Still here

Sorry - things are getting a bit mad around here as orientation begins...

In a day or two, I will post pictures of the place where we had our scholarship orientation. It was up in the Peak District, which is breathtakingly beautiful and very, very English: picture rolling, verdant hills dotted with flocks of sheep that graze next to crumbling stone fences.

I'm in awe of my fellow scholars. They are compassionate, warm, funny people who are genuinely committed to their work and who really believe they can do something good for the world. There's none of the usual scholarship-type b.s. It's all too good to be true...

By the way. If you come across a large herd of cattle while traipsing through a field, make sure none of them are de-horned bulls before you walk, cooing, up to the cute little fuzzy baby cow and his mama. Should this occur, back away very, very slowly from the hulking red beast with the rolling yellow eyes as it lowers its head in your direction. Find the nearest stone fence and quickly use it as an escape route. Furthermore, a homemade raft will sink when burdened with 11 people. Also, do not order an Irish Car Bomb in England. I did not actually do this; I discretely asked a bartender if they had a name for a drink I was afraid to request...and of course he immediately turned to his mates and shouted, "Did you 'ear wot this gurl wants?" Bloody hell...

Miss you

CB's gone.

There's a hole in my heart six inches wide.

I walked home with a "Missing CB" mix on my Ipod. When Snow Patrol's "Light Up" came on, scenes from his departure played in my head; I saw myself walking down the street and slowly, particle by particle, dissolving into the wind, scattering back down the road towards the highway where the bus rolled towards Oxford. At the end, all I had to do was flick my fingers to send the last pieces racing over Cambridge's soaring spires.

The song ended. I was still on the street, still alone. I know we'll get through this and that our fates could have been far worse...but god, it hurts. I've never felt this sense of loss before. It makes me realize how grateful I am for everything I have -- friends, family, memories -- that can help me get through this. It might take a little while.

Those low-hanging willows will kill ya' -- ask the guys in the boats around us

A view of my college (there's much more to it)

Croissants and espresso for breakfast? Lovely!

Photos from yesterday's excursion -- in reverse order, because I am an idiot.

Bryan, now the suave, sophisticated punter, easily sends us back up the river

King's College chapel

A very, very famous bridge in town

A view from the river as we pass between some of the older colleges (as in, several centuries older...)

This is NOT as easy as it looks from the streets over the water

Bryan embarking upon our punting journey

Our new discovery: a great French cafe in the middle of town

The college grounds

This is my flat! I'm around the back, on the left...

Tubthumping

Aw yeah, first drunk night in England...shouldn't blog like this, but oh well.

Went punting this morning after indulging in too-delectable camembert-and-tomato croissants (hard to explain: picture large pole, cumbersome boat, lots of amateurs falling into the river while bemused spectators take pictures). Didn't fall in -- probably because Coalescent Boy steered -- but we felt like pros by the end as we basked in the sun-soaked river while ducks swam past.

Found WD-40 and shower squeegees: a triumph you cannot understand. The equivalent of discovering the Holy Grail.

Enjoyed a lovely trip through the official university shop: oh, wooly college scarfs, how I love thee. Am so embarrassed by what I'd love to purchase there.

Found an out-of-the-way, non-smoking pub in Camford which is now our second home. Spent hours playing Uno and Chess. Were the only Americans in the entire place for the duration of our stay -- I will go back time and again for this very reason. Curiously bitter tap beers, along with mysterious ciders and other ambers...

Love it. Lots of drunk girls in miniskirts and 3" heels staggering around Cam central as we went home. New Hall? Quiet as a mouse. :) Particularly enjoyed the guitar player in the garbage can, strumming out the bin as passerbys stared in wonder. Great stuff.

Have said "cheers" and "good on yeh" to more people than I care to admit.

Today was a good day.

By the way, it's kinda funny that people find me by using google UK to search for "lauden wainwright bbc."

Gotta love the internet. Gotta love English bitters.

The birds have it made on Broadway

Cheers to NYC for making the nights a little safer for migratory birds.

For years, birds have died by the thousands in our big cities: the bright lights and glass windows confuse them, causing them to get lost or to fly into buildings:

The combination of glass, tall buildings and bright light is extremely dangerous for birds, according to Daniel Klem, an ornithologist at Muhlenberg College in Allentown, Pa. He says that a conservative estimate is that more than 100 million birds die each year from crashing into glass on structures of all types, even houses.

Now, the city's turning down the lights during the peak of the migration:

The Chrysler Building, Rockefeller Center, the Citigroup Center, the Morgan Stanley Building and the World Financial Center are among the high-profile high-rises that have agreed to requests from the city and the Audubon Society to dim or turn off nonessential lighting at midnight.

Thus the city's skyscrapers will defer to nature at least twice a year: by dimming their lights in September and October, during the peak of the fall migratory season, and again in April and May, during the peak of the spring migratory season.

While the Empire State Building's lighting policy to protect migratory birds is decades old, and other buildings have used netting on glass windows so birds do not mistake reflections for sky, this policy will be the first citywide effort to protect migratory birds from crashing into buildings. The voluntary policy is aimed at buildings taller than 40 stories, as well as lower glass buildings that hug the Hudson and East Rivers, which birds use as navigational aides.

Seems like Seattle, Portland, San Francisco, and all of the other "green" West Coast cities should do the same, don't you think?

To be or not to be...

The latest travesty from the Vatican came out yesterday in the form of a proposal to ban gays from the priesthood.

The Vatican argues this will solve the sex-abuse problems. Anyone with half a brain can beg to differ: most abuse took place during or before the 1980s, when gay men were shunned by the church, forced into the closet or quietly driven out of the clergy. Since then, a more tolerant policy resulted in a rise in "out" priests -- and less abuse.

Never mind that straight and gay men abuse adolescent boys. Never mind that the best priests I've ever known are gay -- the ones who can relate to the isolation and rejection I felt as a woman in the church, since they, too, reside at the margins of the cathedral.

I'm not sure anymore. Between this thinly veiled bigotry and the ongoing, increasing push to keep women in subservient roles, I don't feel comfortable calling myself Catholic. I've stopped going to Church, but I don't know what that means. Am I a sinner looking for an easy way out by finding a church that agrees with my values? Or am I in the right: an angry, frustrated, overlooked part of an archaic faith that fails to meet the needs of its flock?

I wish I knew.

Rainy daze

According to locals, today was a typical day in Cambridge. First, it was cloudy. Then, it began to clear up -- but suddenly, fierce showers swept in from the north, bringing a bone-chilling subarctic wind along with them. This climate shift, naturally, occurred as Coalescent Boy and I slogged our way down the road on our first run in the city. On the way back, shoes sodden and clothes plastered to our bodies, the storm literally blew out of town and a spate of sunshine took its place. Now, it's cloudy, cold and dark.

My moods have been a lot like the weather: mercurial, shifting and generally unpredictable. I suppose that's the joys of culture shock and homesickness, but it's downright annoying to go from laughing over tea to snuffling in front of a picture album. Last night, I lost it because neither my phone nor my internet connection works worth a damn, so I have no reliable way to communicate with anyone outside my room (I'm in the library right now). For some reason, that was the last straw. I'm still irked.

I miss my friends a lot -- haven't heard from some, wish I could use the phone to talk with others. The insecure part of me worries that distance will grow between us, even though the rest of me knows that won't happen without intentional neglect. Now that I have amazing friends, I don't plan to lose them. Still, it's difficult: I don't think a week has passed in eight years where I haven't talked with my best friend in person or on the phone. That makes the last eight days an unpleasant first. I don't like it at all. I miss her so much, and she's going through her own travel woes as a graduate student in Kansas. All of us are in transition right now; so much of the future remains uncertain, and it feels like the rug's been pulled out from under our feet.

In two days, CB leaves for Oxford and I'll be on my own. I used to love being alone, but now it's not a prospect I relish. I don't like the "getting to know you" process -- it's long, arduous and emotionally trying. Kelli once described it as a lot like dating, and it's so true (although, perhaps only for girls -- do guys take as long to make true, intimate friends? Or does the definition of a good friend generally differ for men and women?)

Still, I'm convinced I'll meet some cool people here who can put up with my cultural foibles, weird schedule and quirky sense of humor. I'm looking forward to visitors from abroad, too; hopefully, more than a few will pass through town in the next three years. Three years...it's long enough to seem impossible, but brief enough for me to know that I'll never get to do and see everything I want to. All I can do is take advantage of the time I have -- and keep running, no matter how busy I become. Whenever homesickness or stupid anxieties kick in, it helps to think I can run them into the ground. Or at least run myself into the ground, thereby making me too tired to worry. :)

Things learned in Camford: Lesson 1

Do not under any circumstances move, flex, twitch, sneeze, or even contemplate the above during an acupuncture session.

