of gas there, at dusk on a cold autumn day, what would we do? Try to hitch a ride to the next town, I guess. Maybe we could hoof it to a rancher’s house; surely ranchers have spare gas?
*
In the event we did not run out of gas. We made it 60 miles to the nearest (sizeable) town with plenty to spare. The whole way, though, I kept thinking about how the story “We ran out of gas, and then…” hinges on where one ran out of gas. The setting determines the action. Setting matters.
I always wondered what he encountered along the way. Surely each of these late-night hikes was a little adventure. What might he have encountered on a rainy night in Portland, back when Portland was a smaller, grubbier city?
*
I just finished reading Orson Scott Card’s book Shadow of the Giant, which was engaging but frustrating because I just couldn’t picture it. I couldn’t visualize the characters or their surroundings. Card didn’t provide enough detail. He’d write: The main characters went to Yerevan. Period. He never said if they’d gone to Yerevan during the day or at night, in winter or spring; he never said whether Yerevan was a tall modern noisy city or a short old musty village. Was it in the mountains or on a plain? Were there pine trees, or was it desert? They were in Yerevan; that’s all he said; so I couldn’t imagine the scene.
*
This past weekend my husband and I celebrated our anniversary in Portland, then drove home along a circuitous, scenic route – a driver’s route, really, following the kinds of unpopulated, narrow, serpentine roads that you see highlighted in Evo magazine. It was thrilling. I cinched my seatbelt.
When we got back on the highway (a one-lane state highway with no traffic; it was fun driving, too), my husband exclaimed at the gauges on his BMW. “We may run out of gas,” he commented. Oh, said I. Hm. We were just outside Dufur (population: 500), an outpost among rolling hills of wheat – hills rolling on and on, as far as one can see, covered in wheat and then patches of sagebrush and then wheat again. If we ran out of gas there, at dusk on a cold autumn day, what would we do? Try to hitch a ride to the next town, I guess. Maybe we could hoof it to a rancher’s house; surely ranchers have spare gas?
*
In the event we did not run out of gas. We made it 60 miles to the nearest (sizeable) town with plenty to spare. The whole way, though, I kept thinking about how the story “We ran out of gas, and then…” hinges on where one ran out of gas. The setting determines the action. Setting matters.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Stories that stick
All across Eastern Europe I bought books. Books in English, I mean. I'd been overseas for a year, stammering in incompetent Russian the whole time, only partially understanding what other people said to me: so I was desperate for stores. I couldn't find any English-language newspaper except The Financial Times (ack) nor any English-language magazine except The Economist (ack); I couldn't follow the local radio, and movies were all dubbed. I wasn't even able to eavesdrop on conversations. Lord, I was desperate for stories.
So as I traveled I stopped in bookstores and bought what they had in English. I was train-hopping around Eastern Europe in the early 1990's and my journals are laced with commentary on Annie Dillard, Joseph Conrad, John Barth. How odd.
These days I hardly ever read novels. They make me too distracted. If I'm in the midst of a novel I find myself staring into space, wondering about the characters, when I am supposed to be getting the children ready for school. Or listening in on staff meetings.
*
Thus ends my prelude to Sweet/Salty Kate's book meme, which I have via Magpie. I skipped the movie-related questions. I do not know anything about movies.
1) You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It's up to you. What do you choose?
I'd have Ged from Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea books accompany me. He can bring his wizard's staff and his little boat, the Lookfar. Any epic journey can be improved by the presence of a wizard, I imagine.
2) You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why?
To the Portuguese island which is the setting for Madeleine L'Engle's The Arm of the Starfish. It sounds absolutely lovely; also, I'd like to talk to Meg Murray as an adult.
3) You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why?
At this particular point in my life, I'd welcome the friendship of Stone Telling from LeGuin's Always Coming Home. It would be like having my mom live with me. She's quiet and helpful and knowledgable about homemaking, and she tells great stories.
4) [x] is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four.
I have several go-to books, depending on my mood. Half were written by Ursula LeGuin and the other half by Madeleine L'Engle.
5) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable?
Oh, Vicky Austin. She and Adam Eddington are so much in love that they can communicate telepathically. And he teaches her to ride a dolphin, which becomes her friend in need. And everyone recognizes that she's going to grow up to be a great poet.
Christine, the evil car! Omigod. When I was 12 my best friend loved horror movies. This one was her favorite. During sleep-overs she'd tell me a story in which Christine crashes through the window in her bedroom and kills us both. I NEVER SLEPT during her sleep-overs.
7) Every time I read The Dispossessed, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before.
11) After all these years, the closing scene in the book 2010: Odyssey II still manages to give me a thrill. ("ALL THESE WORLDS ARE YOURS, EXCEPT EUROPA. ATTEMPT NO LANDINGS THERE." Eeep!)
13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is Annie Dillard's An American Childhood. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to intone, out a window, "Hello, Horatio."
So as I traveled I stopped in bookstores and bought what they had in English. I was train-hopping around Eastern Europe in the early 1990's and my journals are laced with commentary on Annie Dillard, Joseph Conrad, John Barth. How odd.
These days I hardly ever read novels. They make me too distracted. If I'm in the midst of a novel I find myself staring into space, wondering about the characters, when I am supposed to be getting the children ready for school. Or listening in on staff meetings.
*
Thus ends my prelude to Sweet/Salty Kate's book meme, which I have via Magpie. I skipped the movie-related questions. I do not know anything about movies.
1) You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It's up to you. What do you choose?
