I Should've Just Stayed Home

Maybe I shouldn't have gone out last night in the first place. I was just in no mood. The only other time I ventured out of the house yesterday didn't go well either. I was attempting to pay rent. I had a check from the roomie who just moved out, some money orders for my part and then $12.92 in cash because I'd done the math wrong and luckily had found exactly that much in my purse, but they wouldn't take it. "We're not equipped to handle cash." Um, what? It's CASH. It's the only part of what I'm giving you that's actually MONEY. Take the goddamn rent and let me be on my way. "I'm sorry, we're just not equipped to deal with cash. There's a bank across the street," she offers in her most polite fake voice ever.

So, I go to the bank across the street and wait in line. The two tellers are politely apologizing again and again to the customers they're serving for the slowness of their computers. Occasionally, they extend a fake smile and apologize to me, too, "I'm so sorry. We'll be right with you." So nice, so kind, so fake. I smile my fake smile back in a way that says, "Oh, it's fine. It's just fine." But really I'm watching the clock because there are only a few minutes left before the leasing office closes. Like it matters anyway, I could turn it in tomorrow; I have the day off. When I get to the counter, I ask for a money order, but once it becomes clear that I don't bank there, a manager is called who offers an apology and a fake smile, "Oh, I'm so sorry, but we don't do money orders for non-customers." I don't mention that I'm put off that I've suddenly become a non-entity, "But I have cash!" I wave it around as if to entice them. "I'm sorry, but we don't do money orders for non-customers." Nice.

WTF, people. I have a thousand dollars in my pocket and nobody wants it?! Really? Fine.

So, I go back home where I belong to slip back into bed and watch even more episodes of Californication all rife with poor life choices and unrequited love, which may be the cause of the day's angst, for surely it has nothing to do with my own poor life choices and unrequited love or where I am in my cycle or how it's raining again in June for cryin' in a bucket, which is where I stay until I decide I have had about as much of me as I can take for one day and hop in the shower with every intention of going out.

I get myself all clean and smooth and shiny and sweet smelling. I put on my skinny jeans and high heel shoes and some slinky top, but it’s just not right. I change my clothes three times, including under garments, before I decide this is good enough, just go already. Hair straight and shiny, lips glossed, back of the ear softly perfumed, when I decide to see who I could chat with on FB. This could have been my cue to just stay home, but no, I carry on. I get a couple good conversations going with some of my best girlfriends. They all agree I should go out if I want to go out, but to trust my gut. Really, I don’t know any other way. My gut plays a big role in my life, but my gut didn’t seem to give a shit either way last night.

So, eventually I go. I drive with fun music on loud, but I get pissed off at the idiot driver going 40 over the Marquam bridge where I like to go really fast (okay 50), except for that one time where I wished I could stop to look at that HUGE orange moon low in the sky. But there was no huge moon for this idiot to be slowing down for; he was just going painfully slowly and people were passing him left and right. I shouted all sorts of obscenities at him and would’ve flipped him the bird if I’d thought it was safe to take my hand off the wheel while going over a double-decker bridge at night. This could have been my cue to take the first exit back home, but no, I carry on.

Although, when I get to the CL, I don’t get out. I stay in the car. I turn it off. I’m not even waiting for the song to get over singing with the radio at the top of my lungs. Nope. I’m just sitting there. Breathing. And I’m saying to myself, “Why are you here? Why don’t you just go home?” This could have been my cue to start the car back up, but no, I carry on. “You’re here, m’dear, because you’ve spent the entire day with you and Hank Moody and as much as you like you and Hank Moody, it’s time to see some new faces. Besides, there’s music. You LIKE music. You don’t even have to dance if you don’t want to (which was an oddly compelling argument given that I love dancing, always everyday all the time). You can just get a drink, take a seat, listen to some good music and go home.”

So, I go in, order myself a Long Island Iced Tea because it’s the most liquor I can get in one glass for my money, although one barely gives me a buzz anymore, so great have become my drinking skills. Still, I order it because it’s all the cash I have and I’m glad to have found somebody in town who’ll actually take my money. I spot one of my girlfriends and go over to say hi. Hi. She’s occupied with a handsome fellow, which I completely understand, so I make my way to the front door and chat up the doorman because he always acts like he likes me. He’s not my type at all. Maybe it’s the braids and the do rag or the giant clothes with the sports logos and the sneakers or that he’s 14 years younger than me and still showers me with attention, which simultaneously makes me feel flattered and like I’m a nasty old cougar, but he’s sweet so I give him a hug and a little kiss like I usually do and hang on his arm for a minute. I forget that I agreed to just sit down and listen to music.

Enter stupid guys. Guys who are also not my type, but not sweet like the doorman who actually knows my name.

“Hey, baby. What’s yo name?”

“What you up to tonight?”

“What you got going on?”

One of them actually remembers that we had this conversation last week and asks me how work is going. Fine, busy, I say.

“So, what you up to tonight? What you got going on?”

Sometimes I just turn it back on them to move the conversation along, “Not much. Things are good. How ‘bout you? How you doing?”

And I swear to god the very next words out of his mouth are, “So, what you up to tonight? What you got going on?”

Really? Seriously? Didn’t we just do that?

“It don’t have to be nothin’ serious. It can be all casual,” he says.

“I’ve got enough of nothin’ serious. I’ve got enough casual.”

“Well, alright. Let’s get married then. Just for tonight.”

Really? Seriously?

And I swear to god the very next words out of his mouth are, “So, what you up to tonight? What you got going on?”

I should’ve just stayed home.

Setting the Alarm: There's Nothing to Understand

Here are bits of wit, whimsy and wisdom and I bet a bit of news from across the pond, gathered in the fleeting moments while I set the alarm at night. Each bullet point comes from a different night, yet strangely, delightfully makes some sense when strung together.

