When the stars go blue

I spent this evening cooking a sweet potato gratin and listening to a This American Life episode from September 21, 2001, the episode where Ira Glass offers David Rakoff and David Sedaris's takes on 9/11. It brought to mind a lot of things I've been contemplating lately.

You see, in about 15 months, life is going to take another turn. CB and I will be on the way to somewhere. Our location might be Chicago or even London. It won't be Seattle; not yet, because our return home comes about 24 months after that.

I've experienced several mood swings since I returned to the U.S. Once I figured out that my dysfunctional thyroid contributed heavily to my poor experiences in the UK, I started wishing I could have a do-over, another chance to see whether England and I were at loggerheads for no reason. There are things I missed about the States that I cherish now: my family, my friends, good food, and even the American people -- at least when we live up to our better stereotypes, moving through the world with good intentions and offering whatever we have to each other. But there are things I'm finding I never wanted to come home to: our ignorance, not only about world affairs, but also about our own government; our conservatism; our crappy health care. I've been turning it over in my head to understand whether the things I love outweigh the things I loathe, or whether my values are diverging so far from where our country's headed that I no longer belong here.

I still don't know, at least when it comes to the short term. In the long term, I can't see myself anywhere but Seattle. Thankfully, CB feels the same and understands my fierce devotion to friends and family enough to move back, even when we're both realizing that his potential could take him anywhere he wanted to go. The fact that he wants to go where I need to stay tells me more about our future as a couple than anything else could.

But for the short-term, I want to go where he chooses. I realize that's a rather un-feminist thing to say, but here's the situation. I don't have a clue what I want yet, at least not when it comes to my career. Correction: I have several conflicting clues. I want to be a writer and an environmental lawyer, a planner and a journalist, a librarian and maybe a professor. I can't be any of these now, and I don't really want to jump into any one before I have a better understanding of myself. In a way, then, the next two years are experimentation time. While CB conquers the statistical genetics world, I can work part-time and try it all out: freelance until my fingers go numb, think long and hard about law school, find out whether planners ever do anything besides sit in rooms approving permits or bickering over growth management guidelines.

It's important to note that I don't always feel this way. Deep down, I'm also very afraid of losing sight of myself and my goals. In some ways, this year feels like the first step down that path: I take a job out of sheer panic, make it work, and promise myself to do better next time. I can't promise then that this post is going to be the definitive exposee on how I feel about our future...but it's the definitive post today, and part of me thinks it could stick around even longer.

Back to the original thread. As I look ahead to careers and (maybe) children and mortgage payments, I find myself wondering: why not now? Why not live abroad two more years, why not pack up the cat, park the car in storage, sell the furniture and head back to jolly old England? What's two years in the grand scheme of things, anyway?

I don't know how I feel about this country sometimes. I think it's home, but that doesn't mean I won't capitalize on the opportunity to live in a place where politics are more nuanced, where health care matters (even if it's still flawed), and where people actually believe that the community matters more than the individual. I miss the latter the most. I almost cried the other day listening to people on Oregon Public Broadcasting complain that they shouldn't have to fund health care for anyone's children but their own. What the fuck is wrong with this place? For a few days after 9/11, I thought we might come together in more ways than one. Now, look at us. Our civil liberties are frayed, our social values are racing backwards, and liberals like me are a bigger threat than the terrorists in some Americans' minds.

I'm rambling badly, and I don't think I've written one tenth of what's on my mind, but if I'm not posting often it's because most of my thoughts take shape this way: in fragments and long threads I'm still pulling from buttonholes. Blame it on the age or on post-college disenchantment; attribute it to my LDR. Really, they're all complicit...and so am I.

Sharing the road

All car drivers should have to bike commute to their office, school, or grocery store at least once each year. Trust me on this one: I am a much better driver now because I cycle. When you're in a car, you don't realize how dangerous your mode of transportation can be. Try sharing the road from the security of a small carbon frame, open-air, you-powered vehicle, and all the bad habits we develop as lifelong drivers become abundantly clear: the California stop, the cell phone while speeding, the fiddling-with-the-radio while turning, the blind turn with only a glance at oncoming traffic...Don't get me started about the speeding semi trucks, the cars full of teenagers who think it's hilarious to see how close they can get to your elbow, or the idiots trying to discipline their dogs/kids/friends while passing you.