I'd have Ged from Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea books accompany me. He can bring his wizard's staff and his little boat, the Lookfar. Any epic journey can be improved by the presence of a wizard, I imagine.
2) You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why?
To the Portuguese island which is the setting for Madeleine L'Engle's The Arm of the Starfish. It sounds absolutely lovely; also, I'd like to talk to Meg Murray as an adult.
3) You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why?
At this particular point in my life, I'd welcome the friendship of Stone Telling from LeGuin's Always Coming Home. It would be like having my mom live with me. She's quiet and helpful and knowledgable about homemaking, and she tells great stories.
4) [x] is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four.
I have several go-to books, depending on my mood. Half were written by Ursula LeGuin and the other half by Madeleine L'Engle.
5) Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable?
Oh, Vicky Austin. She and Adam Eddington are so much in love that they can communicate telepathically. And he teaches her to ride a dolphin, which becomes her friend in need. And everyone recognizes that she's going to grow up to be a great poet.
Christine, the evil car! Omigod. When I was 12 my best friend loved horror movies. This one was her favorite. During sleep-overs she'd tell me a story in which Christine crashes through the window in her bedroom and kills us both. I NEVER SLEPT during her sleep-overs.
7) Every time I read The Dispossessed, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before.
11) After all these years, the closing scene in the book 2010: Odyssey II still manages to give me a thrill. ("ALL THESE WORLDS ARE YOURS, EXCEPT EUROPA. ATTEMPT NO LANDINGS THERE." Eeep!)
13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is Annie Dillard's An American Childhood. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to intone, out a window, "Hello, Horatio."
Wednesday, October 07, 2009
Parsely, sage, etc. etc.
Once a week I make my way to a gravel alley on the edge of downtown Bend. It's not as seedy as it sounds. Downtown Bend is a cute, touristy place; the alley I visit is in an area that's also cute (but not touristy): it's quiet, shady, filled with little millworker-built houses. Some of the houses have been converted to shops. This particular alley runs behind what is now a nonprofit and a women's clinic. Weedy flowers and shrubs grow in the dirt there — and underneath one of the currant bushes, during the growing season, sit a couple of coolers.
The coolers hold my eggs and vegetables. Well, not just mine. The eggs and veggies come from Gigi, who has a farm east of town. She stops by the alleyway once a week with overflowing canvas bags, and then throughout the day we CSA members open the coolers to exchange an empty bag for a full one.
*
So once a week I unload a bag of just-picked vegetables onto my kitchen counter, getting dirt everywhere and grinning, because just-picked vegetables make me happy. I give the guinea pigs carrot tops and radish tops and onion tops and whatever else I won't eat and then I refrigerate the rest — everything except the herbs. Gigi grows lots of herbs: parsely, sage, basil, thyme, tarragon, oregano, fennel, rosemary. I couldn't possibly use them all in a week, so I dry them. It's easy to do in this climate. The small-leafed herbs will dry in two days just sitting on the counter, believe it or not. Usually, though, I bunch them with a twist-tie and hang them from the cabinet handles. My husband doesn't like this method — he opens a cabinet to get a coffee cup or a glass and, damn!, knocks down a sprig of herbs — but it works well, and I feel so Little-House-on-the-Prairie-ish with these herbs hanging every-which-way!
*
Now I recommend you read Charlotte Freeman's post at Bookslut, which is about, I think, the art of homemaking. It's also about cooking deliciously despite being broke.
The coolers hold my eggs and vegetables. Well, not just mine. The eggs and veggies come from Gigi, who has a farm east of town. She stops by the alleyway once a week with overflowing canvas bags, and then throughout the day we CSA members open the coolers to exchange an empty bag for a full one.
*
So once a week I unload a bag of just-picked vegetables onto my kitchen counter, getting dirt everywhere and grinning, because just-picked vegetables make me happy. I give the guinea pigs carrot tops and radish tops and onion tops and whatever else I won't eat and then I refrigerate the rest — everything except the herbs. Gigi grows lots of herbs: parsely, sage, basil, thyme, tarragon, oregano, fennel, rosemary. I couldn't possibly use them all in a week, so I dry them. It's easy to do in this climate. The small-leafed herbs will dry in two days just sitting on the counter, believe it or not. Usually, though, I bunch them with a twist-tie and hang them from the cabinet handles. My husband doesn't like this method — he opens a cabinet to get a coffee cup or a glass and, damn!, knocks down a sprig of herbs — but it works well, and I feel so Little-House-on-the-Prairie-ish with these herbs hanging every-which-way!
*
Now I recommend you read Charlotte Freeman's post at Bookslut, which is about, I think, the art of homemaking. It's also about cooking deliciously despite being broke.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The library crowd
A crowd gathers outside the library at 9:50 in the morning. People of all ages: toddlers, teenagers, middle-aged women, an old man on a mountain bike. They stand apart from another, one here one there, shift their weight, squint in the sun. All are silent; even the toddlers are silent; except that a man in need of a shave, wearing jeans and a baseball cap, makes general comments to the air. No one engages him.
At 10am the librarian unlocks the door and, still silent, still separate, they flow inside.
At 10am the librarian unlocks the door and, still silent, still separate, they flow inside.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Oh, you're a hedge
The 2 1/2 block walk from my kids' bus stop to our house passes through an overmanicured suburban neighborhood. It's neat. It's orderly. It's stultifying.
And that shows you what I know.
In the no-man's-land between two of those suburban houses stands an arctic willow hedge. Arctic willows are a fast-growing, cold-tolerant bush; around here people often plant them to conceal electrical boxes. The willow hedge that we pass every day stands taller than me and wider than my outstretched arms. Wispy, wavy limbs have begun to reach across the sidewalk. It needs a haircut.