• Look at every newspaper and you can't get away from this clash of culture
• One and a half million dollars
• They were charged
• In which condition is he safe?
• There's nothing to understand. Speak plainly to me.
• The Dalai Lama

Setting the Alarm: It's Almost Like Euphoria

Here are bits of wit, whimsy and wisdom and I bet a bit of news from this week from across the pond, gathered in the fleeting moments while I set the alarm at night, edited ever so slightly for continuity. Each bullet point comes from a different night, yet strangely, delightfully makes some sense when strung together.

• These rods are the only thing keeping them from falling into a pit.
• It may not be easy, but we need to forget.
• You know, it's almost like euphoria. You can't understand what's going on...
• Of people's problems.
• It's so slow.

Setting the Alarm

For reasons I can't quite and don't care to explain, I started writing down the snippets of radio I hear when setting my alarm at night. I have this little ritual, some might call a compulsion, around setting my alarm. I set the time, which is not the same every day because sometimes I go to bed so late that I'm certain an extra half hour of hitting the snooze button will make all the difference in my day. Right, so I set the alarm, turn the little knob to the actual time, then back to the alarm, back to actual time, then back to alarm time. It's this little dance of three where I assure myself that I have actually set the alarm for A.M. and not P.M. and where I realize that I better sleep fast because there are just not enough hours between now and morning. In college we used to bid each other this blessing, "May the Lord multiply your hours of sleep, dominus possum pax probiscus, post mortem, et tu brute, puella carborundum," taken from a Ray Stevens song we seemed to have loved called The Hair Cut. In that little moment of time on the radio settings between alarm, radio and radio alarm, a tiny yet always complete bit of language makes its way to my ears. I always have my radio set to 91.5fm, which is OPB radio before midnight and the BBC News after midnight. It seems needless to say that the bits I always catch have come all the way from Greenwich Mean Time.

Here are the bits of wit, whimsy and wisdom, and I suppose a bit of news, from this week from across the pond, edited ever so slightly for continuity. Each bullet point comes from a different night, yet strangely, delightfully makes some sense when strung together.

• And that kinda stuff


• Which is offensive to minorities


• Surfaces


• Represents the type of technology that North Korea or even Iran might be able to develop. Today it may be good to travel, hopefully.


• And fired up crowds attended rallies to cheer the President


• The balance right


• Variety is nothing more than diversity

She Lives...For Better or Worse

Oh, for crying in a bucket. Even I'm tired of looking at this old post. Geez, Louise. You'd think I'd dropped off the face of the planet. If only I had an excuse that good.

So, here's what I've been up to since January 8th (my last post):

• I did indeed have Lasik surgery (see photo). I am now seeing clearly out of my very own eyes! Well, my right one anyway. The left one is coming along nicely, but it had more work done on it so it's taking longer to catch up. I highly recommend this procedure, surgery is really too strong a word for a 34 second encounter with a laser. Run don't walk to your nearest trusted Lasik center now, unless of course you're happy with your vision.
• I got a new job! I now work at the Best Place Ever! I'm the Transition Coordinator for an alternative school in NoPo. I work with high school seniors and help them figure out what comes next, 'cuz graduation is not an ending, it's really a new beginning. gack.
• Six weeks later I was asked to fill in for someone on maternity leave. So for the last 12 weeks of the school year I'm a Career and Academic Advisor in Career Services at the Best Place Ever!
• Six weeks later they gave my Transition Coordinator position to someone else during the restructuring process without even letting me apply for my own position like everyone else had, er, got to do. Umm...hey...I was uh, I was the Transition Coordinator. Didja not notice that? Well, they did notice that and they love me and so they're trying to scrape together enough money to come up with a full-time job for me starting in July. So everything could turn out perfectly with a full-time tailor-made job starting in July, when the pregnant lady comes back, OR I could be out of work and unable to pay rent. I'm holding out for Option A, but if you know of a good job for me, do let me know. I'm fabulous. Trust me.
• In March, at the one year mark of the day I left my husband and started the emotional rollercoaster that is an intentional separation, he called me a day before our agreed upon State of the Union Address and said, "Are you happier? Because you seem happier." I sheepishly replied that I was and he said, "Then I guess we don't really have anything to talk about." So he filed taxes and I said I would file for divorce, but I haven't yet. I don't like the word divorce as it relates to me. I haven't been able to start calling him "my ex" either. These terms have such negative connotations that don't really apply here. I'm proud of us for navigating these uncharted waters without breaking a single dish, bankrupting ourselves and keeping our friendship intact. I think it's pretty impressive. And now I shall utter the words of my father, words I shudder to utter (har har) (changed slightly to reflect the appropriate gender), "I love him, but I just can't live with him." Damn. I have become my father. Ack. Phift.
• I have become pretty good at drinking, but have discovered that I suck at singing karaoke, although that hasn't stopped me from trying and having tons of fun.
• I'm a horrendous bowler, although, thankfully, bowling does not require skill to be fun.
• I've reunited with a whole host of old high school friends through Facebook, duh, which has been more fun that it has a right to be. There's something powerful about hanging out with people who've known you since you were a kid. We're having a great time saying things like, "Oh, you were so hot in HS. I so should've done you back then." Followed by, "Really? You thought I was hot?" Followed by, "OMG, duh!" We get together every month now, except for David and Sol and Amy who NEVER SHOW UP! Whuck's up with that?!!! The only problem is, everyone is married and therefore presumably unavailable, which I lament because I would very much like to be having tons and tons of sex.
• I have perfected my Joey Tribiani, "How you doin'?" look. It is evidently so powerful that it caused a tall, shiny black Cubano in a bar to make out with me on the dance floor. And then another time it caused a nicely dressed black man on a passing train to get off at the next stop, wait for me and then hand me his phone number as soon as the door to my train opened. I must use the force wisely, so great is its power.
• I have begun to believe, for the second time ever, that I am beautiful and attractive and sexy and fun, nevermind my weight or age. I say very little about this, but it is the biggest, most monumental change I've encountered thus far. I must note that Mr. Karin always adored me, treated me like a princess, praised the virtues of my ample hips and thighs, seemed unphased by my sad little breasts and loved to kiss that spot between them. So, I cannot properly explain why self-appreciation of my figure is only happening now. Feel free to offer your theories in the comments.
• I am happy. Most of the time I am happy. When I do get in a funk, which happens, I notice that my funks are less funky and they subside quickly.