I know there are plenty of bad cyclists out there -- really, really bad cyclists who make your commute and mine hell. I'm all in favor of bike licensing; I think fixies don't belong on roads; and I would like to see us all pass a basic cycling skills test before we get to take our bikes off designated multimodal paths. But to me the difference will always come down to this: if I'm a bad cyclist, I might die. If I'm a bad driver, someone else might die. If I'm a good cyclist who meets a bad driver, it doesn't matter how many laws I obey, because I'm going to be the one who pays the price.

Lately, I've noticed an uptick in crazy drivers all over the Northwest: I nearly lost the back half of my car in Seattle when I stopped for a red light that the guy behind me assumed I'd run. I've been halfway through a crosswalk when someone decides they don't need to slow down for me. I had a sedan miss me by about four feet today as I cycled home because he didn't yield to the right of way. It was easier to run the stop sign than to see if anyone might be entering the intersection.

I know we're all busy, stressed out, and sick of the region's growing traffic, but what happened to being kind to each other? Or to recognizing that slowing for a yellow light -- or stopping for a freaking red one -- is not going to take hours off our day? If you're in that much of a hurry...maybe you should try leaving earlier?

What really bothers me is that you aren't going to get a lot of jail time if you kill a cyclist down here, even if you're speeding, running a light, or performing other acts of negligence which distract you enough to run down a human being. Last month, a guy road raged on two cyclists because he didn't like sharing the road: he intentionally hit one, sped off, struck the other, and then tried to flee. One cyclist went to the hospital; the perp is free on reduced bail.

I know we aren't always easy to see, and I know sometimes the laws for cyclists and drivers get confusing...but please, try it from our perspective once. Think of it as drivers ed redux. I guarantee you'll be a kinder, gentler, safer driver afterwards. I know I am.

Tumbling after

Ack. Oh, ack. It has not been two weeks since I blogged. Could not be. Oh, wait. It has been more than two weeks.

So, hi! Here's the thing: I am coming down with the office plague, and it's 9:00 in the evening, and while I'm becoming less frightened of all of the office reorganizing (which you of course don't know about because I haven't blogged in two weeks), it did occur to me today that I am now doing the jobs of...well...at least two people, which means I am either going to have to move Marlowe to the office or I'll just have to clone myself.

Can I bring my ball to work so we can play fetch? Why are you banging your head against the keyboard, Mama?

Naturally, I actually started rounding up some potential freelance leads these past two weeks, all of which I have to turn down because I can't really fit them in unless I stop doing laundry. Something tells me that would get me fired. Of course, there are advantages to being sacked. Like having time to sleep.

Oh! Someone keyed my car while I was in Seattle for a home office training this Tuesday. Thank you so much, you filth-encrusted gum on the bottom of my shoe. I'd just been thinking that my car looked far too new for being 2 months old. You sure took care of that little problem.

Oops, gotta go. Kitty has just placed paw in my genmaicha. I will keep posting, even if it's infrequent. Thanks for understanding.

No you did-n't

OMFG.

If I get one more lecture about how to write a #*!@ email ("Just a line or two, explaining what you need and what you've done already") in a voice that oozes condescension like a sappy tree, I may fucking snap.

I'm sorry -- I don't mean to be so angry, but I write the exact crappity-ass emails Passive Aggressive Boss tells me to write. I just want to scream that I am not actually that stupid (which PAB knows), then throw something and walk out.

AUGH!!! AUGH!!! I was having a reasonable day, I was going to write a nice contemplative post tonight asking you all advice about what to do in my situation, and now I just want to fire up my Blazing Glare of Disdain and skip away towards home.

Okay, I feel slightly better now.

And yes: I am blogging at work. On a non-work computer connected to a non-work wireless network. Really, it's snark from my own laptop or start making tiny voodoo dolls and skewering them with blunt implements.

If I weren't interested in self-preservation, I'd get blind blitzed at the farewell party tonight and send Passive Aggressive Boss short, "ideal" emails that sum up why it is a terrible manager in 10 words or less. Perhaps its departure will help me endure this a bit longer. Although, it gets to choose its own replacement. Maybe getting blitzed isn't such a bad idea after all.

Bath time

You know, there is nothing like returning home from the vet's office with your terrified kitty to make a Wednesday morning interesting -- especially when you open the carrier to discover that your kitty has peed all over himself, his blanket, and the inside of the crate.

