Letter from Dad

A letter from Dad came in the mail today:

I am so glad your prison sentence in the state of hell is finally going to be over. You have finally reached your goal you had set for yourself so many years ago. It will be well worth the effort and grief you had to go through. The grief part should never had to be a consideration if there weren't people in places of authority that make you wonder how they ever got there or why they are allowed to stay. I am very proud of all that you have accomplished in that hellhole on your own.

Nice. I'll admit, though, it wasn't always on my own. There was desperation and loneliness. There was destructive behavior. But I also had an army of people to help; it just wasn't always the people it perhaps should have been.

Broadening and Narrowing My Fashion Horizons

I met my friend Sk. about 4 months before I moved to GradShitTownVille. We met at the shoe store where she works. I'm not Imelda Marcos, but I do have a healthy collection of shoes. Six years later, Sk. and I are still close despite the miles in between; when I'm in Portland, we still hang out at the shoe store where we met.

I am about 40 pounds lighter than I was three years ago; it hasn't sunk in. I think I have an reasonable self image. Over 50% of the time, I seem to like what I see in the mirror. But all the other days, I feel squishy, ugly, and whiney. The boyfriend gives me his frownie face on these days.

I visited Sk. in Portland last week, between attending a faculty meeting (!) and surprising my mom for mother's day. We went shopping.

Scene 1. At her shoe store.

Sk. "Try on these wedges."

I give my skeptical face.

Sk. "Just try 'em."

I've never liked wedges really, but I'm happy to try on shoes. Sk. brought me my regular size 39. They were huge, but super super cute!

Me. "I like wedges?"
Sk. "Your feet got smaller?"

I bought these in the 38:



Scene 2. At Ann Taylor, shopping for "non-dowdy professor" clothes.

Sk. "I don't think you are the size you think you are. Try this dress on. Don't look at the tag, just try it on."

Me. "But it's a 10. I wear a 14."

In my defense, I was at least no longer wearing my size 16 jeans.

Sk. "Just try it!"

Yeah. It fit. It's probably a fluke. Or I'm deluded. Either way, I'm really looking forward to seeing Sk. more often again.

Drive-Thru Coffee

Oregon boasts a number of drive-thru coffee joints. On Salem's Mission Street, I saw the "Bikini Coffee Co." Drive on in, and see baristas in bikinis make you a latte. No word on if the baristas are all female.

Snapshots

Five movies in two days: including "Once." This was a movie I missed in the theaters, partly because it got bad reviews and partly because I was immersed in work. Holy crap! I'm sorry I missed it in the theatre, because the music is fantastic, and it would have been great to hear it on proper speakers. If you don't mind slow-paced movies like "Waking Life," and you like Indie music sung by handsome bearded men and a gorgeously feisty Czech woman, I recommend "Once." I splurged and bought the album.

Lessons from under the hood of the 1984 Toyota pickup: Installing a new battery in my dad's truck, wrestling with the aged lead battery terminal clamps. I'm sawing away at the lumpy bits, trying to get the clamps to clamp. There is lead shrapnel everywhere. Dad tries to clean it up and says, "It's hard to blow with gum in your mouth."

Leaking is Bad.

I went home last week to attend a wedding. It was a fantastically-timed trip. I had just submitted two papers in two weeks, and I was finishing up a camera-ready version of a third. For a few days, the panic attacks subsided. At the wedding, I saw some old friends, including one civil engineer who was very excited to hear that I was living in GradShitTownVille,

"Do you know that GradShitTownVille is the leader...THE LEADER...in landfill liners?!"

I didn't.

I also got to go camping.

Final Vacation Highlights

Three Amtrak train rides. $72

Three Sound Transit bus rides. $8

Four tanks of gas. $120

Effortless Shopping. > $100
- Olive linen jacket.
- Oversized linen sheer sweater.
- White camisole.
- Black Pat Benetar-esque t-shirt.
- White notched t-shirt.
- Textured button down shirt.
- Flattering jeans.
- Comfy cardigan.
- Gifts.

Most relaxing moment. Laying in a field in Discovery Park, soaking in the sun, letting the bugs sleep on me.

Luckiest moment. Getting a $400 travel voucher to volunteer to take another flight three hours later. Having a great friend in "The Big City" to put me up for the night.

Foodiest moment. Eating a demi-poulet with mayonaise at a hip French restaurant near Capitol Hill in Seattle. Sharing a taste of it with the boyfriend who is eating baked fish in a lentil ragout.

Funniest moment. I'm telling a story about this couple I know to my boyfriend and his friends. The story is about the woman who takes care of the kids, the man who does nothing with the kids, and the nosy co-worker who tells him he's a bad father during a staff meeting. My punchiline, "It's important to marry well."