Lasik Surgery--Yes or No?

I have an appointment today to see if I'm a good candidate for Lasik surgery, that is, corrective eye surgery so I can finally be free of these damn glasses, which I've been wearing for 35 years. Well, not this pair the whole time, but you know what I mean.

Please note the photographic history of my glasses and that I've left out that vain year in high school where I refused to wear them, preferring to squint instead.

From everything I've read and heard, qualified professionals using state-of-the-art technology aside, the greatest factors influencing success involve the patient's expectations going into the procedure. If one is expecting to have perfect vision immediately without any "touch ups" and to never wear glasses for any reason ever again, then one might be dissappointed with the results. However, if one is happy to have their vision improved to extent that they no longer need corrective lenses 16 hours a day, though may require reading or driving glasses now or in the future, then one might be thoroughly delighted.

People report joy in being able to read the clock first thing in the morning, having clear, unobstructed peripheral vision for the first time or being able to swim or scuba dive with greater ease and safety. All these things sound good to me, too. I'm also looking forward to walking in the rain without needing windshield wipers, coming in from the cold without waiting for the requisite defrogging pause, being able to actually see myself when I put on makeup, being able to see anything when performing on stage and last, but certainly not least for I am still vain, showing off my eyes, the one feature I don't hate about my body.

I have personally known three people who've had this procedure done. Two say they think it's the best investment they ever made and they only wish they'd done it sooner. One regrets it completely, complaining daily about dry eyes and having to wear reading glasses.

I'm 99% sure I'll move forward with the surgery, if I'm a good candidate, but I'm interested to hear your thoughts on the matter. I've overcome any fear I may have had about the safety of the procedure and the sheer gross-out factor, mainly because I've seen it done and it only lasts a few minutes et voila, clear vision. Magic! Cost was prohibitive before, but I'm now I'm in a position to consider it.

So, what do you think? Lasik surgery--yes or no?

And Then There's Me

1. WERE YOU NAMED AFTER ANYONE?
My dad’s favorite cousin, who I met for the first time in 2001.

2. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU CRIED?
Yesterday. I cry a lot.

3. DO YOU LIKE YOUR HANDWRITING?
Usually. I especially like my teacher whiteboard writing. Impressively neat.

4. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE LUNCH MEAT?
I used to really, really like a French dip sandwich with horseradish, but I
don’t eat meat anymore (you know, the whole dead cow thing) and there
just isn’t a suitable replacement.

5. DO YOU HAVE KIDS?
No, thank God.

6. IF YOU WERE ANOTHER PERSON WOULD YOU BE FRIENDS WITH YOU?
Yeah, I like me.

7. DO YOU USE SARCASM A LOT?
Me? No, never.

8. DO YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TONSILS?
Yep.

9. WOULD YOU BUNGEE JUMP?
Not unless I was forced at gunpoint or was paid an obscene amount of
money.

10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE CEREAL?
Raisin anything.

11. DO YOU UNTIE YOUR SHOES WHEN YOU TAKE THEM OFF?
I don’t have any shoes that tie, but when I do I always untie them, which makes me a good person.

12. DO YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG?
Oh, yes. Physically? No, I can’t even open a jar of peanut butter. However, I think of myself as resilient.

13. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM?
Soy Delicious Chocolate Peanut Butter and Coconut Bliss Chocolate
Fudge. Heaven.

14. WHAT IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE ABOUT PEOPLE?
Teeth (if they’re smiling, if not, then hair).

15. RED OR PINK?
Red!

16. WHAT IS THE LEAST FAVORITE THING ABOUT YOURSELF?
I keep holding on to a good 50 extra pounds even though I know how to
lose them. The good news is I’ve been holding steady for years and not
gaining, which was my custom in my twenties.

17. WHO DO YOU MISS THE MOST?
That’s easy---my mom, greatest woman who ever lived.

18. DO YOU WANT EVERYONE TO DO THIS?
That’s really not necessary.

19. WHAT COLOR SHOES ARE YOU WEARING?
Black fuzzy slippers, but only because my feet are cold. If I had my druthers, I’d never wear shoes again, much as I love them as a fashion statement.

20. WHAT WAS THE LAST THING YOU ATE?
A small piece of chocolate and an apple, in the car on the way home. (Why do I still drive? This is ridiculous. I should be taking the bus for crying out loud.)

21. WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO RIGHT NOW?
That obscenely loud kitchen exhaust fan from the restaurant down below.

22. IF YOU WERE A CRAYON, WHAT COLOR WOULD YOU BE?
Burnt Umber.

23. FAVORITE SMELLS?
Cigarette smoke in my non-smoking building. I love it. (I think I forgot to take my happy pill today.)

24. WHO WAS THE LAST PERSON YOU TALKED TO ON THE PHONE?
Mr. Karin

25. DO YOU LIKE THE PERSON WHO SENT THIS TO YOU?
I do. Rebel Rocks!

26. FAVORITE SPORTS TO WATCH?
Gymnastics, figure skating, almost any Olympic event.

27. HAIR COLOR?
Well, blonde, but only because I color it.

28. EYE COLOR?
Hazel: green brown, with flecks of gold

29. DO YOU WEAR CONTACTS?
I wish, but can’t, try as I might. What I’d really like is corrective surgery!

30. FAVORITE FOOD?
Linguine with sautéed veggies and parmesan cheese. I live on that.

31. SCARY MOVIES OR HAPPY ENDINGS?
Suspense, but not horror. I just rented the remake of Amityville Horror even though it traumatized me when I watched the first one at a far too young age when it first came out. As my brother ran out the door on a date, my mom yelled, “Take your sister with you!” So he and his girlfriend watched 10 with Bo Derek and I was thrown into Amityville Horror. Scarred me for life. Amityville is a town not far from where I lived at the time. But I rented it this time just to see Ryan Reynolds sportin’ a seriously cut 6-pack. O.M.G!