I was on the phone at the time, explaining Marlowe's dire health to my mother, when she suddenly heard me saying, "Shit. Oh, shit! Oh my god, oh shit!"

This is because Marlowe had just streaked across the apartment, trailing a whole lot of unpleasantness. Naturally, my reaction was to sit in front of the puddle swearing while my mom implored me to go find a towel. Five minutes later, the carrier hastily tossed through the front window to my deck, and the blanket double-bagged in garbage liners, I went in search of the cat. I found him huddled miserably in the closet. On top of my shoes. Thus began another round of violent cursing, causing the cat to shoot straight over my legs and under my bed as my ever-patient mom suggested perhaps her dim-witted daughter might consider putting the cat in the linoleum-covered bathroom until I found a store that sold pet shampoo.

I coaxed him into the bathroom with food and water, then pulled the door shut and bolted down the street to the nearest pet store. Ten minutes later, armed with heavy gloves, towels, and cat shampoo, I returned to find Marlowe perched atop the toilet seat, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Murmuring false assurances, I filled the tub an inch or two, pulled on enough clothing to avoid any major scratches, picked up the cat, and dropped him into the water.

As I may have mentioned, Marlowe is partially blind. Consequently, he saw just enough to notice that I wasn't guarding the open space behind my left shoulder. He leaped -- headfirst into the heavy ceramic sink. Undeterred, he repeated this procedure two or three times until I managed to grab his scruff with one glove-encased hand and pry him off the side of the tub. He then went for the shower curtain, and we began a long tug-of-war that ended when I decided it might be wise to let him stay tangled in the plastic.

Working frantically, I didn't notice the low rumbling emanating from the sodden mass of fur beneath my fingers. Marlowe chirps and churls, so I assumed I must have been hearing the pipes rattle in our archaic plumbing system. My happy illusion shattered when Marlowe turned and issued the loudest, shrillest shriek ever recorded during human-cat interaction. The shriek ended in a chainsaw growl, and suddenly I went from scrubbing a paralyzed cat to detaching a crazed monster from my sweatshirt.

During the fray, he kicked the drain plug out of place and wedged two of his hind toes in the drain. For a few moments, I thought I'd have to call 911 and have them come out with a sledgehammer and some kind of tranquilizer gun. Think bathing a cat is challenging? Try bathing a half-blind, raging ball of fury who has a foot jammed in the train of your tub. I finally gave up, dropped a towel on his head, and bolted into the kitchen to retrieve my olive oil. After dumping it all over his head while the towel shook ominously, I managed to pry his foot out of the drain. We then had to repeat the entire bath to remove the oil from his fur.

After 20 minutes, the bathroom looked like several furry gerbils had exploded in it. A layer of wet fur coated the tub. My back ached, and my sweatshirt looked like I'd hugged a cactus. I picked up the remaining towel, wrapped the cat in a neat package, opened the door, and deposited my bundle in the kitchen before shutting myself back in the bathroom. From outside, the sounds of a monumental struggle filtered through the door. Eventually, the tearing cloth gave way to silence.

I checked my watch. It was only 9:30. I probably needed to stay in the bathroom until at least noon, and I didn't have a book. I nervously peered outside: no cat.

I waited a few minutes, then went into the bedroom and snatched a random book off the shelves. It occurred to me that I was being ridiculous: cats don't actually wait for vengeance. It was all some anthropomorphic projection, probably guilt brought about by authorizing his overnight vet stay. Indeed, as I entered the main room, I found Marlowe sitting stiffly on the floor, looking puzzled but congenial. I slipped onto the couch, feeling my worries slip away.

Last night, at about three in the morning, the cat who avoids laps galloped headlong into my room, took a flying leap, and landed on top of me as I slept before bounding straight back off the bed to hide in another room. I'm pretty sure my scream woke both neighbors.

Now with more kitteh

I think I aged five years overnight, thanks to vets with poor phone manners.

Luckily, the same vets are much clearer about Marlowe's prognosis when they come face-to-face with a hollow-eyed, grief-stricken owner.

Details forthcoming, but it looks like it's going to be okay. Expensive, but okay.

After the day he's had, however, Marlowe disagrees.

Only time will tell

It's like this.

My cat, my new best friend, my only companion here...