One of the boyfriend's buddies asks, "Well? Doesn't that mean rich? What are *you* doing with a graduate student?"

I'm suddenly unable to speak English. I stutter, "We aren't mah...'Well'...by 'well' I mean, you know...not..."

The boyfriend leans back and proudly says, "She means well-hung."

Honorable Mention. Eating a sandwich on the train back to GradShitTownVille; the sandwich my friend Iu made for me while I slept in this morning.

Vacation Panic

It's 1:30 in the morning. I just finished eating peanut butter out of the jar in the dark kitchen of my father's house, hoping the tryptophan might alleviate my inability to sleep. I've reached that point in my vacation where I've turned it into an optimality problem. How do I schedule my time so that I can appropriately balance it among all of the people I want to see in the Northwest, while at the same time finding time for myself to relax?

Over the years, I've gotten better at vacationing at home. I think my first visit home after going to graduate school, I had everything scheduled in 30 minute blocks. Five years later, I try to force myself to be more relaxed and fluid, but there is still a little choke of panic here and there.


* * *


So far, here are the vacation highlights:

In which I realize that my favorite yogurt costs $3.19 in Seattle. It costs $5 in GradShitTownVille!

In which I go to the Bellevue farmer's market and enjoy strawberries, raspberries, rainier cherries, and baby carrots.

In which I go on a four hour hike with my boyfriend, and he doesn't mind that I insist on taking 6 liters of water.

In which I buy my first digital camera as a gift to myself for submitting three papers in one semester.

In which I go on two bicycle rides with my father on the rural roads of Lebanon, OR.

In which I get an update from a friend back in GradShitTownVille that my dog is getting several man hours of attention every day.

In which, hopefully, I fall asleep tonight before an important meeting with a liberal arts university professor to discuss job search advice.

In which, hopefully, I don't screw it up.

Death and Shame

I got a letter from my Dad yesterday. It was mainly a report of the two relatives who had died recently. I'm related to both only through marriage, and actually had never met one. Dad also mentioned in the letter that he had to clean up the apartment of my "cousin" because all the other family members were too bereaved. Or lazy.

I got a package from my Dad today. Sheets. Just sheets shoved in a box. No letter of explanation. I'm guessing they are my dead cousin's sheets. He was cleaning up her place. Came across some perfectly good sheets. Figured I needed some new sheets.

Now I have my dead uncle's VCR and roasting pan, and my dead cousin's sheets.

Seems that perhaps there should be shame in using the mediocre household items of the dead. I've never been particularly ashamed of things that make others ashamed. I'm not easily embarassed, except by the site of naked Barbie dolls. I talk freely about body parts and eggs. I'm not phased when my international friends ask me to explain "Douche bag." I go to the gym looking like a homeless person. I wear second-hand clothing. I own third-hand furniture. I use my dead uncle's VCR to watch movies.

Instead, I carry around shame about things I did 10 or 20 years ago. I was a stupid kid. I did stupid things. I'm still mortified about them. Like the time I cheated on my English homework in Mrs. Hansen's class. I got caught. It may be why I'm so sensitive about cheating today. I still remember the horrid pink cardigan she was wearing as she was lecturing me. Or the time I screwed up as Stage Manager of the "Bye Bye Birdie" production at my high school. I didn't show up to some important meetings. I'd been given the calendar of meetings, but did a horrible job of keeping track and staying organized. Mr. Putnam was pissed. It bugs me that I have this stupid teenage shame that I can't shake. Seems like a stupid heavy load to carry for so long.

6 scenes from three weeks

11/24/06. In which our heroine watches through tired eyes as her dog begins to stand again.

11/27/06. In which our heroine, presented with grave news about a friend, questions the value of spending 70% of her waking hours working on research and obtaining a doctoral degree. She goes to hug her dog, still dizzy from vestibular disease.

11/28/06. In which our heronie's lower back is pleased to see the dog able to get up and down the stairs again.

12/6/06. In which our heroine walks along the beach of some exotic location after making only a mediocre presentation at a conference to a room full of male peers.

12/9/06. In which our heroine, pressured for time, edits an NSF proposal on an overnight flight from South America.

12/12/06. In which our heroine, buggy on cold medicine, sketches a blog post and prepares to head west for Oregon. Despite the piles of work and sinus congestion, she smiles inwardly knowing she'll be visiting beloved friends and family very soon.

The Pooh Glasses

I admit to having a Winnie-the-Pooh phase in my younger years. I'll even admit to not really being out of the Winnie-the-Pooh phase, although the stuffed animals are in a box in the attic. And my father, usually desperate for ideas for holiday gifts, one year gave me the set of Welches Winnie-the-Pooh jelly glasses. Empty glasses. I can still hear him yelling at me, "You know how much jelly I had to eat for those!!"