32. LAST MOVIE YOU WATCHED?
Amityville Horror, a waste of a talented cast; however...Ryan Reynold's seriously cut 6-pack!

33. WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
Karin is wearing a multi-colored halter in jewel tones of fuchsia, orange and umber.

34. SUMMER OR WINTER?
Summer, please.

35. HUGS OR KISSES?
No A-frame hugs, but full on hug-me-like-you-mean-it hugs. My brother’s are the best.

36. FAVORITE DESSERT?
Cheesecake (there are even some outstanding vegan ones out there!)

37. MOST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
No idea.38. LEAST LIKELY TO RESPOND?
Well, half my fan base has already done it. (That is, Rebel has.)

39. WHAT BOOK ARE YOU READING NOW?
Hungry Planet: What the World Eats. Fascinating!

40. WHAT IS ON YOUR MOUSE PAD?
No mouse pad.

41. WHAT DID YOU WATCH ON TV LAST NIGHT?
I heart Chuck and Dexter.

42. FAVORITE SOUND?
My mom saying, “Hey, Sugar.”

43. ROLLING STONES OR BEATLES?
Oh, the Beatles!

44. WHAT IS THE FARTHEST YOU HAVE BEEN FROM HOME?
8,000 miles away in Dakar, Senegal, West Africa. Woot!

45. DO YOU HAVE A SPECIAL TALENT?
Oh, I sing and act and play with color. I want to be in a show with Liev Schreiber someday; he’s brilliant. Not likely to happen as I don’t live in LA or NY and don’t audition, but eh, these are mere details.

46. WHERE WERE YOU BORN?
Catskill, NY and 2 months early.

47. WHOSE ANSWERS ARE YOU LOOKING FORWARD TO GETTING BACK?
I always like to know more about M5K.

Sitting Here in Limbo: where Karin finally says what she's been thinking these many silent months

You may know that I moved in March into a brand new building with the magical dish washing machine, thereby launching the beginning of my brand new life. Right, well, I promptly fell flat on my face with grief at the lost of what had been a 10 year marriage. Mind you, this was all my idea, moving out, making this change, so you can imagine how shocked I was to discover that my brand new life sucked.

That's not true, lots of things about it agree with me. My place is decorated and arranged exactly the way I like. There is rarely a mess, as I'm a controlling neat-freak, which doesn't bother me in the least when I live alone. I realize this trait can be, let's say, abrasive to a husband, lover, full time housemate who doesn't yet know that it's my way or the highway. I like to have a place for everything and everything in its place, which really only works if everyone in the house likes this, too. So, I'm really enjoying the fact that the soymilk is always in the same place in the refrigerator when I reach for it in the morning when I'm not yet awake, because cereal with vegetable broth is just not the same. I like it that all my canned goods are arranged categorically with the labels facing out, partly because it just makes sense and partly because I hate bar codes. I like that my bed is always made. I think I like it inordinately so. A made bed with tucked sheets is easily one of my favorite things in life. And, because I’m devoting less time to my relationship with Mr. K, I'm hanging out with my friends a lot more. I'm glad about that.

Those are just the little things and there are so many more, but there are big things, too. When I get hungry, angry, lonely or tired, it doesn't really matter because there's no one around to piss off, offend or annoy. Hungry, angry, lonely or tired = HALT. This was an excellent piece of advice given to us once--never have a serious conversation if either or both of us are hungry, angry, lonely or tired. Whatever it is can wait. I can't say it saved our marriage, but I can say it was enormously helpful. We also added sad, as in grieving, in a funk or depressed because no one's thinking clearly when they're in a funk. So, HALTS. I notice that I have to HALT less often now, because the sandpaper of me is not scraping up against anyone.

Except for my ridiculously noisy neighborhood, which now includes a sports bar/restaurant/night club in my building that's open until 2am and has an unbearably loud kitchen exhaust fan, my place is quiet when I want it to be. Nobody talks to me in the morning. Let me say that again. Nobody talks to me in the morning. I enjoy this even more than a made bed with tucked sheets. You have no idea. Talking to me in the morning is dangerous. I'm not kidding. My good brother-like friend from Senegal (that's in Africa, people, get a globe) had the misfortune of calling me at 4:30 in the morning some months back. All I said was, "It's 4:30 in the MORNing!" And hung up. Later I remembered my rudeness, but have been too embarrassed to call him back. In college, my roommates, who were only slightly less grouchy than me in the morning, learned to just acknowledge my presence in the morning. “Karin,” they’d quietly say with a nod of the head. Then they’d return to doing their hair, putting on their face, what have you, as I shuffled around in a stupor. My husband learned early on to keep is distance from me in the morning, but because he’s such a morning person—singing, chatting, doing taxes—he’d forget and start talking to me. My head would spin, my eyes would shoot flames and I’d shriek, “What are you new?”

I really only have two role models for how post-marriage life works. One, my dad, who had a long series of dead end relationships with, how shall I say this, women who were less than desirable mother figures, finally settling on a woman who'd been married four times before him. Or two, my mother and aunt G, both of whom basically became sexless spinsters filling their evenings with Jeopardy, the Reader's Digest and Spite & Malice (a card game). Over sexed and undersexed, are these my only options? Mind you, there's nothing wrong with a diet of Jeopardy, the Reader's Digest and Spite & Malice, if it makes you happy. I just don't think it would make me happy.

Oh, crap, now I've done it. Now I have to ask myself what would make me happy. My first thought is, "I have no idea." Then it occurs to me that if I don't know, then know one knows. I must know. Okay, I'd like to live in Marseilles, a beautiful Mediterranean town about the size of Portland with a significant north and west African population. That sounds like fun. And it's only a four hour plane ride to Dakar and eight hours to New York, places where some of my very favorite people live. Why not. I also want to finally get my Master's degree in intercultural relations. The plan had always been that I'd put him through school, then he'd put me through school, but just before he graduated I left. Key-rap, I've really screwed myself on that one, haven't I?