As it turns out, inside the willow hedge is a space large enough for two children. Blake and Sasha can conceal themselves utterly; except for their whispers and laughter, you'd never know they were there. Every day they run ahead of me to slip inside the hedge and then, as I wonder aloud Where could my children be? BOO! They leap at me.
*
We have two willows beginning to hedge in our yard, too. The quail like that space. Some mornings we watch two dozen quail or more cluster under those willows and then, when they deem it safe, pass through to feast on the clover in the grass.
*
Gregory Smith in the magazine Clearing (Jan/Feb 1996), "The development of an ecologically literate citizenry ... may be linked to regular, unstructured experiences in wild places (both urban and rural), much as the development of reading skills depends upon contact with books and adults who read them." Urban, rural — and suburban, too.
And that shows you what I know.
In the no-man's-land between two of those suburban houses stands an arctic willow hedge. Arctic willows are a fast-growing, cold-tolerant bush; around here people often plant them to conceal electrical boxes. The willow hedge that we pass every day stands taller than me and wider than my outstretched arms. Wispy, wavy limbs have begun to reach across the sidewalk. It needs a haircut.
As it turns out, inside the willow hedge is a space large enough for two children. Blake and Sasha can conceal themselves utterly; except for their whispers and laughter, you'd never know they were there. Every day they run ahead of me to slip inside the hedge and then, as I wonder aloud Where could my children be? BOO! They leap at me.
*
We have two willows beginning to hedge in our yard, too. The quail like that space. Some mornings we watch two dozen quail or more cluster under those willows and then, when they deem it safe, pass through to feast on the clover in the grass.
*
Gregory Smith in the magazine Clearing (Jan/Feb 1996), "The development of an ecologically literate citizenry ... may be linked to regular, unstructured experiences in wild places (both urban and rural), much as the development of reading skills depends upon contact with books and adults who read them." Urban, rural — and suburban, too.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Time
Last Friday my youngest child started all-day kindergarten. Do you know what that means?
FREE TIME.
For the last several years I've tried to work 20 hours/week with just 18 hours of daycare or less. Now I have 30 hours of daycare and (at the moment anyway) a 20 hr/week cap on work.
It's, like, totally weird.
I feel I need to fill those extra hours productively: earning money, preferably, or at the very least cleaning the house, winterizing, putting up jars of jam. I feel as though those hours will be revoked if I don't use them wisely. For the last several years I've had to snatch every moment alone, every moment in which I hoped to complete a task; if I wanted to get something done, I had to give up time with my children or my husband. Go watch TV, kids! Mom needs to make dinner!
And now I have free time. Not stolen time. Free!
It's very strange.
In a month I'm sure it will all be reallocated.
FREE TIME.
For the last several years I've tried to work 20 hours/week with just 18 hours of daycare or less. Now I have 30 hours of daycare and (at the moment anyway) a 20 hr/week cap on work.
It's, like, totally weird.
I feel I need to fill those extra hours productively: earning money, preferably, or at the very least cleaning the house, winterizing, putting up jars of jam. I feel as though those hours will be revoked if I don't use them wisely. For the last several years I've had to snatch every moment alone, every moment in which I hoped to complete a task; if I wanted to get something done, I had to give up time with my children or my husband. Go watch TV, kids! Mom needs to make dinner!
And now I have free time. Not stolen time. Free!
It's very strange.
In a month I'm sure it will all be reallocated.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Stuff II
Labor Day weekend my husband and I hosted a sleepover for six families at my in-laws' Camp Sherman house. For toys I brought two board games (the forecast called for rain) and a bag full of recycling: egg cartons, empty bottles, stuff like that. We also had two large rolls of duct tape.
If you ever need to entertain 14 children, raid the recycle bin first. Those kids spent hours building boats, launching them in the creek, racing to catch them — and then destroying them and building again.
If you ever need to entertain 14 children, raid the recycle bin first. Those kids spent hours building boats, launching them in the creek, racing to catch them — and then destroying them and building again.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Listening comprehension
My son tried to fly out of a tree in his geocopter. He scraped himself up pretty badly. To keep him lying down until the biggest scrape stopped bleeding — lying quietly, without whining — I piped the latest RadioLab podcast through the stereo. Have you listened to that one? It's about parasites. It's fascinating. Some scientists claim severe allergies will disappear if one gets hookworm.
Anyway, my 7-year-old listened, entranced, to the whole RadioLab podcast. I quizzed him about it afterward. "The parasitic wasp stung the cockroach in the stomach and then it was able to control the cockroach," he said. "Just like the rat in Ratatouille! It laid its eggs inside the cockroach, and the eggs hatched and ate the cockroach from the inside. It was still alive! Then the babies burst out of its head and it died."
"What excellent listening comprehension," I said. "You understand what you hear."
"Yes, I do." He looked thoughtful. "I don't understand when people are talking to me, though."
"You don't understand people when they talk directly to you?"
"Right. Like when I'm in trouble. I never understand what you're saying."
*
I'm thinking I ought to record some of my lectures so I can play them on the iPod when needed. Like the one about not jumping out of trees while harnessed to a cardboard-and-duct tape geocopter.
The propeller actually works quite well. We flew it off the balcony and it hovered for awhile before dropping. It doesn't hover while he's harnessed to it, though. Picture taken about 8pm — when all inspiration strikes.