Unless, of course, you enjoy the sensation of searing pain shooting up your forearms.

Would you like curry with your Eminems?

I turned on my new radio last night while I set the alarm, only to hear "Lose Yourself" playing on warp-Chipmunks speed with a tinny, southeast Asian techno beat blaring in the background. I wonder if he knows he's been remixed by some bizarre, tone-deaf dj?

Bryan and I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. I can't decide if it's endearing or just sick. All I know is I never want to hear it again!

No, actually, the right side of the road is the RIGHT side of the road

I don't like to make sweeping generalizations about other people's cultures, but I've decided this one deserves a broad brush stroke.

Driving on the left is insane.

I realize I lack any sort of actual evidence or justification for saying so, but I don't care. It's borderline psychopathic.

Or maybe I'm the nut, the one who spaced out a little today test-riding a bike and executed a neat swoop into oncoming traffic. Oops. Luckily, most people here are used to inept international students, so the bikes swerved around me and the car ahead slowed down long enough for me to u-turn hastily. My husband helped by yelling, "Wrong way! You're on the wrong side!" as if the sudden apparition of headlights hadn't signaled a judgment error.

To his credit, he was also polite enough to tell the stricken bike shop owner that we really were fresh off the plane -- and, I assume, to promise that we'd pay for the bike should it become embedded in the bonnet of a Volkswagen.

Seriously, biking around here requires serious skill, attention, and a healthy dose of "to hell with it"-ness. Picture narrow, 10th-century roads now overrun with double-decker buses, top-heavy lorries and cars going at least several times the speed of sound. Add in even narrower, 10th-century sidewalks which frequently overflow with pedestrians, who unexpectedly step into the three-inch strip of bike lane. It isn't the pedestrian's fault; more often than not, he or she is being forced into bike-and-car traffic by someone coming the other way, as medieval Brits apparently failed to foresee the wisdom of walkways where people could pass shoulder-to-shoulder.

Consequently, one would assume, helmets and bike lights would be the rule of the road. However, this is not the case. The far more interesting reality was ascertained in a random sample conducted by my statistician husband and I as we staggered the length of town with new room supplies protruding ominously from plastic bags. By our calculations, approximately 10-20 percent of cyclists wear helmets, and perhaps 60 percent use lights. The bike shop clerk actually seemed pleasantly surprised when I asked if he sold helmets. Of course, people here also ride in anything: miniskirts, or long, flapping trenchcoats, or stiletto-heeled boots. I've seen Yorkshire terriers balancing on bike baskets, grannies slinging plastic bags of groceries over their handlebars, and more than a few students riding what looked like buckets of spare parts stuck together with twine. I'm not sure why there aren't hundreds of bikers lying dead in the streets, what with the swerving to avoid cars, pedestrians, dogs, stray chip vans, and a motley assortment of trash bags, but it defies reality.

We've also learned why 1 of 3 Camford students loses their bicycle to thieves. Yes, there are bike robber barons roaming the worn brick streets, but it probably has more to do with a very simple fact: no one knows how to use a lock. In general, bikes are locked in one of three ways: to themselves, freestanding on the street; to a finger's-wide railing, with only the frame secured; or not at all. Most people seem quite content to leave their bikes on the sidewalks with the locks coiled around the seatposts, then can't understand why they disappear. If I were a morally ambivalent person, I'd probably have amassed a collection of dozens of cycles by now -- I could walk down the street and scoop them up by the armload. It's hilarious, but a little disturbing, as this is the Mother Country for many of us and thereby should be a beacon of logic and wisdom. Makes me glad I'm just a Guinness-fed Irishman.

So, I realize I'm going to look ridiculous on my beater road bike with a helmet, two LED lights, a hefty lock and reflective clothing -- but somehow I think I prefer "dork" to "curiously squishy thing on the windshield."

Smoking, snogging and snacks

Unexpected but interesting things about Oxford:

1. Everyone smokes. I'm not talking about the huddled masses who lurk in shadowy alleyways along Seattle's late-night hotspots; I mean, every freaking person in the restaurant, pub, bus stop and college. Apparently, they only banned smoking on trains two years ago! It's a little unsettling to find out that there's a single smoke-free restaurant in town. In most cases, the "non smoking" area (if it exists) consists of a cluster of tables separated from another cluster by a two-foot high railing. 'Cause, you know, the smoke doesn't rise above knee level after you spew it out into the atmosphere. On the bright side, it's made my resolution to keep running that much firmer, as I'd hate to return from three great years abroad with wrinkled lungs.

2. PDA is definitely more acceptable here. In three days, we've seen several couples smooching, groping, and slobbering in front of graveyards, outside libraries, and in the queue at the bookstore. I've never really seen so many hands obviously placed on butts in my life. I've also determined that our general stodginess towards public foreplay is actually a good thing; nothing makes you set aside your brie sandwich faster than a 30-something couple swapping spit in the grocery line. I thought England was supposed to be stuffy??

3. Tofu. Tofu. Tofu. Just writing it brings a tear to my eye.

No one knows what it is. I asked three clerks at Marks & Spencers, a major grocery chain, and each looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. "Toe-fooo?" one girl asked. I tried describing what it was, which instantly caused everyone within hearing range to cringe. "No, I don't think we have that." Another clerk looked at me and blinked, so I repeated my request. In a gentle voice reserved for the harmlessly insane, he asked me, "Toad food?" I tried again. "Oooh, todfud, well, we don't 'ave that 'ere, I'm sure." For some reason, he directed me to the spice rack, which consisted of salt, salt and chutney.

Finally, after traversing three separate stores in desperation, I swallowed my fear of stereotyping and asked an Asian clerk. He, too, repeated the word, but more in wonder than in confusion. "You're the first person who's asked me for it," he said, smiling, and directed me to a small Asian foods market "somewhere by the train station, I think." My new goal in life is to find that store, then purchase all of their stock and start my own restaurant called Tofu!, in which I shall convert thousands of tuna-mayonnaise-and-jacket-potato devotees to my way of life.

I WANT MY TOAD FOOD!!!

Mission accomplished

We're here!

Sure, we slept until 4pm today (ah, the joys of jet lag), but we are safe and sound in Bryan's new town. Yesterday was exhausting, as we had to lug four suitcases, two severely bloated backpacks and one battered bike box from Heathrow to Oxbridge.

So far, we've managed to find an amusing assortment of products for his room (although we passed on the "Who's The Daddy?" t-shirt...do you think they know it's supposed to be "Your?")...Best new product? "Kleenex for Men", whose only attributes seem to be its needlessly large size and somewhat masculine black-and-red packaging. Second favorite so far has to be "Love Your Bum" toilet paper. Best find? A small shop in the town's covered market which sells Real Live Skippy peanut butter!! I hated Skippy back home, but it's a thousand times better than the godawful, paste-colored excuse for pb they offer in Sainsbury's.

England is less overwhelming than it was on the first go-round, which makes me very grateful for spending that frigid January week traipsing around the country. We still quail in our shoes whenever we have to cross a street; last night, someone actually did speed up when they saw us in a crosswalk. Maybe it's like Cuba: drivers would rather kill you than maim you, because then they don't have to worry about injury lawsuits or hospital bills.

In either case, students here are nice and pleasantly drunk, at least on the weekends, so that's much like home. It's amazing how many of their first-year functions involve copious amounts of alcohol. Perhaps it increases the palatability of the food? Although we discovered a decent Italian place tonight, so that's promising.

Internet access will be sporradic for awhile, but I will try to update at least a few times per week. Cheers for now!

This is it

The bags are packed, the friends are called (or will be tonight), and the boxes are ready to ship. Somehow, it just figures that my last days have been spent with the evil, evil "Hollaback Girl" in my head. I may nominate it for worst song of the century. Gwen, what did you do, girl?

London calling!

See you in a few days.

Last month's Mount Rainier trip

Sometimes wandering off the trail is a good thing...

THIS is why I have to live in Seattle someday...

Trekking up to Bellingham

Enjoying the late summer sun along Bellingham's marina.

More from Mount Rainier

The bumblebee triumphantly emerges from a tight fit inside a mountain flower...

FH and I at the summit of the Skyline Trail.

Coup de grace

Yeah, the posts are going to be a little sporadic between now and the end of the month -- we depart in four days, and then my orientation schedule becomes all-consuming to the point where I'll be lucky to write "I'm not dead!" once in awhile...however, I'm trying to transfer 311 albums onto ITunes, so I have time right now.