A routine vet appointment has now turned into an overnight stay and bill estimates upwards of $800 to $1000. The shelter that had him for the last two years never looked in his ears or his mouth, so once-treatable ear mites and a broken canine have morphed into severe, chronic infections, cysts, possible hearing loss, and severe dental problems. The kind that might involve bone infections.

And after only three and a half weeks, in which time we've already bonded to the point where he leaps into bed as soon as I glance towards the sheets because he knows it's snuggle time...I can't afford to fix these things. Not even close. Plus, they maybe can't be fixed: the ears could be permanently damaged, and his constant scratching and head shaking might never go away. (Hello, shelter? How fucking blind are you?) The teeth? Who knows. The countless other problems I haven't even listed here all add up to a vague sense of dread. What happens when this five year-old turns 10? How much should I put him through trying to heal what can't mend? And, horribly, how much can I afford to spend when I'm already scraping to get by? What corner do I cut?

I love him. I know it seems strange, having known him so briefly, but I love him already like the kind of pet you've known most of your life. Right now, he's huddled in the back of a sterile sea green kennel, wondering why I left him.

I am not leaving. I'm supposed to return him to the shelter if I can't care for him. Fuck that. They cared for him so much they sent him straight into a hospital. A few months ago, a year ago, 40 or 50 bucks would have fixed all this. Didn't anyone notice the scratching? The trouble eating? It took me two days to catch on.

I'm taking the day off work tomorrow to see if I can meet the vet, face-to-face. I need to look in her eyes and ask her about the long-term prognosis. I want to understand what it will do to him if we try. Because he's been through enough, and the last thing I want to do is heap more pain on him.

Even if that means coming home to an empty house far too soon.

Getting out of town

Yesterday, I worked 13.5 hours straight, culminating in a three-hour meeting where I took notes on a giant flipchart for the duration.

I also found myself ever more ensnared in office politics, cornered by one boss to explain what was going on between me and another boss (the short story is: I don't know, but I think she hates me). I crawled home and managed to fire off an email to the first boss asking her to keep that conversation off the record...which seems fair to me, since I got pushed into saying anything in the first place.

I think we can confirm that I suck at office politics. I am not skilled enough to lie to someone's face, and so when anyone asks a leading question, I have a hard time dodging it.

I'm exhausted and going to the ocean in an hour. My good friend from college is getting married tomorrow, and I'm lucky enough to be in the beach-side ceremony. Hopefully, Marlowe won't kill me for neglecting him when I come back Sunday.

I think the uncomfortable realization I'm reaching is that there is no dream job after college. Still, I also don't think it does you any good to settle for something you really dislike. Considering how much time Americans spend at work, the least I can do is look until I find something that makes me happy more often than it makes me crazy. I'm giving this one a year, assuming it stays about the way it is now, because the personal stress far outweighs everything else.

Talk to you next week.

In motion

It's ten minutes to noon, and the office is humming. Voices rise and fall beyond my cubicle as project managers race from one task to the next, pausing long enough to dump another request on our desks. Outside, beyond the hermetically sealed windows, the sun beams down from a naked sky. I look down at my feet in their sandals.

"I'm going for a run," I announce.

A quick stop at the gym, then out the front door. I'm in full workout regalia, except I've forgotten my socks. My feet stick to the orthotics I wear, but I don't mind. It is glorious, warm, the air thick with midday humidity. I head towards the river.

There's a long path along the edge, and I run steadily along its perimeter, passing clusters of office workers, their ties flipped over their shoulders, collar buttons open, blazers hanging off their arms. I am one of them, but not now. It's been days since I've crammed a run into my schedule, and my joints are quick to remind me that I'm not really supposed to go without stretching anymore. I shrug them off, ignore the cramp tearing a hole in my stomach, and slog on down the trail.

By the halfway point, I think I could run home to Seattle. With the light foot traffic, I can afford to look around, and I watch a lazy canoe plash over the currrent. Far below me, a cat's tongue of sand stretches from one horizon to the next. I debate sticking to the path I know, then veer right and pick my way down the ravine, dappled light shimmering between cottonwoods and maples. I burst out onto the sand and feel the tightness in my muscles release.

Down here, the air is sharp and cool. No one else is on the shore, and so I run in the company of breakers lapping hardpacked sand. It's rockier than I expected, and I switch into a high, prancing jog, feet flicking over uneven stones. For 15 minutes, I concentrate on the ground immediately before me. One slip, and I'll be limping a few miles back to the office. I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into; I think about turning back, or clambering up the wooded hill to the security of paved road. But there isn't much farther to go, and my steps are growing quicker.