Anyway, my 7-year-old listened, entranced, to the whole RadioLab podcast. I quizzed him about it afterward. "The parasitic wasp stung the cockroach in the stomach and then it was able to control the cockroach," he said. "Just like the rat in Ratatouille! It laid its eggs inside the cockroach, and the eggs hatched and ate the cockroach from the inside. It was still alive! Then the babies burst out of its head and it died."
"What excellent listening comprehension," I said. "You understand what you hear."
"Yes, I do." He looked thoughtful. "I don't understand when people are talking to me, though."
"You don't understand people when they talk directly to you?"
"Right. Like when I'm in trouble. I never understand what you're saying."
*
I'm thinking I ought to record some of my lectures so I can play them on the iPod when needed. Like the one about not jumping out of trees while harnessed to a cardboard-and-duct tape geocopter.
The propeller actually works quite well. We flew it off the balcony and it hovered for awhile before dropping. It doesn't hover while he's harnessed to it, though. Picture taken about 8pm — when all inspiration strikes.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Revenge
Earlier this summer, when I realized both my children could climb the silver maple in the backyard, I moved the lava rocks that were underneath it. The rocks didn't look very nice anyway. I think this house's previous owners intended for the rocks to look artfully placed, but to me they just looked like a couple lava rocks dropped at the base of a tree.
So I moved the rocks, and lo! the ants did scurry. Ants had nests beneath nearly every rock; when I moved the rocks I exposed the pupa. I felt badly about it. I did! I covered the pupa with an inch of dirt, hoping that would save them.
A week or so later we noticed that the ants had moved their colonies to the sandy spaces between the pavers of our back deck. My husband said we should kill them; he said that eventually they'd force us to re-lay the pavers. Ah, I thought. That's my fault. But we left them alone.
Two months later, as you know, those same ants have entered my house. Yesterday I found some on my kitchen counter.
And that is the limit to my ant empathy.
Yuck! It's disgusting! When I chop vegetables I'm just sure an ant will climb onto the cutting board and get mixed into the salad. What if I mistake an ant for a sliver of basil and EAT IT? Aack!
Clearly the ant traps I bought aren't working, so I researched alternatives. Borax, said the internet. Bleach, said the internet. Vinegar, said the internet. Baby powder, said the internet.
Baby powder being the least toxic and smelly of those choices, I dug out the bottle left from Sasha's infancy. I sprinkled a line of powder across the kitchen. I sprinkled some where I thought they were entering the living room.
That was three hours ago. I don't want to declare victory too soon; but?
THEY'RE GONE.
(Can I return to my lazy ways in the kitchen now?)
So I moved the rocks, and lo! the ants did scurry. Ants had nests beneath nearly every rock; when I moved the rocks I exposed the pupa. I felt badly about it. I did! I covered the pupa with an inch of dirt, hoping that would save them.
A week or so later we noticed that the ants had moved their colonies to the sandy spaces between the pavers of our back deck. My husband said we should kill them; he said that eventually they'd force us to re-lay the pavers. Ah, I thought. That's my fault. But we left them alone.
Two months later, as you know, those same ants have entered my house. Yesterday I found some on my kitchen counter.
And that is the limit to my ant empathy.
Yuck! It's disgusting! When I chop vegetables I'm just sure an ant will climb onto the cutting board and get mixed into the salad. What if I mistake an ant for a sliver of basil and EAT IT? Aack!
Clearly the ant traps I bought aren't working, so I researched alternatives. Borax, said the internet. Bleach, said the internet. Vinegar, said the internet. Baby powder, said the internet.
Baby powder being the least toxic and smelly of those choices, I dug out the bottle left from Sasha's infancy. I sprinkled a line of powder across the kitchen. I sprinkled some where I thought they were entering the living room.
That was three hours ago. I don't want to declare victory too soon; but?
THEY'RE GONE.
(Can I return to my lazy ways in the kitchen now?)
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The first frost can't come fast enough
My kitchen is immaculate. That's not usually the case. I tend to leave dinner's pots and pans until morning; and because the kids and I forage all day – sitting down to breakfast or lunch is such a waste of time, don't you think? – there's almost always dirty cups or plates on the counter. I store fruit in a bowl on the counter. I keep the bletch bucket there.
No longer. I wash dishes immediately; I store all food in the refrigerator; the bletch bucket is emptied 10 times a day. My kitchen is immaculate, I tell you.
It's the bugs. I can't stand it anymore. Fruit flies! House flies! Earwigs! Spiders! Moths! The other day I found a gigantic, black beetle in my bowl of strawberries. I've never seen such a beetle. How did it get in the house, never mind in my bowl of strawberries? Eeee-uck.
Also, we have ants. Sugar ants, they call 'em. They're mostly in the living room. The kids and I followed them to try to find their nest; we didn't see evidence of one, but after awhile we realized the ants were entering and exiting from the floorboards near the front door. I bought little ant houses with poison inside. It was an interesting science lesson for the children – kill the queen, kill the colony; but how do you kill the queen if you can't see her? – although I must say it's a lesson I'd rather have taught them theoretically than experientially.
So, yeah. My kitchen is immaculate. At least until the first frost.
No longer. I wash dishes immediately; I store all food in the refrigerator; the bletch bucket is emptied 10 times a day. My kitchen is immaculate, I tell you.
It's the bugs. I can't stand it anymore. Fruit flies! House flies! Earwigs! Spiders! Moths! The other day I found a gigantic, black beetle in my bowl of strawberries. I've never seen such a beetle. How did it get in the house, never mind in my bowl of strawberries? Eeee-uck.