I can't believe this was my final weekend in Washington, at least for a little while. It was so surreal; the most routine things became cause for reflection, like, "Hey, that may be the last angry, slightly drunk young guy in a big, mud-splattered pickup who screams obscenities at me when I bike past him!"

Last night, my family took us to the Purple Cafe, a fabulously snooty wine bar that seems completely out of place in my corner of the state. Their baked brie is worth the price of my future firstborn. And that chardonnay? Somehow, I have to convince FedEx to start a hot meals program to the underprivleged UK; without real peanut butter, baked brie and good vegan food, I may perish before winter arrives.

Tomorrow, I face the challenging task of packing my suitcases: one is already stuffed beyond its capacity, zippers straining to accomodate mountains of clothing in vacuum-sealed bags (dear god, please let the TSA security personnel refrain from sadistically ripping into those plastic packages when they know I have no vacuum at hand to staunch the flow of clothes that will erupt from their innards...). I've also smashed in a handful of personal belongings, including my Che and Fidel figurines (oh, Cuba...), my stuffed Husky (which seems to have shriveled after this week's stunning football performance), and my tea which happens to resemble pot. The warm coats, underwear and pants may have to wait for a nice post office to deliver them -- hey, at least I'll make a lasting impression among my new classmates. I'm still trying to figure out how I can meet British Air's 11-pound maximum carry-on limit when I have a laptop, an IPod, a few computer accessories, a folder full of entry requirement papers, a book, toiletries, and a freaking gigantic, chiropractor-prescribed pillow to stuff into my little bag. Of course, it could be worse: Bryan has an entire bike to disassemble and stuff in with his possessions. Erm...

By the way, go read Ellington Way right now. I don't really care what you're doing because it can't be more worthwhile. You can get a month's worth of strips on the site.

'Ta for now, but more to come...

P.S. -- (New favorite word? Podagra, or "gout, especially of the big toe." Who knew there was a word for that??)

More on pets and Katrina

Things are getting bad for pets who remain behind, and for the owners who refuse to leave them.

I know that FEMA has to think about people with allergies, etc, but would it kill them to have a coordinated rescue effort for pets, as well? It could be as simple as taking the pet to a designated shelter (e.g., pets from this part of the state go to Shelter X in Houston), giving the owner that shelter's contact number, and telling the person to call once they've been evacuated.

Or, we could further traumatize a highly unstable population by taking away their companions.

You pick.

Man's inhumanity to man

I've seen this on a few blogs, and I can't stop crying. I don't understand how people can be so callous -- the storm's already taken everything the survivors have, and officials are tearing their pets out of their arms?? Don't you realize the fragile emotional state of these victims? These pets are some of the only things they have left -- maybe the only family that remains -- and you throw them on the streets to fend for themselves? Animals are NOT property: they live, feel, fear, hurt and fight to survive. Domestic animals don't stand a snowball's chance in hell of making it on their own in such a screwed up place, and it's beyond cruel to leave them alone out there or to give owners an ultimatum: leave them, or starve with them.

This is so fucked up. Look at Cuba: they've been through equivalent storms, and for a developing country, they seem to fare a lot better than their northern neighbor. I can't believe we're rejecting their offers for help -- I can't believe they're even offering it, since we've done nothing but persecute them for decades. Before anyone calls me an out-of-touch socialist, I've been to Cuba. I've seen its upside and its downside, and all I have to say is no one can say anything about the country if they've never visited (and those of us who have still shouldn't assume we know much).

If judgment day ever comes, I hope we all sit before a council of animals who determine our fate. We deserve it.

So, that post I don't really want to write...

It's strange how easily we can deny the obvious. When all the facts lie bared before our faces, we suddenly focus on the shimmery horizon beyond them.

These are the facts I don't want to see, the ones that render me mute whenever an opportunity arises to bring them to the surface, the ones I wish I could shove back in the shadows:

1. My dog, Leo, is 13.
2. He is deaf.
3. He is going blind steadily.
4. He doesn't always know where or who he is. This is the only fact that could be fiction; it's impossible to tell, but that vacant gaze shows something.
5. He has a condition that's making him slowly, incrementally, agonizingly lose the function of his back legs. It's bad, bad, bad.
6. On Emergency Vets, they euthanize animals who exhibit symptoms like his.
7. Watching him try to lie down without putting any weight on his back legs makes me sick.
8. Having him look right through me makes me sicker.
9. There are days when he is scared, anxious and in pain. His vital organs might be fine, but nothing else is.
10. Sometimes I think he is only holding on because we can't let him go.
11. I don't want him to die.
12. I really don't want him to die if I'm not in that room with him.
13. Sometimes, when I come through the front door and he doesn't raise his head, I feel relieved. When he wakes up, I ache.

Ever since vets diagnosed him with cancer a few years ago, Leo hasn't been well. Surgery excised all traces of his disease, but it also sapped his energy; ever since, things have been deteriorating.

Leo is the first -- and only -- puppy I've had. I remember watching him steal a full head of romaine lettuce off the kitchen counter when he was a few months old; he triumphantly dragged it outside, all the way around our deck to the front of the house before exuberantly tearing it to pieces. Ever since, he's chosen lettuce over kibble and banana over beef.

When he was just a baby, he caught kennel cough, and we slept beside him on the kitchen floor as the husky gasps racked his tiny body.

In the 2001 earthquake, when I panicked and screamed for him to get in the downstairs bathroom doorway with me, he flew down the stairs roaring, every hair on his nape elevated, trying to kill whatever was scaring me. This is the same dog who wagged his tail and silently watched teens steal pumpkins off the front porch.

Traces of my dog remain, but they are fleeting and come with greater infrequency. For awhile, I didn't know if he'd make it to my wedding -- but when the day came, he was 10 years younger and pranced across the grounds like a king. Still, it took a lot out of him; the heat made him a little sick, and after he came home he slept for a day. I think that was one of the last times I saw my dog. Now, he's frequently underfoot, crying at nothing...and I realize he's probably doing everything he can to ask for his release.

I feel like a bad person because the part of me that knows he's slowly dying wants to be sure he dies in my arms. I don't want to get that phone call some evening. Of all the things making me anxious about our trip, this one might be the worst. It's unspoken, but we all know what we see. And I can't handle the thought of being away when he goes, or of letting him linger because his body won't die. The thing that scares me most is that he could live another two, maybe three years, and they would be the worst years he's ever endured. I'd always hoped he would die in his sleep, but I don't think that's going to happen. His heart is good, but he can't stand long because he's too stiff: why ask him for more? If this were a relative, a friend or me, I'd long for a choice to end the suffering...for Leo, we have one, and as much as I don't want to let go, it would be wrong to keep holding on.

Sometimes, I think dogs run away to die because they sense their owners can't ever let them go. I don't want to push Leo to that brink. He's given us his entire life: it's time for us to repay that gift as best we can.

So, we'll talk to the vet and then to the family. It's worse because lately, he seems better: he goes on longer walks, perks up when we're around, and responds to our commands. But there's a suspicious growth getting bigger on his eye, he's tripping over one front leg a lot, and I keep wondering how long his rebound will last. Right now, the family is in denial. I can't even talk to them about it without making them upset -- I will never show them this post, and I hope they don't find it. I'm worried that their insistence on his health will persist until something really bad happens. I'm worried that I'm overreacting. I need a sign, but all we have is instince -- and our instincts as a species are so damned lousy.

Before too long, we'll probably take him for one last car ride. God, he loves car rides. Deep down, I know this is the right thing to do, that we probably should have done it months ago. But it hurts. An empty spot by the steps where he used to sleep. Rugs we don't have to vacuum every week because of his incessant shedding. It hurts so bad to say goodbye, but I can't live with the knowledge that we're the only thing holding him back.

Rehnquist is gone

This is not good.

At best, we might get John Roberts as the new Chief Justice, a man who becomes less palatable by the day. At worst, Clarence Thomas ascends to the throne. Kiss the Endangered Species Act, Title IX, and possibly Roe goodbye.

With everything going on, maybe I am leaving the country at the opportune moment...

Well, my mouth's agape...

...At Agape Press, apparent bastion of offensive Christian vitriol. It's stuff like this that makes me embarrassed to admit I'm Christian (although I'm less and less so by the day, at least according to their standards).