The last 100 yards are loose sand, and before long I have half a pound in each shoe, chasing the skin where foot meets fabric. I'm red-faced, dripping sweat, and out of breath, but I maintain a brisk trot as I work back up the gentle hill towards the office. By the time I'm out of the shower, I feel invigorated, completely alive. I flick the towel over my shoulder, smooth the wrinkles from my skirt, run a finger comb through my hair, and open the door. I'm ready now.

I'm so tired, I'm so tired of tryin'

We see a lot of regulars in my line of work. Usually, they're middle-aged, lifelong residents of the community, people with a lot to lose if our project lands on their street.

I spend my Saturdays under a blue tent for the job I'll refer to as Mayhem Inc., alternately sharing information with curious residents and being snapped at by people who think what we're doing is a front. This used to be funny, but now I find I'm breaking the cardinal rule of neutrality by nodding along as the critics rant. The thing is, they're right. We do know what we want to do. Most likely, we're going to do it, unless a vote or a major funding glitch derails the project. I want to tell you more, but I can't. Just like I can't divulge anything to the public beyond what I'm instructed to say. People come to me with hopeful expressions, asking if I can tell them what will happen to their street, their house. I tell them the half-truth: no, I can't, because we don't know. Often, we really do not: big projects take years to gel, and the block-by-block effects change over time...but I do know that their neighborhood is going to be impacted, and I usually know whether it's going to be serious.

And I cannot say a thing.

This afternoon, a man I know from one of our advisory groups said he felt sorry for us, because he wouldn't want to be in a position where he had to lie to poor people. He wanted to know how we slept at night when we did such dirty work for our supervisors.

"Put yourself in my shoes," he said.

"You don't know anything about me," I told him.

"No, but I doubt you've been as hard-up as the people I know."

By conventional definitions, he's right. Still, I wanted to take him by the hand and walk him to my car, where we could drive to the apartment I'm renting. I wanted to show him the empty spot next to me in my bed. To haul out the bank statements, the expired visa, the month-to-month lease and the health insurance I'm fighting to keep. I wanted to tell him that I spent Thursday being lectured, like a dog, behind a closed door in a conference room, because I'd been audacious enough to ask for more work than I was assigned. I'm not fitting in. I'm not willing to pay my dues -- I've never complained, never left a job incomplete, but apparently suggesting I could be challenged with new tasks makes me a problematic employee in their eyes. I need to stop thinking I have anything of merit to offer, because I'm supposed to be grateful that they even decided to give me a job. I thought about sharing how my boss quit two weeks ago, how our other boss is going to have a baby during the worst possible time for our team, how I've worked six days per week since June for a job that's nothing like I was told it would be when I started. I haven't seen my family since I moved, and they're three hours away but I won't be going home until at least October. I wanted to tell him I've lost close to 10 pounds in the last two months, to sit beside him on the floor and tell him that some days everything is fine, but other days, it's all I can do to get home and collapse on the sofa.

Instead, I just smiled a half-smile. As he filled out a comment form, he teased me, saying he was going to write down how I agreed with him about the project being a farce. I laughed nervously and asked him not to.

"I wouldn't do that," he said. "I just like seeing you smile. You have a nice smile."

I clung to those words the rest of the day, trying to believe that people still see the good girl behind the morally questionable job. Hoping they went through something similar when they were young. There has to be more to life. I can't believe work is always going to be this draining and time-consuming, or that I'll feel so little contentment from what I do. What it comes down to is that I need to believe this, too, is going to pass, and that I'll still have a smile that makes people happy when I'm finally done here.

Happy together

Because I can't bring myself to write about work or life, let's go for more distractions: kitty pictures! You know you want 'em.


I'd entertain you with tortoise pictures, too, but my poor boy can't be with me right now. There's just no room for a giant pool in any place I can afford...sigh. Soon, soon I'll have both our babies under the same roof.

Don't mind the crazy green eyes. His pupils don't contract, thanks to a congenital defect that leaves him partially blind. Poor guy went to the vet and failed the vision test completely -- we tossed cotton balls at him, and they bounced off his face. He's also fallen off the couch a few times, thinking he had more room to walk. Is it wrong to laugh at your embarrassed cat because their shame is so cute?