Also, we have ants. Sugar ants, they call 'em. They're mostly in the living room. The kids and I followed them to try to find their nest; we didn't see evidence of one, but after awhile we realized the ants were entering and exiting from the floorboards near the front door. I bought little ant houses with poison inside. It was an interesting science lesson for the children – kill the queen, kill the colony; but how do you kill the queen if you can't see her? – although I must say it's a lesson I'd rather have taught them theoretically than experientially.
So, yeah. My kitchen is immaculate. At least until the first frost.
Monday, August 03, 2009
The good life
It's been so blasted hot that we spent all Sunday in Lake Creek, the mint-lined stream that runs through a meadow near my in-laws' place. Lake Creek isn't shocking meltwater anymore, and it's not overflowing anymore — when I floated it with Sasha, our float bumped the bottom. It was pleasant. It was calming. My husband and I lounged on aluminum lawn chairs we set in the creek, drinking PBRs while the kids splashed about.
Does that sound hopelessly white trash? Well. So be it. I shall teach my children noodling.
Does that sound hopelessly white trash? Well. So be it. I shall teach my children noodling.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Off the off the beaten track
"Mom, I can't get over this barbed wire!" Blake called.
I gave my water bottle to Sasha, told her to stand still, and walked back through the cheatgrass to where Blake stood, stuck between bitterbrush, lava rock and, apparently, barbed wire. Sasha and I, following a deer trail through the brush, hadn't crossed any barbed wire; but Blake, he doesn't walk where others walk. I lifted him over the wire and sternly reminded him what it means to follow someone.
My husband had pulled some strings to get my car's oil changed today (don't ask), but we didn't know how long it would take the mechanics to get to it; we didn't know if we three would be sitting on their sidewalk for half an hour or four hours. "Walk to Sawyer Park," my husband suggested. "It's only a mile." I considered it.
The service garage is in a light industrial area of windowless buildings with lots full of RVs and boats and trucks. Security gates enclose everything. Parkway traffic roars by. No one walks around there. That's what I thought at first, anyway. Then I stood with one hand on my hip and another shading my eyes, and I squinted, and considered, and I saw there is, in fact, an interesting way to walk. We could take a jagged line through abandoned lands of hardy, prickly Central Oregon shrubs and invasive weeds. Lizards live in that liminal place. Grasshoppers, too. Grasshoppers clack-clacked, leaping, as we pushed by.
We had water and gorp but it was so hot and prickly that I knew after just 1/4 mile that the kids would never make it to the park. I thought we might find a closer path to the river, though. It was really hot. The kids kept collapsing in bits of shade. When we crossed from that industrial space to a residential street, I hoped for a sprinkler — vainly; even the temporary owners of foreclosed properties know not to run their sprinklers at 3pm.
"Look," I said, pointing to a lot that was once, I suspect, a working ranch. Mature ponderosas grew there. "The river's on the other side of that land. You can make it!" I urged them on.
But at that old ranch we found something better than the Deschutes, at least as far as young, drownable children are concerned: a busted irrigation pipe. Water just poured from that pipe. It made a creek along the side of the road. My kids shouted and leapt. Blake, he climbed a split-rail fence and jumped into the creek's deepest part. With knees bent he was in water up to his neck. Sasha found a snake skin, a drowned lizard and tadpoles. I kid you not: tadpoles. That pipe must've been broken a long time.
Thus refreshed, we walked back to the service garage.
This is the Central Oregon version of Sweet Juniper's experiences in Detroit. You could say I'm making a meme of his post about pathways of desire.
I gave my water bottle to Sasha, told her to stand still, and walked back through the cheatgrass to where Blake stood, stuck between bitterbrush, lava rock and, apparently, barbed wire. Sasha and I, following a deer trail through the brush, hadn't crossed any barbed wire; but Blake, he doesn't walk where others walk. I lifted him over the wire and sternly reminded him what it means to follow someone.
My husband had pulled some strings to get my car's oil changed today (don't ask), but we didn't know how long it would take the mechanics to get to it; we didn't know if we three would be sitting on their sidewalk for half an hour or four hours. "Walk to Sawyer Park," my husband suggested. "It's only a mile." I considered it.
The service garage is in a light industrial area of windowless buildings with lots full of RVs and boats and trucks. Security gates enclose everything. Parkway traffic roars by. No one walks around there. That's what I thought at first, anyway. Then I stood with one hand on my hip and another shading my eyes, and I squinted, and considered, and I saw there is, in fact, an interesting way to walk. We could take a jagged line through abandoned lands of hardy, prickly Central Oregon shrubs and invasive weeds. Lizards live in that liminal place. Grasshoppers, too. Grasshoppers clack-clacked, leaping, as we pushed by.
We had water and gorp but it was so hot and prickly that I knew after just 1/4 mile that the kids would never make it to the park. I thought we might find a closer path to the river, though. It was really hot. The kids kept collapsing in bits of shade. When we crossed from that industrial space to a residential street, I hoped for a sprinkler — vainly; even the temporary owners of foreclosed properties know not to run their sprinklers at 3pm.
"Look," I said, pointing to a lot that was once, I suspect, a working ranch. Mature ponderosas grew there. "The river's on the other side of that land. You can make it!" I urged them on.
But at that old ranch we found something better than the Deschutes, at least as far as young, drownable children are concerned: a busted irrigation pipe. Water just poured from that pipe. It made a creek along the side of the road. My kids shouted and leapt. Blake, he climbed a split-rail fence and jumped into the creek's deepest part. With knees bent he was in water up to his neck. Sasha found a snake skin, a drowned lizard and tadpoles. I kid you not: tadpoles. That pipe must've been broken a long time.