I'm not looking for anyone else. Not really. Ironically, since I left my husband, my guaranteed safe sex partner, I've had the most amazing sex drive ever. No sex, mind you, but a desire for it, which is new and exciting. So that's fun except there are two problems. One, with whom will I have this great sex I'm so desiring? I'd have it with Mr. Karin, actually, since we're still trying to work things out, but he's the girl in this relationship right now and doesn't want to have sex until he feels safe and it's making love. Totally understandable. Whereas now I'm the guy sitting through dinner hoping he'll put out. Damn. The other problem is that I'm too afraid to have sex with anyone else. What if I catch something and bring it back to Mr. Karin? What if, a sometimes even greater concern, I'm too fat? What if Mr. Karin is the only person on the planet who could ever find me attractive enough to have sex with and be willing to overlook my many physical flaws? I mean, I'm no spring chicken and I'm overweight. When people fall in love in their 20s, the slow pull of gravity and the added pounds and wrinkles accumulate so slowly as to be almost unnoticeable by the one who loves you. It is precisely because they love you that they are willing to overlook your flaws, my flaws. How does this work at my age and weight?

Yet, I can't imagine spending my life with anyone but Mr. Karin. He's been in my life for twelve years. That's a big deal. That's a huge chunk of my history. It's significant to have someone close to you who knows your stuff and loves you anyway, who's seen you through your darkest days. It's a big deal to move throughout your life knowing that someone, at least one someone, has your back no matter what. There's a deep sense of security in that. Usually that felt cloying and claustrophobic to me, but somehow I'd like it back. I'd like it back, just different. Please don't ask me how. If I knew, I suppose I'd have it already.

So, I wanted this change, this new life. I made this change. I like this change. Yet, I still want the security of that deep love, that history. I want it all back, but only the good parts.

Crazy Elevator Lady

While waiting for the elevator in my building, I heard Crazy Elevator Lady coming down the hall. She was saying over and over again, "What is it? What is it?" I thought she was asking the voices in her head what they wanted now. As she rounded the corner and saw me she said, "Oh! It's a woman. Okay, I can get in the elevator with a woman."

Happy Death Day?

November 10th, November 10th.

The date was nagging at me, but I couldn't remember exactly why. Was it the birthday of my first real high school boyfriend who later died in a freak newsprint factory accident? No, that's in October. Was it the birthday of one of my college roommates who used to organize her sock drawer because it pleased her to do so? No, that was last week. Was it the day before Veteran's day? Yes, but that wasn't it.

Then it dawned on me. It's my father's death day.

What do you call a day like that? The fifth anniversary of my father's death? Yeah, I guess so, but it's so cumbersome--the fifth anniversary of my father's death. That's just too many words. It's my father's death day. Well, it is. That's what it is. Five years ago today my father was driving down a straight stretch of highway in good weather in the middle of his shift with no other cars or stray animals around when suddenly his vehicle went completely out of control, rolling and flipping, throwing him out of the vehicle and crushing him.

He wasn't wearing his seat belt. This is a man who'd been a professional driver since the 1960s and wore his seat belt at all times, even before the law required it. He was the safest driver I knew. He was the only person my mother felt safe with in a car, besides herself, I would suppose. Trying to make sense of things, people wondered if maybe he had unclasped his seat belt to pick something up off the floor. While that's possible, it's highly unlikely. I'm sure he'd dropped things on the floor while driving and retrieved them many times in three decades without causing a fatal accident. His wife did remember that he'd almost called in sick, which he would only do for scheduled surgery or if he nearly lost an eye because the dolly crank on his Peterbilt cracked him a good one, which means he must have felt really really bad that day. The only scenario that satisfies my brother and I is that he was having a medical emergency, a heart attack perhaps, and took off his seat belt in a panic to relieve the pressure on his chest. Maybe he slumped over the steering wheel, thus causing the sudden veering on a straight road in good weather involving no other vehicles or stray animals. We will never know.

The hard part, aside from, you know, losing my dad, is knowing that he died alone. Same thing with my mom. She was getting ready for work one Monday morning and just keeled over from a heart attack. I hate that. I mean, I guess I'm glad I didn't have to watch them grow old and lose their minds and bladder control. They didn't die painful lingering deaths in a hospital racking up exorbitant bills that would require us to claim bankruptcy. But, damn if it wouldn't have been nice to, oh, I don't know, say goodbye properly.

I realize that my tone may sound a bit too flippant, cold and unfeeling for the subject matter. I apologize. I've cried so hard and for so long that it has just become a part of me, this loss. As much as I am Karin because I am my parents' daughter, I am Karin because I have lost my parents. If only I could remember where I put them.

We don't talk about death in this country very much. We don't know how. We don't allow loud processions of wailing. We no longer wear black for a year to signify grieving. We don't gather with our family members to have a party on the headstones of those we've lost. We spend one day, one day to memorialize and bury them or scatter their ashes. Work might give you three days, if they're feeling generous and compliant with the law. The airlines give a discount on airfare, but it's so miniscule it isn't even worth the call that requires you to tell them someone you love has suddenly died. No, we're just expected to go right back to work, because work will save you or at least distract you and because you have to pay the bills. Don't they know, in those early months and years, that we cannot be distracted, that all the minutiae of life is a distraction? Someone has died. We have to deal with it at some point. We have to cry, to scream, to sob into our journals, to make art to save ourselves from dying. If we don't, and maybe even if we do, we'll end up with headaches, obesity, drinking problems, whatever. Pain like this doesn't just go away; it has to manifest somehow.