Round and round

How's your week been? Mine's been interesting. Here's a random snapshot.

Bosses quitting on a Tuesday totally suck! Especially when they take you out to lunch under the guise of "Let's all celebrate," only to begin the meal by preluding the announcement of your group's impending doom with, "Now, there's no such thing as a free lunch..." And they wondered why we spent the rest of the day in a shell-shocked trance.

Weird old-men clubs with funny animal and/or telephone-related names? Interesting places to give a presentation. Or, in my case, click through the PowerPoint while someone else gives the presentation. 'Cause that's why I went to Cambridge: to hone my slide show skills. That, and improving my ability to butter up large-nosed, 80-year-old white guys who want to wow me with their tales of anti-Communist activities in 1970s Siberia. Hell's yes, that's what they pay me for! Ladies and gents: your tax dollars at work.

Kitties freaking rock. Especially nice kitties that still let you touch them after vet visits involving blood draws, matted hair removals, and ear mite treatments. I don't think I'll tell the nice kitty that he has to go back to the vet for a full day soon...yeah, we're ignoring that part because the possibility of his being diabetic or in kidney failure is too depressing to contemplate right now.

Oregon drivers?? SUCK. Turn signals, people. They actually didn't install them in your car just for show. Speedometers are also important, because they tell you when you're going 25 miles over the speed limit so you know that maybe you should use those little blinky turn things before you swerve in front of my car without notice. I swear, if you hit me, I will break your arms with your own turn signal lever.

The public process? Dear god. Nope, sir, no, you can't build a tunnel through them there acreage. Little thing called liquefaction. Liquefaction. You know, "smash, crash, bang," instant catastrophe? You don't see why it has to be that way. Well. I know your brother-in-law's second cousin's daughter draws bridges for her industrial art class. That does not make you an engineer. Please go away. Please? Oh, you want to fill out a public comment record. About a tunnel. Sure, just step right here while I get a form and a big stick. It's to hold the paper down while you write. Yes, it is. Now, just look that way...

It's a bit disheartening, really. We have a public process in place so people don't wake up one morning and discover major infrastructure projects running through their neighborhoods. But when a handful of nutty people dominate the entire process, and you have to treat them like they're sane? I wish we could have a cut-off point at six months or a year, where you're just SOL if you didn't get your comment in on time. We waste so much money trying to reach everyone, when half them don't have anything to contribute (but do anyway) and the other half don't care. I'll write seriously about this at some point, but for now...I'm wondering if the process is broken, or if this is just how it has to be when you want to create a collaborative process.

Clearly, he's having trouble adjusting

So...how's it going?

This is a strange time in my life. Married, but living alone. Three hours away from family, but struggling to find visiting time. Happy to have my own place, but a little lonely.

I'm working hard to be mellow about it all, because otherwise it just terrifies me. The health insurance questions -- the joys of having a preexisting condition in America. The brink-of-broke budget. Everything from career to where we'll live next, in question. When I let it get to me, like I did today, I wind up on the couch, crippled with psychosomatic nausea that's dogged me since childhood. Today's trigger? The new addition to my family.

I've talked about getting a cat for awhile, and for the last few months I have carefully planned it out. Found an ideal kitty, acquired the necessary supplies, made sure I found an apartment I could be in for awhile. Marlowe came home today. If ever a cat deserves to be cranky, he does -- and he's not. A little vocal? Sure. Anxious? Definitely. But sweet, terribly sweet, and already looking like he might be able to call this place home.

He lived in the shelter for two years. A family adopted him six months ago, then dumped him the following week. He wasn't outgoing enough. Have I mentioned how long he lived in that shelter? Or the fact that he is partially blind? Or that he appears to have spent the first four years of his vision-impaired existence fighting it out on the streets?

So, why the nausea now? Because suddenly, it's not just my life I'm gambling with. I'm terrified I'll do something wrong: miscalculate the budget, screw up my job, hell - anything I can imagine - and it will be both of us out in the cold. I'm afraid that maybe I'm not going to be good enough for Marlowe. I work a lot. I'm not always around. I couldn't get a second cat, both for financial and logistical reasons (no more than one cat per apartment). We will be moving at least once, maybe two or three times, in the next five years. There are old cat smells on the carpet from a previous tenant. What if he starts marking in response, or if he cries all night, or if he's never happy because he can't go outside? What if I can't do it, and I become another person who dumps him again? What if I fail him?