Thus refreshed, we walked back to the service garage.
This is the Central Oregon version of Sweet Juniper's experiences in Detroit. You could say I'm making a meme of his post about pathways of desire.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
White Noise
Our first day on Orcas Island dawned cold and rainy — not fat, Central Oregon droplets with sunlight visible between them but fine, misty stuff, like the inside of a cloud. There was nothing to do in that rain but sleep.
Toward afternoon the sky raised and then the sun broke though. Which made a nap even nicer.
Artist Brother-in-law on the beach.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Na, na — I cannae, I cannae
Awhile back a book meme went around that asked something like, "Which literary character would you like to marry?" Most of the bloggers I read answered, "Mr. Darcy, of course!"
Really? Darcy? I hadn't read Pride and Prejudice but I'd seen two movie versions (the one with Colin Firth and the one with Keira Knightley) and I didn't particularly like Mr. Darcy in either. He's so arrogant! He's silent. He doesn't do anything. He just travels from party to party being arrogant and silent.
Recently I heard Mr. Darcy praised again, so I thought, well, I'd better read the book. If so many people like him, clearly I'm missing something. He must have more depth than what's shown in the movie. (I planned to read the book in the San Juans but OMG! I loved it! I stayed up late to read it. I finished it before we ever reached the ferry.) And lo, I did like Mr. Darcy. I see that while he's arrogant, he is also an honorable man. He does a lot more than go to parties, too, in the book; he's got an estate to run, he has tenants and vast acreage to care for. I respect that.
I don't want to marry him, though. Do you? He has no sense of humor! He's silent!
I'll tell you which literary character I like. I wouldn't marry him, but I have a wee bit of a crush on him.
Alan Breck.
From Kidnapped? The Robert Louis Stevenson novel?
Wait, wait, I'm completely serious here. I borrowed Kidnapped from the library thinking I'd read it to the kids in the San Juans; after skimming just the first chapter I knew they'd never understand it; but after skimming just the first chapter I was totally hooked. While on vacation I kept stealing away to read parts of it, and it fair haunted me, I tell ye.
Alan Breck! What a hero! He's a great swordsman and he's brash and he's a dandy and he always carries with him the buttons off his dead father's coat. He's generous and open-hearted and would travel to the ends of the earth (or across the heather, pursued by English soldiers) for a friend. He has an impeccable sense of honor. He's a little guy but he has great reserves of strength, sleeping on rocks, traversing mountains without a whimper. But he's emotional. He sings all the time. He cries. And that scene in the heather? When he and David Balfour have been travelling in such hardship for such a long time, and young David draws his sword on him? What a lovers' quarrel! That's when I most liked Alan Breck.
I wouldn't marry Alan Breck, though, like I said. It's only a matter of time before one government or another lops off his head.
*
David and Alan eat oatmeal. All through the book — when David first meets his uncle; as they beg a night's lodging from strangers; as they flee through the mountains — they eat oatmeal. Apparently Scottish oatmeal is stone-ground, not rolled. I thought that was interesting. I was trying to imagine eating oatmeal with water three meals a day every day for weeks on end.
When you're a mother concerned with running a household as inexpensively (but not cheaply) as possible, you notice different things in a book than you did at age 12.
Really? Darcy? I hadn't read Pride and Prejudice but I'd seen two movie versions (the one with Colin Firth and the one with Keira Knightley) and I didn't particularly like Mr. Darcy in either. He's so arrogant! He's silent. He doesn't do anything. He just travels from party to party being arrogant and silent.
Recently I heard Mr. Darcy praised again, so I thought, well, I'd better read the book. If so many people like him, clearly I'm missing something. He must have more depth than what's shown in the movie. (I planned to read the book in the San Juans but OMG! I loved it! I stayed up late to read it. I finished it before we ever reached the ferry.) And lo, I did like Mr. Darcy. I see that while he's arrogant, he is also an honorable man. He does a lot more than go to parties, too, in the book; he's got an estate to run, he has tenants and vast acreage to care for. I respect that.
I don't want to marry him, though. Do you? He has no sense of humor! He's silent!
I'll tell you which literary character I like. I wouldn't marry him, but I have a wee bit of a crush on him.
Alan Breck.
From Kidnapped? The Robert Louis Stevenson novel?
Wait, wait, I'm completely serious here. I borrowed Kidnapped from the library thinking I'd read it to the kids in the San Juans; after skimming just the first chapter I knew they'd never understand it; but after skimming just the first chapter I was totally hooked. While on vacation I kept stealing away to read parts of it, and it fair haunted me, I tell ye.
Alan Breck! What a hero! He's a great swordsman and he's brash and he's a dandy and he always carries with him the buttons off his dead father's coat. He's generous and open-hearted and would travel to the ends of the earth (or across the heather, pursued by English soldiers) for a friend. He has an impeccable sense of honor. He's a little guy but he has great reserves of strength, sleeping on rocks, traversing mountains without a whimper. But he's emotional. He sings all the time. He cries. And that scene in the heather? When he and David Balfour have been travelling in such hardship for such a long time, and young David draws his sword on him? What a lovers' quarrel! That's when I most liked Alan Breck.
Alan stood quite still, the tails of his great-coat clapping behind him in the wind.
"This is a pity" he said at last. "There are things said that cannot be passed over."
"I never asked you to," said I. "I am as ready as yourself."
"Ready?" said he.