Among their insightful commentary? This gem from Rev. Bill Shanks, who thinks Hurricane Katrina was a good thing. Y'see, the article explains, he'd long predicted a disaster like Katrina for this city of sin which dares to host Mardi Gras parties and an annual weeklong gay pride celebration. So now, he says:

“New Orleans now is abortion free. New Orleans now is Mardi Gras free. New Orleans now is free of Southern Decadence and the sodomites, the witchcraft workers, false religion -- it's free of all of those things now," Shanks says. "God simply, I believe, in His mercy purged all of that stuff out of there -- and now we're going to start over again."

Ah yeah. That's the stuff to which we Christians should aspire. How could anyone turn their back on the faith after hearing the reverend's wisdom?

Naturally, the site also has a lot to say about the Supreme Court (damn it, did you hear the news about Rehnquist??) and birth control. My favorite is a column by Jane Jimenez, in which she flagellates supporters of the morning-after pill and accuses them of being a bunch of immoral, lazy nymphos who can't keep it in their pants. Apparently, she says, the best way to avoid using Plan B is to stick to Plan A -- abstinence before marriage.

So, that's why my husband and I frantically went to the drugstore a few weeks ago when I realized I missed a pill during an incredibly chaotic month. Because condoms never break, no one misses a pill, and committed couples never need backup methods. Although I'm sure Jimenez would tell me I shouldn't be married in the first place if I don't intend to bear and raise faithful Christian children.

I'm sorry, but screw you, Agape Press! You know JACK about God's love -- your name is an insult. Please change it to "Hating in the Name of God" and get the hell out of our lives. I'd like to see Shanks tell some survivors to their faces that they deserved what they got, especially since the deep South is a stronghold of Christianity. I could call you more names than exist in the Bible, but you know what? I'm not like you people. None of my hedonistic, atheist, sodomizing, sexually active friends could hold a candle to your seething hatred, and I am so, so glad to be on their side. To quote the great Fiona Apple, go crawl back to the rock from under whence you came.

Reeling

Within an hour of arriving home last night, my blissful, tranquil state of mind splintered. My room is a disaster. I don't know how I'm going to fit everything into my suitcases without taking a hammer to every three-dimensional object I own so I can pile all the fragments into the bags. My dog is old -- too old -- but that's another post, one I've written but can't bring myself to publicize yet, in case family members still in denial choose to read it. Hell, what do you do when your dog's fine one day but falling apart the next, only to swing back to "good" again?

And then there's the hurricane.

I was away for most of the aftermath, so I'm learning the extent of the damage now. What I cannot get over is the racial composition of the victims. Or the absence of discussion around it. Hey, America! There's a massive elephant stampeding through the room with renewed fury, probably because it's been cooped up with us for a couple of centuries. Could we please acknowledge and deal with its presence before I ever have to look at the television again and remind myself that I'm not viewing images from Somalia? The hurricane is a class issue AND a race issue -- it's a sickening reminder that everything is not equal in the USA.

I can't even write about it now. If the pictures don't speak for themselves, what will?

Slouching back towards reality

This time last night, I was leaning back into my chair at the dinner table, watching a handful of fishing boats head in for the night, lazily eyeing the last sip of a perfectly chilled rosé. The island was perfect: two restaurants, one general store, a post office and a handful of guest homes. Not a gas station, grocery store or video rental place in sight. I rented a mountain bike and cycled along its 18-mile shore; in two hours, I think I saw under 10 cars.

I didn't have a choice: I had to relax. There was nothing to do except spend hours wandering the beaches in search of sea glass, or trolling the shores with camera in hand, waiting for that perfect piece of weathered driftwood to photograph.

Tonight, I don't care how much lies ahead this week. It suddenly doesn't bother me that I don't know where I'll be living in 12 days (perhaps in a hostel? or at the train station?). I'm still on proverbial island time, lazily slurping down summer blackberries while ravens' calls scrape the sky. I'll blog about real life tomorrow; tonight, I'm going upstairs to close my eyes and imagine that the bedroom light is the September sun filtering down between high clouds while I drift away to the sound of the surf lapping the rocky beach.

Looking for a new band?

Here's what I've been listening to lately - trying to expand my repertoire:

The Fruit Bats - Spelled in Bones
Mellow, retro indie-rock with folk undertones.

Desaparecidos - Read Music Speak Spanish
Connor Oberst (Bright Eyes) leads this angry, socially conscious band through a thorough drubbing of the Almighty dollar.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Okay, I know I'm the last person on earth to discover Nick Cave's sultry, seductive travels down dark, twisting roads in the back of the subconscious...but dear god, his music penetrates your soul and leaves you slavering for more.

The grind intensifies

I'm sorry - I will do my best to keep posting, but it's pretty rough right now. We have so much to do before we leave in 2 weeks, and I'm about to vanish for a few days on a much-needed mother daughter trip to Lummi Island.

Right now, we're piling things into the designated "To Pack" corner of our room. It's going to be very interesting...I have no idea how I'm going to cram everything from bike pedals to Spanish workbooks into two suitcases, unless I jump on them for at least 10 minutes, thereby flattening all of my belongings.

But seriously, I'm exhausted -- and it makes it hard to remember to take my thyroid meds, let alone maintain an engaging blog right now...It's frustrating; just when I think I'm getting my stress under control, my dentist tells me I've ground my teeth out of alignment in my sleep, or my supposedly deceased thyroid starts doing backflips. Maybe I have a Ghost Thyroid avenging the loss of its corporal host.

If you need a little diversion, check out this quiz. I swear I didn't rig the answers to get this result, although I'm sure it's no coincidence... :) I gotta say, one of the things that most excites me about grad school is their equestrian team. The thought of soaring over a jump once in awhile...well, let's just say that I'm willing to swallow whatever new tack will cost me if it lets me get back in the saddle.


What Is Your Animal Personality?
brought to you by Quizilla

Tonight's countdown: 18 days left to the big move (or 17 GMT). Fish n' chippies, here I come!!

Glory be

Props to Liz for pointing this one out -- all praise the Flying Spaghetti Monster!

Fox News: Because One Foot in Your Mouth Isn't Good Enough

You know, I really despise Fox News. Now, I have an even better reason to maintain that sentiment.

Couple mistaken for radical faces backlash

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

LA HABRA, Calif. -- A couple whose home was wrongly identified on national television as belonging to an Islamic radical has faced harassment, and police are providing special protection.

After the report ran on Fox News on Aug. 7, people have shouted profanities at Randy and Ronnell Vorick and spray-painted "terrorist" (spelling it "terrist") on their property.

"I'm scared to go to work and leave my kids home. I call them every 30 minutes to make sure they're OK," Randy Vorick said.

John Loftus, a former federal prosecutor who appears on the Fox News segment "Inside Scoop with John Loftus," gave out the house address during the broadcast.

He said the home belonged to Iyad Hilal, whose group, Loftus said, has ties to those responsible for the July 7 bombings in London. But Hilal moved out of the house about three years ago.

Police have patrolled their house since the day after the broadcast and now have a squad car across the street. Police Capt. John Rees said the department was "giving special attention to the family to make sure they're safe."

The couple sought a public apology and correction.

"John Loftus has been reprimanded for his careless error, and we sincerely apologize to the family," said Fox spokeswoman Irena Brigante.

Loftus also apologized and told the Los Angeles Times last week that "mistakes happen. ... That was the best information we had at the time."

The FBI has launched an inquiry into the activities of Hilal, a grocery store owner who is allegedly the U.S. leader of Hizb ut-Tahrir, which has been banned in parts of Europe and the Middle East.

Hilal, 56, is apparently not suspected of any terrorist acts, but FBI terrorism investigators want to know more about his and the group's activities.

Who the hell thinks it's right to publicize the address of an individual anyway, unless that person has been convicted of a crime? Fox is always bitching about how that cursed liberal media denegrates journalistic integrity...so, this would be a revival of good old news morals? Has anyone ever heard of checking their damned facts?? I'm sorry, but even as a freelance writer for a local paper, I wasn't allowed to print ANYTHING unless I could provide a legitimate source - and they would have fired my ass if I had written something erroneous about potato chips, let alone something that endangered a family. Why isn't Fox News terminating their relationship with this guy??

My guess is that they secretly believe he did the right thing, and that his only mistake was naming the wrong house. Outing a suspect, however, is completely kosher. Give me a break. How many groveling pleas did Newsweek have to make after their Koran desecration story was questioned? If this family is hurt or killed by a thug who can't spell, will Fox finally admit that going off "the best information...at the time" is a terrible excuse for dangerously sloppy reporting? Someone needs to start a campaign to tell Fox it should drop Loftus - we don't need irresponsible people like this in journalism, no matter who they are.