In the beginning, after my mother died, I dreaded the monthly anniversaries of her death. The first year or two were the hardest. I was surprised and dismayed the first time the anniversary of her death rolled around and I didn't remember until it was upon me. Was I somehow a bad kid? No, it was just that the pain was sometimes subsiding just enough for me to finally focus on the minutiae of my life. Thinking big was still a ways out, but being present to my life again was new and it was

enough. Eventually the intense pain was mostly gone and reared its ugly head less and less, making it possible to think beyond getting dressed, brushing teeth, eating toast. At some point, dreaming and planning became possible again.

So, here I am at the fifth anniversary of my father's death. His death day. He had a birthday and then, 63 years later he had a death day. It goes the same way for all of us. No way around it. I'm just saying it like it is.



I love you, Dad. I miss you.

Ah, Friends!

Some friends came up from California and we partied like it was 1999. I drank more last week than I had in my whole life put together (don't get too excited, that ain't saying much). Woot!

Moon Over Morrison: A Story in Collage

Maybe It's Just Beer

So, this six pack of Corona has been sitting in my fridge for weeks now with four bottles remaining. They just might last me through 'til Christmas.

But Lemon Drops are my new best friend! Let's hear it for Girls' Night Out and Lemon Drops!

Speed Scrabble Fast Write

I played Speed Scrabble with a friend tonight and then used the words I'd formed to create this li'l story.

Our bored queen won't plan her oval tomb at the appointed acre until she is cured of the sin with the goat and the ox. She cannot concentrate, what with the din of the people rioting about the taxes.

"Will she lower them?

"Aye!"

"Nah."

My Morality is Slipping

I've only had one ever (and that on my recent birthday), but I've decided that my new favorite thing of summer is a Corona with a slice of lime.

I keep thinking I'm going to have more, but then I don't want to actually go buy beer for the first time in my life. I'm sure the Jesus police will come out and say, "Tsk, tsk. Do you really think that's such a good idea? WWJD?" To which I should reply, "He'd say, 'Don't forget the lime!'" Why do I still give a rip what anyone thinks? It's not like the Fred Meyer on NE 20th and Burnside is filled with the church-going Jesus freaks of Newberg who I assumed watched my every move. This Fred Meyer is filled with strung out meth heads who seriously do NOT need the case of beer they're dragging through the express lane. Yet, I'm sure someone would look at me as if to say, "Don't you realize it's only 6pm on MONDAY?" And they'd be right. It's too early in the week to start drinking. It's a school night! Besides, I live alone now, how pathetic would that be to sit at home alone with a beer on a Monday night?

It could be that my "morality is slipping" as I was warned might happen during one of the two divorce recovery meetings I went to, even though I'm only separated and not entirely sure that was a good idea, separating. Yes, it could be that my morality is slipping and that I could go so far as to, dare I say it, “try al-co-hol” as one person in the hideous video series shamefully admitted to doing. He struggled so much to admit it that I had expected him to say he'd experimented with heroine or engaged in a series of meaningless bisexual threesomes or done something scary to his genitals, but no, just alcohol, which clearly left a bad taste in his mouth.

It was the evangelical nature of the divorce recovery video that left a bad taste in my mouth. The squeaky clean divorcees spoke with a thick Southern drawl about the importance of God in your life. Now, anyone who knows me even a little knows that I wouldn’t have a problem with this at all. I have a spiritual path and actively cultivate my relationship with God. I even used to be a bible thumper, very evangelical in my faith, so convinced that what I believed was right and good that I wanted everyone to reap the blessings, too. I didn’t particularly care if you already believed something else right and good, because I was certain that what I believed was righter and (oh, how I want to say gooder) better.

Then I spent two years in a West African country where everyone I knew and loved was Muslim and I realized that they were as likely to become Christians as I was to become a Muslim, which is to say--not gonna happen. They were happy. They were healthy. Why change? In fact, I was the one to change, not right then, but slowly, and that was the beginning of a major shift in my thinking. I began to espouse the radical idea that you can believe something completely different from me---and that’s okay. There’s room enough for all of us. Whatever way we find to connect to the Divine is right and good, I now believe, especially if this leads to peaceful thoughts and actions, as it very often does.

So you can see why it’s an especially big deal that the divorce recovery video alienated me. I learned several very informative things during my two (and only two) meetings. One, the only way to truly recover from a separation or divorce is to accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Two, I should safeguard myself against morality slippage by accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior. Three, I should not drink, do drugs, swear or have sex for next 2 to 5 years while I recover (one year of recovery for every 4 years of marriage) lest I fall out of grace with Jesus Christ, my personal Lord and Savior. Four and five were issues raised simultaneously, homosexuality is to blame for the high divorce rate in this country (yes, someone really said that; I tried really hard not to laugh and nearly every one squirmed in discomfort) compared to other countries and that the lack of legal, social and financial support for women in many other countries to leave unsafe or unhappy life situations does not in any way contribute to lower documented numbers of divorce in other countries. And lastly, the video series they are using is the best series out there on divorce and that the facilitators are Christian, but are in no way trying to, and here the facilitator considered her words carefully so I expected her to say “change your mind”, but she’s so entrenched in Christianese that instead she said they are in no way trying to, wait for it, “win your hearts for Christ”. This she said twice, for emphasis. “We are not trying to win your hearts for Christ, but if you are interested in talking to someone, we would be happy to speak to you about it after the meeting.” So, when she said she is not trying to win our hearts for Christ, what she is really saying is that, in fact, she is trying to win our hearts for Christ. You know, I get that. I really do. She thinks that’s best and only way to heaven and she wants me there in the sweet hereafter. I get it, but here’s the thing. I was there to get divorce support. That’s what they said the group was for. That’s what I signed up for. I expected to be able to talk about what I’m experiencing and listen to other people share their experiences. I expected there to be crying and tissues, anger and pillow bashing. I did not expect someone to try to win my heart for Christ.

Man, I need a beer.

Smells Like Barn

Moth Ball Stroganoff Man. Chain Smoking Schizos. These neighbors got nothin' on me.