"Ready," I repeated. "I am no blower and boaster like some that I could name. Come on!" And drawing my sword, I fell on guard as Alan himself had taught me.
"David!" he cried. "Are ye daft? I cannae draw upon ye, David. It's fair murder."
"That was your look-out when you insulted me," said I.
"It's the truth!" cried Alan, and he stood for a moment, wringing his mouth in his hand like a man in sore perplexity. "It's the bare truth," he said, and drew his sword. But before I could touch his blade with mine, he had thrown it from him and fallen to the ground. "Na, na," he kept saying, "na, na — I cannae, I cannae."
I wouldn't marry Alan Breck, though, like I said. It's only a matter of time before one government or another lops off his head.
*
David and Alan eat oatmeal. All through the book — when David first meets his uncle; as they beg a night's lodging from strangers; as they flee through the mountains — they eat oatmeal. Apparently Scottish oatmeal is stone-ground, not rolled. I thought that was interesting. I was trying to imagine eating oatmeal with water three meals a day every day for weeks on end.
When you're a mother concerned with running a household as inexpensively (but not cheaply) as possible, you notice different things in a book than you did at age 12.
Monday, July 06, 2009
Distractions
By the kitchen sink I keep what my husband calls a "bletch bucket." It's for compostable food scraps. In the winter our bletch bucket might sit by the sink for days, collecting only banana peels. Once the CSA starts up and the weather warms, however, it fills and smells and attracts fruit flies, so I empty it once a day.
The compost bins sit in the far corner of the backyard. To reach them I pass the raised bed and the flower bed. This can take half an hour. Cheat grass keeps growing amongst the flowers, you see, so I have to pull that, and then I have to check on the blueberries and why, pray tell, did the hundred flowers on that bush form only a dozen berries? I let Sasha plant the radishes too closely together; in case you're tempted to do this let me dissaude you; the radish greens will grow well but you won't get a single radish bulb. Which is fine for feeding guinea pigs but not people. So as I pass I pull radish greens for our dear Apocolypse Pets, and pick a pea or two for me, and then I fail to suppress my astonishment at the sunflowers. Did I tell you about the sunflowers? Last year two or three grew in dry dust back there, back where I put the compost bins, and lo, they have multiplied. It's a sunflower forest. They are just about to bloom. Wasps like them. I find wasps absolutely creepy but bees are interesting. Honeybees visit the flowerbed. On my way back to the house I squat to watch them.
Then one of the children calls me or I remember the pasta water is boiling or whatever, you know, I remember whatever task I had started before deciding to empty the bletch bucket, and I hurry back inside.
*
By the way: One of the three bins is completely filled with dirt. I made dirt in just six months. In the desert! That's what they call continuous learning.
The compost bins sit in the far corner of the backyard. To reach them I pass the raised bed and the flower bed. This can take half an hour. Cheat grass keeps growing amongst the flowers, you see, so I have to pull that, and then I have to check on the blueberries and why, pray tell, did the hundred flowers on that bush form only a dozen berries? I let Sasha plant the radishes too closely together; in case you're tempted to do this let me dissaude you; the radish greens will grow well but you won't get a single radish bulb. Which is fine for feeding guinea pigs but not people. So as I pass I pull radish greens for our dear Apocolypse Pets, and pick a pea or two for me, and then I fail to suppress my astonishment at the sunflowers. Did I tell you about the sunflowers? Last year two or three grew in dry dust back there, back where I put the compost bins, and lo, they have multiplied. It's a sunflower forest. They are just about to bloom. Wasps like them. I find wasps absolutely creepy but bees are interesting. Honeybees visit the flowerbed. On my way back to the house I squat to watch them.
Then one of the children calls me or I remember the pasta water is boiling or whatever, you know, I remember whatever task I had started before deciding to empty the bletch bucket, and I hurry back inside.
*
By the way: One of the three bins is completely filled with dirt. I made dirt in just six months. In the desert! That's what they call continuous learning.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Guinea Pigs: The Apocalypse Pet
Our two guinea pigs like to eat lettuces, all parts of a carrot, young radish leaves, apple peels, crabapples, watermelon peels (just the green part, not the rind), clover, all parts of a dandelion, the leaves of lamb's quarters and green grass.
In other words, my guinea pigs eat weeds.
*
We moved into this new house just as the economy of Bend (A.K.A. the Bend housing market) entered free-fall. I was afraid we'd made a horrible mistake. I was afraid the market would fall so far we'd be upside-down on our new mortgage.
I rationalized our purchase by insisting that this is an Apocalypse House. It has two fireplaces, so theoretically we don't need heat. It has room for a clothesline and room for a garden and we could, if push came to shove, bunk the kids in the master bedroom & rent out their rooms. And we have the guinea pigs, which subsist on weeds, and which are themselves edible.
Crazy, eh? It did feel, for awhile, like everything was crashing around us. It doesn't seem quite so desperate anymore. Even though I'm on furlough this week.
In other words, my guinea pigs eat weeds.
*
We moved into this new house just as the economy of Bend (A.K.A. the Bend housing market) entered free-fall. I was afraid we'd made a horrible mistake. I was afraid the market would fall so far we'd be upside-down on our new mortgage.
I rationalized our purchase by insisting that this is an Apocalypse House. It has two fireplaces, so theoretically we don't need heat. It has room for a clothesline and room for a garden and we could, if push came to shove, bunk the kids in the master bedroom & rent out their rooms. And we have the guinea pigs, which subsist on weeds, and which are themselves edible.