Details coming soon

Sorry...I'm down to three weeks in the States, and things are a little crazy right now...I promise to post tomorrow: bike adventures, Mount Rainier, and political musings galore! Until then, thanks for putting up with me. :)

Another sign that Wal-Mart is really just an alias for Hell

From the Associated Press...

Country superstar Garth Brooks has signed an exclusive multi-year agreement with Wal-Mart Stores Inc.

No details of the agreement were released by Wal-Mart officials on Friday, but the music trade publication Billboard reported that the deal will make Wal-Mart, Sam's Club and their online outlets the only places where Brooks' music will be commercially available.

Brooks, one of the all-time best-selling recording artists, retired from public performing in 2001.

"We understand the Wal-Mart customer and know that bringing them Garth Brooks exclusives in the upcoming years is something that'll excite them as much as it excites us," said David Porter, vice president and divisional merchandise manager for Wal-Mart, a leading retailer for country music sales.

Brooks' hits include "Friends in Low Places," "Shameless" and "Longneck Bottle."

To quote my husband: "So, you won't be able to buy his music anywhere else? Strikes me as a good thing." (Sorry, Wal-Mart shopping country fans!)

Murderball rocks and Seattle rolls

Seriously. You need to see this movie (check out Kid Sis' review on her site - it's under the July archives). I saw it yesterday and the film just blew me out of my chair. It busts every myth and assumption about disabled people you could imagine...

On the way back home, I remember why I love city life. It's midnight and we're riding the late bus cross-town to our transfer stop. At the front of the bus, a man with missing front teeth is swapping "what I did on crack" stories with a scruffy guy in a beret. There's a girl sitting across from us; based on the sexy black dress and heavy makeup, she's heading out for a night on the town. Suddenly, a skinny guy in his mid-30s pops his head into the aisle from the row behind us. He's been jittery since we hopped on the bus, and I can feel his knee jogging through the back of my seat.

He leans in towards the girl conspiratorily and says, "You know, I haven't told anyone this, because I just don't think I can trust people with my information. But I feel like I can trust you, I mean, really trust you, so I'm going to tell you why I disappeared for two weeks."

She blinks and nods warily at him, flashing that smile we've all had to give, the "Just do me a favor and don't ask me to give you my number" look.

He pauses and says in a low, earnest voice, "The reason I've been away is because I was in Puerto Rico, tripping on acid with a colony of spider monkeys."

Alas, we have to leave the bus at the moment of his disclosure, so we miss the girl's reaction. I can't even imagine what she came up with as a response...

We turn to cross a busy intersection. The light is about to change, and a couple of teens (boyfriend and girlfriend) on bikes roll into the crosswalk at the last minute. The guy makes it across, but the girl on the banana bike is...well...having problems. Her damned pedal won't stay under her foot, the little bastard, and so what else is she supposed to do but sit there and curse it? So, as her bike blocks the right lane, she futilely lifts her foot and slides it off again. Lift, slide. Lift, slide. After an interminable amount of time, the light turns green, and a row of confused minivans and SUVs slowly roll in her direction. Traffic is heavy; blocked by the steady stream of cars in the left lane, no one can maneuver around her. Meanwhile, she remains absorbed by her pedal dilemma, which had been complicated further by her inability to see it in the headlights' glare.

Finally, after about a minute, the Chrysler van in the front honks tentatively. Then a little louder.

Within a few honks, the girl figures out that she is somehow involved in the scene. She studies the white lines marking the crosswalk and apparently realizes her problem. By this point, a handful of sidewalk spectators are debating whether they should run across the street and push her out of the way. Maybe she'll just abandon the bike in midstream. Instead, she sweeps a mane of wavy blond hair off her shoulders, cocks her hat to the left and directs a long, defiant glare in the van's direction. The standoff lasts several seconds. The befuddled driver finally swerves around her, but five more cars endure the same ordeal, humiliated by the drunk-but-unyielding gaze of the bike girl.

Her boyfriend helps by shattering the night with a series of blood-curdling hoots from across the street. Finally, the light changes again and the girl manages to find her footing; she nearly rear-ends a parked police car, barely misses colliding with a cement wall, and weaves unsteadily into the night.

Apparently, whenever I'm suffering from writer's block, I should ride the late-night #26. Somehow, someday, these things will make cameos in my stories, just like my family's tattoo episodes and those "wish I could forget them" college moments.

He can't live his life this way

Just some very, very rambling thoughts...

Kudos to Kanye West for being the first (I think?) prominent hip-hop artist to take a stand against homophobia in rap music. Although I'm not exactly sure if saying, "Yo, stop it," is going to accomplish much. Yes, those are his words, not mine. And for the love of god, could we possibly take a stand against misogyny, too??

I'm not really sure why so much of music seems to embrace misogyny and homophobia; it's easy to point the finger at rap, but no one's free from blame (Sinatra's tunes aren't exactly female-friendly, and I don't really recall any genre that embraces gay issues, although there are artists here and there). It's fair to ask whether we should focus on rap at all -- but, if we do, there are other challenges. As critics note, cultural discussions about rap music often are framed incorrectly or are held to support hidden agendas (e.g., rap music = black culture, rap music = homophobic, so black culture = homophobic). When you really think about it, who are the most homophobic, ostensibly misogynistic women out there? Eminem, the Beastie Boys...hmmm...white boys. And no, by the way, they're not "just playing" -- it always bothers me when otherwise rational people insist this is the case. Rather, their lyrics reflect and authenticate a cultural legacy of violence against women and gays (for a good critical essay on how Marshall Mathers' rhymes evolved out of his cultural context, check out this site). If they were just playin', there would be no reason to continue using violent imagery in their everyday conversations -- the hatred Eminem feels for his wife would be limited to what his onstage persona, Slim Shady, espouses. Instead, however, in interview after interview, Mathers references violent acts against women to describe his creative process or to discuss his success (see same article). As a woman, I have some serious issues with the messages his music broadcasts -- and nothing I've read or seen convinces me that he doesn't hate us. C'mon: could anyone but a hypermasculine bigot have the stomach to write lyrics about slashing his spouse's throat, let alone sing those words in front of a slavering audience?

It's also interesting that we generally tolerate "thug culture" when it's embodied by white people (Eminem and The Sopranos come to mind), but we feel a little less comfortable around 50 Cent and African American gangstas...of course, that could be because 50 Cent is just a terrible musician who can't write...But I digress...

It's well and good for West to come out against homophobia, but I think the effects will be limited unless fans get behind him. And how many of us cringe at one of Tupac's songs but love another? Rap records sell incredibly well, anti-gay or not (as does rock, metal, etc). Why would a successful artist change his ways if it impacts his livelihood? After all, people have complained about negative images of women in music for years to no avail; no one's really become successful by doing something to combat those portrayals. (Think about the lyrics to Kanye's, "I can't live my life...")

It might be a start, but I'll stay skeptical until Eminem falls from the charts and someone with a pro-women, pro-gay agenda takes his place.

Sound and Fury

So the e-mail was a misinterpretation of a misinterpretation. My friend is hereby exonerated, and I'm probably a bad person for writing anything in the first place. Or at least an impulsive one who should keep her conclusions to herself. I shall leave the post up for a warning about what can happen when the subtleties of communication are lost via the joys of modern technology. And never fear, my picture of the bridesmaids is on the mantle where it belongs and would have remained, regardless of any dress disagreements. Seriously, it's probably a good thing the world leaders don't hold strategic forums with each other by e-mail -- can't you see Kim Jong Il nuking the entire western hemisphere because Dubya makes some grammatical faux paux without realizing its implications?

The joys of e-mail ettiquete

WARNING: this is an off-the-cuff rage with no lag time for me to catch my breath. Anyone mentioned in this e-mail should not actually fear being dismembered or immortalized on my desk in an odious dress -- but I still need to vent. You've been warned.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oops. I don't think I was supposed to be on the receiving end of this e-mail:

"...the bridesmaid dresses she chose were hideous, and I will now be memorialized on her mantelpiece swathed in light blue satin yuck."

Don't think you need to worry about being on the mantle now, darling! If you want to spend three straight days of your time trying to find something nice AND affordable instead of doing what most brides do by having a know-nothing wedding planner order something ten times too expensive in an outrageous neon color, be my guest. Since I worked my ass off to keep people from paying a lot for their dresses -- and solicted the time of a few others to help me find a dress that wouldn't make everyone gag -- I am annoyed. Especially since I gave people the chance to nix it. Which they could have.