Tonight I created the most hideous smell of my entire life (not involving a bodily function). Even I found it disgusting. The strange thing is--I couldn't figure out why! It all started out like a normal cooking experience. This morning I was reading VegNews magazine's 222 Reasons to be Veg when I came across Reason #202: Tofu Scramble. Ah hah! Dinner plans.

Oh, I know tofu scramble is meant to be a breakfast, but never you mind. My momma taught me that the best time to eat a nice big breakfast is for dinner, with chocolate milk (or now chocolate Silk)!

So I came home, diced up a couple of potatoes and started them frying. I mashed up the tofu, added a little salt, a little pepper, a lot of nutritional yeast and put it in the pan on med/med low. Everything was going so well. It really was. I added a little sundried tomato, some fresh greens, a spalsh of broth and put a lid on it to let it simmer while I put dishes in the magical dishwashing machine. I've done this many times before. This recipe is tried and true. This is comfort food. I went back to the potatoes, gave 'em a stir, kept my on eye the scramble. All was well.

Then, while loading the dishes into the magical dishwashing machine, I suddenly found myself thinking of the place of my childhood in upstate NY where Rt. 32 and Rt. 23A intersect. It's a place with lots and lots of cows, lovely cows, but cows. And two silos that my citified aunt looked at and questioned, "Why does that farmer keep all those bananas in those tall things?" No, Auntie. Not bananas. A large family owned all those cows and the girl from that family who was my age once loved and adored one of them and named it Happy, like she was until it disappeared one day and her parents explained to her the facts of farm life and death and perhaps something about slaughterhouses.

So, there I was in my kitchen, loading dishes, thinking of a lot of stinky cows when suddenly I realized I was making that smell. I was the one responsible for this hideousness. It's bad enough to smell 5,000 acres of cow manure on a Sunday drive, but at least then you know that 1) you can balk at your over-dramatic passenger saying, "Oh, stop. It's natural." 2) you're driving and it'll be gone soon and 3) you didn't cause it. When it happens in your own kitchen, though, it's not natural, there's no escaping it, and it's all your fault.

Paul Reiser writes in Couplehood that he was in the habit of turning to his new wife on such a Sunday drive and saying, "Whew? Is that you?" Then he realized that, "Basically what I'm asking my bride is, 'Is that you or is that 5,000 acres of cow manure?'"

Yeah. That's me.

Thank You For Smoking

I live in a non-smoking building. You would think that would mean that no one would smoke inside the building. You would think.

Evidently, most tenants who do smoke seem to forget the go-outside-in-the-pouring-rain-to-smoke rule. Evidently, some tenants have a note from their doctor allowing them to smoke in their non-smoking apartments. Despite the fact that smoking is bad for your health and doctors know that, doctors scribble their names on slips of paper to allow a lot of people in my building to smoke indoors--smoke cigarettes, oh, and my favorite, pot. Evidently, not smoking in your non-smoking apartment may cause you to go off your meds and do bad things. Or at least weird things.

I walked into the Recycling & Trash Room the other day to, you know, recycle and trash something, and as soon as I walked in, the woman who was already trashing something turned toward me suddenly and snapped, "Oh, what now?" She dropped her bag of trash, which could easily have been a bag of dog doo or her own doo for all I know, and ran out the door. Not long after, she returned to retrieve her bag of doo doo and said, "Hup! Wuh? Wull---uhhh. Tsk. Kuh. Mm." Then ran out the door. I noticed her a little while later walking up and down the hallway, back and forth. Eventually, she got on the elevator. She got off the elevator. No, on. No, off. Mr. Karin said gently like a good MSW, "She's attending to other voices and may be off her meds. Might wanna give her a little extra space." Ya think?

Evidently, I have discovered, I live on the smoking floor. (What does that mean about me?) The three apartments closest to mine are occupied by people I have yet to see, but whom I often hear yelling at the walls and whose sleep patterns I have identified by their chain-smoking habits. Up at 7:30am. To bed around 12:30am. Smoking like a chimney every waking hour.

I love this. No really, I do. I mean, now I don't have to actually take up smoking. I figure I'm getting in at least a pack a week in second-hand smoke. Saves me money. Don't have to buy cigarettes for myself. This is great.

A Photo Essay of My New Digs

This is my kitchen. Notice the pretty wall color. I love it.



You can't see it from here, but the stove has two, that's two (2) large burners. I'm living large, folks.






This is how it worked before.





This is how it works now.





It's magic. I put dirty dishes in, turn a knob, wait a while, and clean dishes come out! It's magically terrific!


















This is my luxurious dining area. I dine luxuriously here.




This is my spacious living room. I live spaciously here . Oh, does it look like I sleep here, too? Only until the bed I have on order arrives. Until then, the futon couch seems to be serving just fine.

I have quite a view.










Uptown.












Downtown.







My desk.




This is where all the magic happens. Right, except for the magic that happens in the kitchen!

This is my bedroom. No magic happens in here.

My Friends Rock!

Let it be known that

I have The Best Friends Ever!

With one desperate heart-felt email in a time of need, four friends jumped to the ready to help me move into my new phat pad. Namely, our very own Michael5000, his lovely wife Mrs. 5000, Tereza and a college friend from waaaay back. Two other friends from my last place of employment helped out on another day.

It should be known that my email said, "I have just a few things to move right now--a couch, a dresser, a computer table and computer and some boxes."

Michael5000 and Mrs.5000 volunteered Chariot5000 for ease of moving large objects. Somehow, these "few things" turned into one truck and two cars filled with my stuff--TWICE. Thank GOD for elevators. I never knew I had so much stuff or that I was going to move so much of it that day.

Oh, my ever patient and strong-of-back friends. May you be blessed in every way you desire for your graciousness to me. I am nothing if not grateful.

I Live Here

This is my living/dining room/kitchen. Nice furniture. Wish it were mine.





This is my living/dining room. Did you notice the WINDOWS!!!! My place only has one wall of floor-to-ceiling wall-to-wall windows, but you know, I manage.









My brand new kitchen with dishwasher. : )

Pretty soon it may even work.

Here's my bedroom. Notice the tree. Nice tree. And the window. Nice window.


