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.