Look, people. When the other bridesmaid dresses in 9 (yes, count 'em: NINE) shops run the gamut from "torn up street person clothing" to "haute couture fluffy thing with tulle ribbons and runched fabric coming out the ears," well, do the bride a favor and cut her some slack!

I dearly love the person who wrote this, but it's good we live a little ways away from each other, just for the next half hour.

There's no CRYING in baseball!

Well, after that little pityfest last night, I think I'm done. Yes, some things about life suck right now, and the suckage is guaranteed to continue in some form or another. However, I'll be damned if I'm going to into the "life's abysmal, might as well stay at home and moon about until I prove my point" girl I have no desire to become. Hell no! I can't promise that I'm going to be hunkydory, or that I won't feel the need to whine once in awhile, but that's that.

So, having shaken off the last external vestiges of moodiness, it's back to semi-normalcy. And guess what! North Dakota, the most forgotten state of all time, is actually in the news! Yes, even the most innocuous and boring outpost of our Great Nation is finding creative new ways to piss off the international community. You see:

Despite Canadian fears of contamination, North Dakota began pumping water on Monday from its Devils Lake floodlands into a system that leads eventually into a commercial fishery north of the U.S. border.

The U.S. diversion plan has been a diplomatic sore point because of Canadian concerns the water could pollute Manitoba's Lake Winnipeg, the world's 10th largest freshwater lake and home to a C$25 million fishery.

North Dakota says the water from Devils Lake, which has swallowed up 90,000 acres of land over 12 years of higher than normal precipitation, is safe. But Canada fears the land-locked lake contains high concentrations of salts and other pollutants along with foreign fish and organisms.

But see, it's okay, because according to the article, North Dakota's going to dump tons of rocks and gravel into their lake to keep the organisms from slipping across the border. 'Cause, you know, microscopic organisms could never get through the spaces between piles of rocks. And the sediment from said dumping of gravel would never wash down into fishery waters.

North Dakota: the "What the hell were you thinking when you moved here??" state

Circling the drain

I'm tired of feeling like my entire life is on hold. I'm tired of waiting for the big event at the end of the summer. I just don't care anymore. I'd rather be there and be completely overwhelmed by what's happening than sitting here by myself for another endless day, circling the runway without landing. I'm tired of feeling like nothing turns out the way you want it to. I'm tired of being depressed, upset and cranky around people I love. I hate feeling like I don't have enough time to spend with them when it's all that matters. I am tired. So, so tired. Crying would be a nice way to get out of it, but I can't. The level of apathy I've managed to work up is alarming. Entire days, wasted. Hours on end, frittered away trying not to think about everything that's happening. I hate being depressed, but I'm not sure what to do about it right now. Hell, I don't even know if I am depressed, or if I'm just having a normal reaction to all the crap going on. It's not just the move - it's the friends relocating, the pressures of a frighteningly rigorous grad program, the family support system I can't imagine leaving, and the job sucking away my husband's time and focus. Yeah, that. I wish the powers that be understood how little time we have left together. I wish I could just accept that this is the way things are and get up in the morning without feeling the need to sleep an hour late. I hate even having to write this - it makes me feel like I'm a failure somehow, like I can't cope well enough. I'm just not happy right now, at least not like I should be. I wish I was.

Body modification, part II

Our dog just joined me as another member of the body modification family. I went home yesterday to drop off a few boxes, so naturally I had to spend the requisite amount of time showering affection over the house's king-in-residence. Labradors have incredibly thick coats, so it's easy to lose track of anything that's going on under the surface, even if you regularly brush and groom them. So, as my fingers worked their way around his massive neck, they ran into something oblong. And hard. And, well, gross.

Today's diagnosis? A severely infected hair follicle that was ready to inflict serious damage on my boy's system. Normally, they'd put the dog under for a quick removal -- but our dog is special: he goes into cardiac arrest whenever he's given anesthesia. The vets just love him! Hey, here comes that patient we've almost managed to kill in the past - yay! We usually deal with the problem by ignoring any health challenges that might require putting him under, which worked up until now. Today, however, the vets needed to do something before the infection advanced...so it was time for a little local anesthetic.

Apparently, my dog is better behaved than any of us envisioned; he remained quite calm while they made a three inch gash in his neck to drain the abcess. Now he's home, where he clearly expects to be nursed back to health with generous quantities of green beans and strawberries (yes, he's a freak). And I? I'm nervously checking my eyebrow every half hour or so...you know, just in case any of those eyebrow hairs take a turn for the worse.

The girl's got a hole in her head

Well, it took me six years, but I finally did it. I'm now the semi-proud owner of a shiny metallic barbell protruding from my eyebrow, a piercing I've considered since college began. Anyone who thinks this could be related tangentially to my post about tattoos, well, don't remind me. I like to think this was an entirely impulsive event with no plausible cause and that I am far too mature and secure in myself to rebel against authority like that...erm...

Anyway, it doesn't look half bad, and I've only received two negative reactions so far. The second was the funniest. I was in an electronics store yesterday and I accidentally dislodged one of their digital cameras from its security clamp; a siren the pitch of an air raid horn started wailing throughout the entire camera section. Luckily, a nearby employee watched me bump it, so he knew I wasn't trying to run off with any merchandise. However, a pair of elderly women walked past, looked me up one way and down the other (taking in the tattoos, the multiple earrings and the piercing), and then one said suspiciously, "What did you do?"

Being the mature, self-confident woman that I am, I contemplated a range of possible options/actions to take, then settled for a malignant smirk. It's a good thing they don't admit you into graduate school on the basis of your social skills.

The wheels of bureaucracy are grinding...

I spent a pleasant morning today at Pike Place, doing some shopping for the big relocation. I purchased a half pound of my favorite tea to bring comfort on those lonely, grey sky English evenings. ("Sunset in Seattle" -- buy it now, or you will never know what real tea tastes like. Ever.) It smells delicious, but it also unfortunately looks quite a bit like a giant bag of pot. I pointed this out to the clerk, and she grabbed a big marker and wrote "NOT DRUGS" on the label, just to help me get through customs. Somehow, I think I might have trouble explaining this to airline security personnel.

I also purchased a photograph of the Seattle skyline at sunset so I can look up at my city when I miss it most. It does not include the Space Needle, but it does have the long-gone Kingdome in it. After all, no one from Seattle actually wants to spend money going up the Needle to see the city they already live in, and everyone misses the Kingdome in a sick, twisted way. Afterwards, I stopped in at Le Pichet to have a croissant and a cup of hot chocolate, and then I made the Fatal, Irreversible Error of the Day: I went to the King County records office to obtain certified copies of our marriage certificate.

The clerk seemed helpful at first and prepared two certified copies. I took them, paid, and started to walk away -- then I glanced down at the certificate. The certificate was for a Megan Matthews. From Hawai'i. Married to some guy from Lubbock, Texas. Five years ago.

Foolishly, I assumed this had to be a quick, easily remedied mistake. The man at the counter looked at the certificates with consternation, clicked a few things on his computer screen, and said cheerfully, "Well, you're right - this isn't you!" (Thank you for that, sir. I sometimes forget and think that I am an older Hawai'ian woman married to a Texan.) Then he furrowed his brow and said, "The bad news is that you aren't on file. We don't have a record of your marriage."

I blinked. He waited for a response. I continued blinking.

Eventually, he realized that my stunned silence was a reaction and told me to wait until he could ask his supervisor about what to do. It would have been nice to know that she was on the phone with the world's most ponderous, agonizingly dimwitted customer -- I might have left, gone up the hill to have a haircut, purchased a week's worth of groceries, returned home, put them away, and come back in time for her to hang up the phone. Instead, I stood in an incredibly ugly lobby by some deceased pointsettias, unsuccessfully attempting to rest my back against the 45-degree angles of the nearest kiosk.

After several years passed, the supervisor hung up the phone, and my assistant went over to discuss the situation. She apparently decided they couldn't do a damn thing, because they told me to go back upstairs to marriage licensing to ask them what happened. I wanted to point out that this wouldn't accomplish anything, since the whole county is on the same computer system with the same freaking records, but they called the next customer and that was that.

Upstairs, they told me I needed to find the commemorative version of the marriage certificate, bring it in, and beg the General Records Department to accept it instead. The commemorative version was in Snohomish, what with it being a completely useless, symbolic piece of paper.

After a breakneck drive to Snohomish and back, I made it through the door of General Records just before closing time. Everything was set, and then they told me that it would cost $34 to record it...because it was double-sided and they had to charge by the page. And they only took cash, but their ATM was broken, so I'd have to sprint up the 30-degree slope of James Street to the nearest bank two blocks north because it was 4:21 and they closed at 4:30.