See what I do to myself?

I can't shut it off. It's like some women-only sickness that afflicts everyone I know: you contemplate every possible outcome, every worst case scenario, just so you know how to react if it happens. You lie awake at three a.m. wondering what the hell you'd do if you had to move somewhere that the cat, or the tortoise, would have a hard time following. If you're like me, you get so frustrated by your own what-ifs that the mounting anxiety escalates the whole thing. All the little fears you harbor rise and swell like high tide: the loneliness you feel on a Friday night, the weariness after working 13 days straight, the financial and health-related worries, the constant reevaluation of your own decisions. Until you're on the couch, wishing you could just get sick and get it over with -- but you can't.

So, I'm doing the only other thing I know how to do. I'm coping. Accepting. The novel has to wait. The big career dreams need to pause, just for a little while; this imperfect but decent job is fine for the time. Right now, I miss my husband, and I don't really understand what this period in my life is supposed to accomplish. So, I don't think about it. I just live day-to-day, finding pleasure in little things: walks, cooking, Marlowe's fascination with the front window (and his already noticeable tendency to walk across my keyboard, rather than around it). Sometimes, I think that means I'm settling. Most of the time, I think it means I'm surviving. And you know? That's good enough for me, right now. Frankly, it feels like a big accomplishment.

Preparation

Being grown up isn't half as fun

Dang blurry camera. Sorry. I have clear pictures on CB's camera, which I'll upload as soon as he sends them. (Hi honey! I know you need to sleep and eat and work and all, but could you just stop worrying about feeding yourself and send me a bunch of photos for my all-important blog? Thanks!)


Things I like about the new* car:
1. Paddle shifters
2. Awesome mileage
3. High safety ratings
4. Ridiculous carrying capacity
5. Air conditioning
6. Functioning speakers
7. No more "Hey, you're going 60 -- I think I'll sputter and die!" moments
*Yes, it's new. No, generally brand new cars make no economic sense. We had two days to find a new car after the old one imploded, so our options were limited because I do not buy used cars without doing thesis-level homework. We should pay it off early, and we plan to drive it until the damn thing dies; hence, it should actually be worth the cost.

Things I dislike about the new car:
1. Payments
2. Did I mention payments?
3. Caring about scratches
4. Caring about muddy shoes
5. Having to remind myself that I no longer need to hope someone steals my vehicle to get it off my hands
6. Driving it to work

Oh my god, I feel like a caricature of an American right now. Get a new job? Buy a new car! *shudder* My British friends will mock me forever if they find out about this.

Seriously, after years of biking, walking, and bussing everywhere, the fact that I have to drive is painful -- but there's no way around it. My commute is 11 miles one-way. It takes 20 minutes by car; 45 to 55 by bus. I live alone, so all that laundry, cooking, running, and writing requires every last minute of my time. Adding an extra hour a day to my commute? Not really optimal for quality of life. I could bike that distance, but there's the matter of the bridge between where I work and where I live, a bridge so frightening to cyclists and pedestrians that even my bike club-crazy coworkers refuse to use it unless the weather is f'ing perfect. If you don't get blown off into the Columbia by high winds, you slip and slide to your death on bird doo, or some errant gravel flies off the back of a semi and rearranges your face. So yeah. I drive...and even though this car embarrasses me because I love it so, I still feel very, very wrong. I'm the kind of person people on bike boards hate. Hell, I'm the kind of person *I* disdain. I'm thinking about offsetting my emissions with TerraPass, despite harboring mixed feelings about carbon offset programs. Still, it's something, right?

It also beats my current method of alleviating guilt, which is to ferry as many co-workers around as I possibly can. See, if I'm carpooling, then I'm helping the environment. It does make work a little awkward, since I've basically started acting like a drug dealer:

Me: Need a ride home?
Jack: Um, actually, I was going to take the bus--
Me: It's really no problem.
Jack: You don't even live near me. Aren't you on the other side of the city?
Me: Aw, c'mon, it's brand new! You know you want to.
Jack: Really, I don't think I do.
Me: That new car smell? Smell that? Like a goddamn baby.
Jack: It's nothing like a baby.
Me: Just get in the car, Jack!