Crazy, eh? It did feel, for awhile, like everything was crashing around us. It doesn't seem quite so desperate anymore. Even though I'm on furlough this week.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Adventure/Misadventure
I found myself with a bit of free time today, so I went for what my brother-in-law calls a "town ride" on my mountain bike. I took the Sawyer Uplands trail, which is just a mile and a half from my house; it's near my favorite park and I've been curious about it for awhile.
And?
Holy crap.
The Sawyer Uplands trail practically stopped my heart — steep, rock-strewn single-track with a cliff on the right, so that I instinctively hugged to the left, and then clipped my pedal against lava rock and dirt. It's the kind of single-track that has to be ridden because it's too narrow to walk one's bike. It's the kind of single-track I haven't ridden in seven years.
Of course I fell. I lost my balance on an uphill switchback and fell backward, unclipping just in time to avoid crashing on a rock, and twisted my ankle so bad I felt sick. I sat for awhile to calm myself. You're ok, for goodness sake, you're ok... Ground squirrels skittered between rocks and I saw butterflies and birds. A lawnmower purred. Ho hum. I got back up. I kept riding because, by God, I'm not 40 yet.
And lo: the Sawyer Uplands trail dead-ends in someone's driveway. The trail is, like, 3/4 mile long.
So I rode back down and hopped on the "Awbrey Reach" section of the Deschutes River Trail, which is basically a dirt road. It wasn't very exciting but the views were incredible and I saw a three-point buck resting under a juniper tree.
I love living here.
And?
Holy crap.
The Sawyer Uplands trail practically stopped my heart — steep, rock-strewn single-track with a cliff on the right, so that I instinctively hugged to the left, and then clipped my pedal against lava rock and dirt. It's the kind of single-track that has to be ridden because it's too narrow to walk one's bike. It's the kind of single-track I haven't ridden in seven years.
Of course I fell. I lost my balance on an uphill switchback and fell backward, unclipping just in time to avoid crashing on a rock, and twisted my ankle so bad I felt sick. I sat for awhile to calm myself. You're ok, for goodness sake, you're ok... Ground squirrels skittered between rocks and I saw butterflies and birds. A lawnmower purred. Ho hum. I got back up. I kept riding because, by God, I'm not 40 yet.
And lo: the Sawyer Uplands trail dead-ends in someone's driveway. The trail is, like, 3/4 mile long.
So I rode back down and hopped on the "Awbrey Reach" section of the Deschutes River Trail, which is basically a dirt road. It wasn't very exciting but the views were incredible and I saw a three-point buck resting under a juniper tree.
I love living here.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Wednesday Wondering
Alternate careers I think I would have liked, in no particular order.
Botanist. I am curious to know if a serviceberry could be crossed with a blueberry. Could you get a larger, sweeter berry that's drought- and frost-resistant?
Mediator. As a parent I resolve disputes all day long and I find it interesting. (Ask me again at bedtime, though. I might have a different answer.) In my last job I had a lot of responsibility but no authority, which means I had to make people want to do what I wanted them to do; that's a lot like parenting, actually, and I think like arbitrating professionally.
Technical writer or writer of science texts for children. I dislike dinosaurs, to speak honestly, but I do appreciate the art of creating dinosaur texts for small children. It's a puzzle. How do you explain extinction to a four-year-old? How do you explain the dinosaurs' extraordinary size?*
Arborist. Last fall an arborist trimmed our 120-foot-tall ponderosa and then lopped the top 20 feet off a trio of dead birches. He was like an acrobat, like a dancer, up in those trees. He sang the whole while. I think I'd enjoy that, too.
Bookstore owner. Doesn't everybody want to own a bookstore? I'd like to own one of those silent, dusty stores along Burnside in Portland, across from Powell's, the ones that sell old books about the Pacific Northwest and have so few customers that the place barely turns a profit, but the owner is happy anyway because she gets to spend the entire day reading.
Career choices which would be a colossal mistake:
Anything requiring decision-making; anything requiring attention to detail; and anything requiring the wearing of high heels.
What about you?
*Not all dinosaurs were gigantic. Some were the size of a chicken. (For the record.)
Botanist. I am curious to know if a serviceberry could be crossed with a blueberry. Could you get a larger, sweeter berry that's drought- and frost-resistant?
Mediator. As a parent I resolve disputes all day long and I find it interesting. (Ask me again at bedtime, though. I might have a different answer.) In my last job I had a lot of responsibility but no authority, which means I had to make people want to do what I wanted them to do; that's a lot like parenting, actually, and I think like arbitrating professionally.
Technical writer or writer of science texts for children. I dislike dinosaurs, to speak honestly, but I do appreciate the art of creating dinosaur texts for small children. It's a puzzle. How do you explain extinction to a four-year-old? How do you explain the dinosaurs' extraordinary size?*
Arborist. Last fall an arborist trimmed our 120-foot-tall ponderosa and then lopped the top 20 feet off a trio of dead birches. He was like an acrobat, like a dancer, up in those trees. He sang the whole while. I think I'd enjoy that, too.
Bookstore owner. Doesn't everybody want to own a bookstore? I'd like to own one of those silent, dusty stores along Burnside in Portland, across from Powell's, the ones that sell old books about the Pacific Northwest and have so few customers that the place barely turns a profit, but the owner is happy anyway because she gets to spend the entire day reading.
Career choices which would be a colossal mistake:
Anything requiring decision-making; anything requiring attention to detail; and anything requiring the wearing of high heels.
What about you?
*Not all dinosaurs were gigantic. Some were the size of a chicken. (For the record.)
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