At that point, I picked up the nearest blunt object and smashed every monitor in the room to bits before stealing their scanner and doing the job myself.

I sprinted up the hill and made it back in time, though I was unable to speak for several minutes after running for my life up a fricking mountain and narrowly missing being crushed under the wheels of a red-light running Metro bus. So I paid $17 PER PAGE (plus $12 extra for two certified copies!) and thus: my marriage became legal. Or will be tomorrow at 9am, since they mysteriously stop registering new certificates at 3pm.

As I turned to go, I cautiously asked, "So, this certificate will be legal tender in other places, right? Because we're moving out of the country..."

The customer service agent waved her hand blithely and said, "It should, yeah."
Should? SHOULD?!?!!

For all of these hassles, we should have just stayed single and waited for common-law marriage rules to kick in. It would have taken about the same amount of time anyway.

Losing the last shreds of dignity

The girl at the Fremont Outdoor Movies on Saturday night who was wearing two foldable armchair carrying cases in lieu of sweatshirt sleeves? Yes, that was me. Apparently, I'm the only person in all of Seattle's outdoor-moviegoing crowd too dim to realize that it gets damn cold near the canal after sunset.

In case you're interested, it's very difficult to turn magazine pages when your hands are encased by chair bags. It also makes you sound like a branch of leaves rustling in the wind whenever you move. Or breathe. However, it does make it easy to obtain elbow room in an otherwise-packed venue. Oddly, no one wants to sit within range of Armchair Sleeve Girl.

America. F--- Yeah.

You know, it's not the macrolevel policies, the bloviating political bigwigs or the embarrassing international behavior of the country that really get to me. It's something much smaller, something relegated to the shadows and gutters of our national consciousness, as embodied by today's grocery store trip.

We're housesitting in the Maple Leaf area right now, a north Seattle neighborhood where homes are slightly more affordable than their centrally located neighborhood. (Read: you can purchase a 2-bedroom for under $400,000 instead of half a mil.) Consequently, it's populated predominantly by young homeowners, minority families and elderly residents from the area's half dozen retirement centers. It's more diverse and less affluent than most of the neighborhoods just north of downtown.

As a result, you can walk into the local grocery store on any given night and actually see (gasp!) people from multiple age groups. I love Seattle, but we aren't exactly teeming with diversity, at least when compared to other places I've visited or lived. Or, maybe we're diverse but fragmented...but I digress.

I turned the corner to the produce section and heard a clattering to my right. Before rows of dully waxed apples in faux straw-filled crates, an elderly man was wrestling to place his foldable walker beneath his grocery cart. He was extremely frail and gaunt, stooped from the back to the shoulders like the bow of a weighted fishing pole. Arthritis had wrenched his knuckles and fingers into sharp angles. He was alone in the middle of the brightly lit section, pushing at the flat skeleton of his walker as it dragged against the floor. All around, people passed by with baskets in hand. No one even glanced at him.

I helped him move the walker onto the bottom of the cart, and we went through the awkward routine that always follows. Thank you, even though I feel worse because I needed your help. At least you noticed me. You're welcome, but I'm a coward because I'm not going to ask if I should stay to help you shop. I'm sorry. For everything.

I don't think there was anyone waiting for him outside. There's no way he could have driven a car. The nearest bus was a block and a half away, and it only ran every half hour after 9pm.

You can call me a bleeding heart, but here's the deal: I wanted to cry when I left, and I've been thinking about him all night. I hate the way we treat our elders in this country. They nurture us and prepare the way for our success, and we thank them by leaving them to die unnoticed and alone. If you're rich, you'll hire personal caretakers who can help around the house, and you will pay off your mortgage before you have to stop working. If you're like everyone else, you'll be lucky to escape the dank hallways of dismal nursing homes; you'll be living pretty well if you eke out a living off food stamps and long bus rides to the grocery store.

(Coincidentally, there's a very powerful piece out right now, written by a physician whose father is going through the end of his life. You can find it here, but I wouldn't recommend reading it if you are feeling at all down, or possibly if you're going through something similar. It's a tough read.)

I wish our culture placed greater value on family connections. I don't see any political leaders on either side who campaign vigorously to help families care for each other in their twilight years. No one with power advocates extended leaves of absence for people who need to help their parents or grandparents, nor do they offer tax breaks so families can hire nurses' aides to help. So we're forced into nursing homes, hospitals and hospices while our families suffer the combined mix of guilt, burnout and exhaustion. It infuriates me.

If anything ever happens to anyone in my family, I will do whatever it takes to be there for them. It scares me to think that might not be enough - I might lack the finances, medical knowledge or emotional wherewithal to see it through. I wish things were different. Seriously, if I ever miraculously publish a book that sells, part of the earnings will go towards services for the elderly. We're all going to be there someday, even a handful of the high and mighty who think they can buy their way out of anything. If for no other reason than pure self-interest, you'd think we'd want to change the way we value our predecessors.

Quote for the weekend

When god closes a door, he always opens a window, because you can't throw yourself out of a door.

Resisting the urge to hyperventilate

Augh! Augh! I just received the unofficial guide to my Big English University (for the sake of being able to write about it in the future without upsetting anyone, I'm going to leave it unnamed...). Here's a sample of what I'm supposed to cope with once I'm unceremoniously belched out of the airplane into the terminal...

Getting to BEU from central London: Take the train from King’s Cross to BEU. Try to get an express. About GBP 17 unless you have a young person’s railcard (you have to be under 26 to be eligible for one or have proof of being a student.) You can get this right at the train station or from the Graduate Union Shop for GBP 20 and it saves you 1/3 off rail fare for a year. You will need two passport photos with you. If you plan on going to visit London or really anywhere at all in England, be sure to pick up the railcard early in the year, since the savings really will add up. If you’re over 26, the rail station requires a letter from you college confirming that you are indeed a student. You can also get a Young Person’s rail card by showing an International Student Identity Card. I know you’ve mentioned this later, but it might be worth mentioning it here. The Graduate Union Shop, however, only requires you to show your blue university card and the wait is normally much shorter.

Passport photos?? College letters?? What the heck is a blue university card?!? And what's with the two-person dialogue going on at the bottom of the paragraph? Is it talking to me? What did I say to it??

Suddenly, my brain is pulsing against my skull with insistency, but there's nothing I can do to comfort it. Oh my god, what have I done? I'm trading in my secure little life for a blue university card, rainy weather and questionable vegetarian food. And the sick thing is? I can't wait to get started.

Except for the whole "getting from London to BEU" bit. Maybe I can develop a teleportation device in the next five weeks...

Musings on married life

Somehow, getting hit on is much more entertaining. It's fun to smile and nod while they test out cheesy platitudes ("Damn, you work out? You're all put together..."), then flash the ring with mock disappointment and announce that you're off the market. Although this guy did offer to give me his card "in case things go south." So professional...

The perennial guilty pleasure arrives with a boom

A sonic boom, that is.

Good god, I don't care if they are a symbol of war, if they scare my friends' cats, snarl traffic, piss off locals and create one big pointless diversion. They are the best pointless diversion I've ever seen -- I still remember my first summer solo in Seattle, when I leaned on the rail of my apartment building's rooftop deck and watched them fly over the neighborhood. Our building was the tallest in the city, so the squadron used it as a marker to make their turns; they flew so close I could see the pilots in the cockpits.

Today, they came straight over Broadway while I was driving, accompanied by a little Red Baron plane that managed to hold its own. Everyone was stopping in the middle of the road, craning their necks or pulling out camera phones to take pictures as they turned on the smoke and shot over Capitol Hill.

Trust me: I know it's anathema to all that makes me an upstanding antiwar activist -- but against my better judgement, I still get goosebumps whenever I hear that telltale roar coming closer. I feel like a little kid again, the same one who wanted to learn how she could fly a few feet from another plane going 100 miles per hour. Guilty as charged, I'm afraid.

When all of your tears dry...

This isn't going to be a great post, but sometimes I just need to let my music speak for me.

I've been listening to Carbon Leaf a lot lately; their new album, "Indian Summer," manages to contain songs that cover every emotion I've experienced this summer. Now, on the eve of my best friend's departure to Kansas, I just keep listening to this same song -- it seems like an appropriate sendoff:

"Changeless"

Call my friends to share some wine
To share some laughs, and last goodbyes
My photographs of these years
Will make me laugh through the tears

What are the odds, what are the odds
this ends and we don't meet again?
What are the odds, What are the odds
that I will miss your smile?