Feeling strangely fine

If I'd had any idea how content an unpacked apartment would make me, I would have finished sooner.


I'm trying hard to be more Spartan. No more piles of useless papers, or random junk purchased on a whim. I might not be able to control it all, but I can at least try thinking about how much I really want to carry around another set of mugs on our next move. This way, I have a living room I actually want to spend time in, which is key to helping me save money in an activity-oriented neighborhood that just screams "Spend It!" Despite the crazy schedule, I'm determined to be better about keeping things clean. I wonder how long it will last...


I love funky buildings, quirks and all. The cabinets in the dining nook here make me happy, even if none of the doors close on a hot day.


I'd include pictures of the deck -- my primary reason for renting this place -- but a certain husband hasn't had time to send them from his camera. The guy's trying to move across Oxford without a car, so I can't really give him a hard time. Yet.

Bound to make you crazy if you let it

Man, I just have a knack for positioning myself in...interesting...jobs. Current job (aka "Paying My Dues") goes something like this:

8:30 Get to work after terrifying drive through Portland traffic. Contemplate biking, then think about the 17 near-misses one has had since 8:15. Decide to continue driving and to increase auto insurance.
8:45 Check email. Feel frightened by size of inbox.
8:47 Email interrupted by request from co-worker for some aspect of the project you've never heard of until now.
8:51 Continue reading email until other entry-level person comes in, since she's the only one who can tell you what the heck the first person meant.
9:01 Rapidly assemble packet of materials for an afternoon outreach presentation that no one remembered to tell you about until now.
9:17 Rapidly dissemble packet after being told this one wouldn't look quite like the others.
9:24 Rapidly hurl packet through vacuum-sealed office windows after finding out about yet another change.
9:32 Hold head in hands.
10:14 Chase all three levels of people needed to approve changing "freeway" to "highway" in a document which approximately four people will read.
10:51 Discover you are scheduled to work every weekend from July 21 to September 4. Give up on finishing novel until sometime in the spring of 2011. Also give up cooking, long workouts, and personal hygiene.
11:05 Realize you never followed up on that first co-worker's request. She has now had to do it herself. And she hates you.

It's actually not that bad -- although my schedule is about that crazy, the fantastic, supportive coworkers help quite a bit. Nevertheless, it is definitely making me think that a career in government/private industry is not what I want to pursue. For months, I've had the idea of returning to school to become a librarian, and now I'm leaning even more in that direction for a multitude of personal and professional reasons. Still, I don't want to give up on environmental policy just yet, even if what I'm doing isn't as related as I'd hoped. Fortunately, until CB returns, I'm here doing this. So, by my estimation, I have at least 7.21 minutes to contemplate my life's work between now and when he graduates next winter. That should be plenty.

Be good and don't you miss me

We stood in the far corner of the departures terminal at SeaTac, rooted fast into the tiles while a sea of people parted to either side. I might have seen their faces if I'd been looking. I crushed my cheek against his chest, the side where the ridge from a bad collarbone break nestles against my jaw like they were part of the same bone. I thought about holding on, screaming, begging, doing anything that might make people suspicious enough to kick us out together. Instead, we slowly peeled apart, my arms relinquishing their grip like sand slipping between toes at ebb tide. I watched him turn and join the flow, while I remained, waiting, a lonely piece of driftwood cast ashore.

The drive back to Portland felt twice as long, with that empty seat beside me.

Soon, there will be blogging and new adventures. A fully unpacked apartment. Stories about a job I don't love but need to keep. Dreams. Maybe even that novel, waiting quietly at the sidelines until I can clear my head. Tonight, though, it's just me and this city and three weeks of memories I'll turn over and over until they're worn smooth.

so tonight that I might see

We are in the car, the new car, the one with the clean interior and the shiny paint, the one we purchased last weekend after the Jetta decided to die at 60 mph on I-5. It's midnight in Portland, and we're waiting at an intersection while the light changes for phantom autos. The stereo is cranked to eleven, and we are rolling, rocking the whole damn car with our self-parodies as a bad hip-hop song makes the seats shake. At the corner, three slouching hipsters in carefully torn denim cast kohl-rimmed gazes in our direction. They look at us with pity, we two painfully adult, painfully un-hip people on the late side of twentysomething. And we look back and laugh, because we are so in love, and we only just remembered how beautiful the moonlit streets can be.