I actually like the holidays. Our family, when we were whole and young, were always in our best form during the holidays. Aunt Celia hosted the Thanksgiving dinner in Portland, and on the drive there I was on the look-out for Ruldoph along the I-5 corridor. My brother and I played pool with our dorky cousin, and we tried to understand the intricacies of the pachinko game in the basement.

Christmas, too, was always very special in an Inspector Gadget sort of way, with my parents trying to keep my brother in the dark about what he was getting. One year, he systematically opened all his presents, and then rewrapped them. I watched in horror, the same feeling I have when I watch old CSI episodes late at night; the good doctor performing an autopsy. The following year, Mom didn't label any of the gifts, and then couldn't remember what was what. That was the year that my brother got a t-shirt with rainbow hearts and I got blue parachute pants.

My parents divorced in 1985. Aunt Celia died at 38 in November 1994, just two weeks before Thanksgiving. The holidays are more divergent now, but they aren't any less whole. These days, the holidays mean I get to wean myself off my asthma medication and hop on a plane for the cleaner, happier west coast. I get to see friends and family I don't normally get to see anymore. I get to wear a gortex jacket instead of four layers of wool, and I get to ride the light-rail, go shopping and dancing and hiking, and do all the things that make me feel like a whole person, rather than an underpaid research machine. This year in particular will be fun because I'll get to see two of my best friends in full pregnant form. And since they are my skinny friends, I will smile inwardly, knowing for a few months at least, I won't be "The Fat One."

Where was I?

Ah.

The complete set of Winnie-the-Pooh glasses are with me here in GradShitTownVille, reserved for very special occasions. This evening, while shopping for ingredients for a chocolate pecan pie, I came across one of the greatest things about the holiday season:

The nog.

Ah yes, my love for egg nog is freakish and horrible, and I've been known to splash a bit of the nog on my cereal in the mornings. This year my concern was that my love for nog would conflict with my new-found hatred of corn syrup. But no worries, the local store was clever enough to carry Horizon Low Fat Egg Nog, ingredients including egg yolks and tumeric (for color), but definitely no corn syrup. But this first glass of nog to bring in the new year isn't served in a Pooh glass. The Pooh glass is too reserved, too oppressive for that first gulp of thick, yellow heaven. This evening, in a 9 oz Gibraltar Tumbler, I marked the begining of the holiday season. The dizzy dog, snuggled in her blanket, munched on rawhide in happy approval. And with the first glass down, I ready the Pooh glasses for many future deposits on my arterial walls.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Let us raise our Pooh glasses and toast to all for which we are thankful.

I asked for it

In a phone message from Cheryl,

"So I was at Megan's and she says I have something to tell you and she's pregnant. Then we go over to Erin's and Erin is pregnant. Then it turns out Megan M is pregnant, too. Then we go over to Jenny's and Jenny is pregnant and it just so happens that Jenny's sister is also pregnant. So I told my boyfriend he's not touching me."

It's like the Village of the Damned back home.

Shoe Shopping (Remotely) in Portland last weekend

One of the reasons I hate GradShitTownVille is because there is no decent shopping. Except for some disposable t-shirts and skirts at Old Navy, I've purchased very little here with regards to shoes and clothing. Last weekend, when I realized that I'd worn out the arch support on both my Keens AND my Merrels, I was determined to get new shoes.

I have weird feet; tres high arches. If I buy just any shoes, I suffer miserably in pain. I've become unhappy with Merrels and Danskos. Sadly, I have also recently become unhappy with my beloved Bastads. They are no longer comfortable for my broken-down feet. I'd tried on a pair of comfortable Sanitas in Portland last month, but didn't buy them. I was determined to find them again. Last weekend, I went to every store in GradShitTownVille that might possibly carry these Danish sweethearts of mine. Two hours later I hadn't found them.

So I called Shannon.

Shannon works at Clogs & More in Portland. It's a lovely store. It is set up so that all the shoes are out and available to try. I met her at the shoe store four months before I moved here and we've been friends ever since. When I'm in Portland, I like to go to the store and try on every pair of shoes while I chat with her.

On the phone, Shannon said she was busy and would call right back. I told her I'd already e-mailed her a photo of the shoes I wanted. She returned my call, reported that they had the shoe, and would send it to me. She got my credit card information. She promised she put a little note in with my shoes. We said our goodbyes so she could get back to work.

For 1 nanosecond, I panicked, thinking I might have to call her back. Then I laughed to myself, "Of course she knows my shoe size!"

I love our friendship.