Take awhile! Take awhile! Take care and
Fly away and see the world
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take time and
If you need rest, I'll keep your nest
Changeless

Let fondness be our souvenir
To keep it warm, we'll keep it near
Otherwise with no heart to recall...
A memory's just a memory after all
I will not leave this pulse alone
Though it may take the long way home
I will not wait until the end
For my applause for you my friend

What are the odds, what are the odds
This ends and we don't meet again
What are the odds, what are the odds?
This ends and we won't meet again
What are the odds, What are the odds
That I have missed your smile?

Take awhile! Take awhile! Take care and
Fly away and see the world
Take awhile! Take awhile! Take time and
If you need rest, I'll keep your nest
Changeless

I know, of course, that I will see her again, many a time throughout our long lives. That's what appeals to me about this song: it's a determined pledge to maintain the integrity and intimacy of a friendship, despite all of the changes in store.

This isn't going to be easy, and the closer my own departure comes, the more goodbyes I have to say. I never realized how hollow those can make you feel, how much your chest aches when you give that last, awkward hug before turning away for awhile. You have to say goodbye to everything: your friends, your old haunts, your favorite view of Lake Union...So I cling to another song, playing it time and again in the car as I cruise slowly down the road:

You've come far, and though you're far from the end
You don't mind where you are, 'cause you know where you've been...
When all of your tears dry,
let your troubles roll by

I'm terrified and excited; a jumbled, incoherent storm of words; the flutter at the throat of a bird before it takes flight. Part of me wants so badly to let this pass me by, and the other half is pleading for the courage and faith to see it through...I want someone, anyone to take me by the hand and guide me through to the end, but I know I have to do this on my own...and I know CB and Kelli and everyone else will be there for me, but I'm still insecure enough to beg for reassurance...I need wisdom and faith, a faith I don't have right now and don't know how to retrieve.

Raise the roof, that I might see the stars
To gain wisdom, to see things for what they are
Please, I need proof

Dance till you fall
Love till you die
Shut your mouth
Raise the roof

Trapped in the snare with too much dreaming to bear
Fearful and frantic, hopeless and a romantic
Inspired but tired, I run this wide-open course
Like the sagging spirit of an older horse

Peel back this backdrop, like the lids from my eyes
Put you in plain view, let me visualize
Touch me again in my dreams till I feel
Touch me again till I wake and it's real

The wisest advice to me that I didn't reach
Was to lock up the heart, but keep the key within reach
Touch me again in my dreams till I feel
Touch me again till I wake and it's real

Dance till you fall
Love till you die
Shut your mouth
Raise the roof

The enormity of it overwhelms me to the point where I feel consumed by my own future. I know it's going to be better in the end, but oh how I wish I could slow down just long enough to gauge where I am before I try to keep going. Some days, everything feels like it's at the right pace; today, as the inevitability of the big move grows clear, I feel like I'm flying too fast to breathe.

Too much to do, too much to see
Pictures to take, people to meet
When there's so much space in between
It overwhelms me

Scene after scene passes by my life
The window's a wound, the road is a knife
The irony, ask me, "Where have you been?"
I don't know, I don't know
because I don't know where to begin

I warned you: it wasn't going to be a great post. I'll try to be a little more articulate tomorrow, but for now I just want to sit and figure out where, exactly, I should begin in this new part of my life.

Forehead-slap worthy article of the day

Look, people: it's a DESERT. What did you expect when you moved there? Water? Did you expect water? Well, have I got news for you!

There shall be much wailing and gnashing of teeth

Hurrah for the potential downfall of Bill Frist, who hath invoked the wroth of his evangelical keepers. He's basically been univited from the Justice Sunday II gathering, even though it's held in his own state. Bill made the mistake of thinking that they were his handmaidens, rather than the other way around -- and now, surviving his term will be more difficult than keeping pork out of the energy bill. You know you're in trouble when Focus on the Family and the Family Research Council warn there will be hell to pay -- 'cause they're not kidding. That's capital "H" hell they're talkin' 'bout. Those "reprecussions" FRC promised after Frist pledged his support to stem cell research? They'll be in the form of holy hand grenades.

The saintly model of moral integrity, Rep. Tom DeLay, shall make the keynote address in Dr. Frist's absence.

Signs that I haven't quite rejected our consumer culture in its entirety

1. My incessant urges to have my hands on my new computer. I keep toting it outside to check out the indoor/outdoor screen, screwing the monitor around so I can use it as a notepad (will I ever need it? Who cares?!), and fabricating excuses to surf the internet because the web's become cooler since I found a computer with wireless capabilities. Kelli gave me EndNote as a wedding gift, and I started salivating. I was more excited about a freaking bibliography program than I think I was about getting into some of my grad programs...though that may not say much, since they were in LA. I also keep telling people that I purchased a new computer and then insisting that they come over to see it, because I don't feel like exposing it to the dangers of the outside world yet. My own father was forced to follow up a perfectly nice sushi dinner with a trip to our current house so I could show him the twisty-screen feature. Amazingly, he's still willing to help me fly home for Christmas. Someone. Please. Help.

2. The pathetic thrill I feel when I purchase a new bike jersey or pair of gloves. They're woven, cheap fabric in gaudy shades your colorblind aunt wouldn't wear, for god's sake. It's not like I stumbled onto that mint-condition Prada top hanging in the back of Buffalo (although I think I'd prefer the bike gloves). Now, I'm drooling over the bikes in the latest Trek catalogue -- for the price of a semester at graduate school, I could own Lance Armstrong's freaking model racing bike. And when I skidded across the wet cobblestones of British roads at 40 mph and wrapped the bike around a telephone booth, well, at least I'd have the sweetest wreck you've ever seen. Seriously, this obssession must stop. I'm starting to see the appeal of those insane multicolored jerseys that weekend warriors wear -- and from there, it's really just a quick slide down the slope to purchasing bike socks with flashy designs and spandex pants for every occasion.

3. Tortoise supplements. Laugh as you will, but it's no different than buying expensive cat toys or humiliating your dog by having its nails painted. Okay, so I technically did that, too, when my husband made Ndugu this swanky tux for his wedding day role. Anyway, by this time next year, Ndugu will be sequestered in an outdoor pen where at least 10 varieties of weeds, greens and grasses will sprout for his consumption. And yes, I did in fact spend the weekend building an outdoor tortoise pen -- which he hates. It's not interesting enough, or big enough, nor does it have a little button he can push to make worms pop out of the ground. Still, I'm trying to make up for it with the pasture mix, the feather grass, the dandelions and the "krunchy krouton" all-natural nutritional food topping. I don't need a child, thank you: I have a chelonian.

4. Did I mention my new computer?

Great site for Seattle cyclists

www.ghostcycle.org

If you've ever been hit, share your story here. It's about time that cycling conditions in the city received more publicity. I realize we're better off than most, but I've still had more close calls than I prefer to remember -- and some of these stories are pretty awful. Hopefully, the site will make an impact.

*Dreaming of Cambridge, where bikes rule the roads...*

Missing the womb

Back in my undergraduate days at Seattle U's Honors College, Becca and I knew a neurotic friend who had difficulty confronting its life-draining demands. He unsuccessfully tried managing his problem with copious quantities of pot, beat poetry, vodka and spray paint (mostly of an atomic bomb exploding next to a giant phallus on his dorm room walls...pity the summer cleaning crew...). Then, he discovered the one trick that worked: a return to the womb.

The womb, in this case, consisted of one's dorm room bed: insert self deep within its covers, pull blankets over head, and think calm, blank thoughts while the afternoon ticks away slowly.

We laughed about it at first, but soon both of us were unable to resist its alluring, white-noise call...and the Honors Womb became a fixture in many a dorm. What this says about the mental state of honors students, I prefer not to ask.

Today, I find myself longing to return to the womb again. My tortoise is gone, my best friend is moving to Kansas, and I've managed to accomplish just shy of nothing in my summer grad school prep. Seriously, this is ridiculous. I've never been so stressed out. I went to the dentist a week ago to find out why I had a new gap in between my molars. He looked up from the chair and asked, "Have you been under a lot of stress lately? You've managed to clench your jaws hard enough to work your teeth out of alignment."

Just remember that when you see me three or four years from now, wandering the streets with my second set of braces ('cause I'm sure not getting them in England!). I'm the girl who managed to clench my teeth into a whole new position. Somehow, I find this entirely amusing, which is probably appropriate for a frantic grad student.

Seriously, the womb sounds pretty good right now. Anybody have a spare mattress?