I'm on the fourth floor and I can people watch to my heart's content.

I can walk to everything fun and cool.

Or I can hang out at home and not hear my neighbor's every fart.

Gone are the days of Mothball Stroganoff and Listening Out, but I'm sure I'll have new tales to tell. Like how, already, I got trapped in the basement parking garage because the elevator wasn't working. Yeah, that was fun.

One day soon I'll take pictures of my place with my stuff in it. Stay tuned.

Not Even Chicken?

I'm a vegetarian.

I don't eat meat. No, not even chicken. No, not even fish. In fact, most of my food choices are vegan, which means I don't even eat milk, dairy or eggs. So think about it. I don't eat cheese, yogurt, cottage cheese, Cheetos, quesadillas, omlettes, milkshakes, most cookies or cakes including my beloved cheesecake unless they're vegan (God BLESS you Amanda at Black Sheep Bakery http://www.blacksheepbakery.com/).

So what DO you eat?

Right, that's always the next question and it always has an easy answer. EVERYTHING ELSE. Pasta, potatoes, bread, rice, everything green (kale, spinach, cabbage, broccoli, zucchini asparagus, beans, peas, lentils, pears, grapes, apples), everything red or orange (carrots, peppers, squash, yams, cabbage, oranges, apples, pears, grapes), plus nuts and seeds (peanuts, cashews, hazelnuts, almonds, Brazil nuts, pine nuts, sunflower seeds, sesame seeds and pumpkin seeds). I love Thai, Vietnamese, Italian, Mexican, African and Indian foods. Yum. Everything I eat has tons of flavor, color and variety. I only get bored with my food as often as anybody else would. Then I know it's time to crack open the cookbook and try something new.

Why are you a vegetarian?

My reasons are many and have been accumulated over several years of personal experience and study. Some people watch a PETA video on how animals are slaughtered http://www.petatv.com/tvpopup/video.asp?video=meet_your_meat&Player=wm and become a vegetarian on the spot vowing to never eat meat again. Maybe they keep that vow, maybe they don't. Who am I to judge? Everyone has their own journey.

For me it has been a sloooowwww process that started with a weight loss effort. I was counting calories like mad and meat was too calorically expensive. So I just ate chicken, which somehow seemed less like meat to me and was also within my meager caloric budget. My husband, who was dieting with me was not a fish or pork fan, kept those items off our plates, so chicken it was. I lost a bunch of weight that summer along with any desire to ever eat chicken again because I'd eaten it everyday twice a day for 12 weeks.

After that I read Marilu Henner's book Total Health Makeover which included information about food combining and I realized how much easier it would be to food combine and to have a centered diet, so to speak, if meat were not part of the equation. http://www.marilu.com/TotalHealthMakeover.asp

That Can’t Be Healthy

Scientists around the world who study the relationship between diet and cancer and heart disease agree that a plant-based diet that eschews animal products has a significantly lower risk of causing most cancers than a diet rich in animal products including meat and dairy. In fact, a plant-based diet has been found to prevent cancers and other common diseases that plague those in industrialized nations. http://www.cancercode.org/code_04.htm

Then I read Food Revolution by John Robbins and that was pretty much it for me. All meat was right out. I had been abstaining from cooking and eating meat at home, but would eat it at my mom's house or with friends or if we went out for dinner if I wanted it. But at this point, my choice was clear. Meat--not for me. It was pretty easy. If I could keep eating without harming any animals, then I would. I had learned how to cook veggie meals I liked by then, so I knew it wouldn't be hard to keep doing that all the time. The hard part came when I was with my family and they pressured me to eat meat. They insisted it wasn't healthy to avoid meat. Any information from Food Revolution I gave them to the contrary was not exactly welcomed, shall we say. We don’t talk about it anymore. http://www.foodrevolution.org/

Years passed merrily, as Portland is a verrrrrry veg-friendly town.

Then I recently started reading The China Study by T. Colin Campbell , which points out that animal products, specifically the protein they studied in dairy products, casein, is directly linked to cancer, despite the fact that Campbell began his research to disprove such findings. Yet another confrontation to my eating habits, as cheese was still making its way into my diet from time to time. Parmesan on my pasta, mainly. Other than that, I could do without cheese, but parmesan? Damn. In fact, I'm about to go pick up a tofu scramble with sun dried tomatoes, spinach and veggie sausage with a little bit of cheese. It's a tough one for me to give up. I'm especially impressed with Mr. Kick in the Butt Karin, who was a Cheese-a-holic, but who is now completely vegan and reports clear sinuses for the first time in his life. http://www.thechinastudy.com/

Another reason for being a veghead. Karma. What goes around comes around, baby. I can eat delicious beautiful healthy non-cholesterol-laden, non-carcinogenic foods everyday and no body has to die. I didn't used to think about things like that, but I do now and that seems to work for me.

Plus, some studies show that eating a plant-based diet all or most of the time is equivalent to driving an insanely fuel-efficient car in terms of environmental friendliness. The amount of industrial waste produced by factory farming, it has been claimed, is the leading cause of global warming, not the usurpation and burning of fossil fuels, though that certainly doesn’t help. (See The Way We Eat, Why Our Food Choices Matter by Peter Singer and Jim Mason.)

So, to recap. My Top Reasons for Being a Vegetarian/Almost Vegan:

1. It's healthy and good for my body. But let's be clear, not all of us vegetarians are pale and tragic waifs. I'm just enough overweight that strangers regularly ask me if I'm pregnant. Damn them. (note to self: lose those last 40 lbs.)
2. It's good for the animals.
3. Karma.
4. It's good for the environment.

So, what are you, and why?
-I'm an omnivore: I eat everything.
-I'm a vegetarian + fish/chicken/cheese/eggs.
-I'm a vegetarian + cheese/eggs.
-I'm a vegetarian + cheese.
-I'm vegan.
Or some other terrific combination?
Everybody has a story or relationship with food. Why do you eat what you eat?