Terrible Mother

Miscellany (Oregon Edition)

Recently, the Things and I got stuck in a traffic jam on the way to Portland and were forced to sit on a rural highway in Albany for about 90 minutes. At one point, I looked over to the side of the road, past a tangle of weeds, two motels ringed in rust and decay, and the beaten down farm equipment store, to look at a bright little place called "Dairy Land." It was an older restaurant-style building, painted in bright red and white, like a barn, complete with cartoonish cows muralized on the side. For a moment, I wondered if it was some knock-off Dari-Mart, but then realized that was wrong. However, I couldn't put my finger on it, couldn't figure out what it was about the place that was just off. About then, I noticed the cows. They were drawn with big pouty lips and gigantic udders. And they were winking.

Yes, it was a strip club. Oregon has the most lenient zoning laws when it comes to strip clubs and adult stores of various kinds*. This results in a shopping center that goes something like: Best Buy, LL Bean, The Little Bunny Club. So, the general rule of thumb in Oregon is, when in doubt, it's a strip club.

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On the recent Montana road trip, I kept trying to take photos of Friend Two pumping gas. Why might you ask? Because in Oregon, it's illegal to pump your own gas, and so I thought it cute that we had to pump our own.

Friend Two did not approve of this picture taking enterprise, at least as it pertained to gas stations.

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Tragically Hip Single Mom killed me last week when she, out of the blue, said, "You know Crazy Soccer Coach?" I replied yes, since he was Thing One's soccer coach last year. Let me digress for a moment here to say that he was one of the reasons I didn't put Thing One in soccer this year. The man was a little too intense for me, a little too concerned with the competive edge of the Second Grade Girls' Soccer Team for my liking. Also, as a former star soccer player, I think his coaching skills sucked. Few fundamentals and no real sense of teamwork. Because I've been so damned busy, I just decided to put off soccer for another six months.

Back to the story at hand. So, THSM asked me if I remembered him, and I did, and then she said, "Did you know he's a Nazi apologist?"

"WHAT!" I said.

"Yeah. Turns out he gave Way Too Skinny Dad a book about how the Holocaust never happened."

"Then he's more than a Nazi Apologist," I said. "He's a Propagandizing Nazi Apologist."

"Yeah! He is!"

"Who knew Oregon soccer would be overrun by Nazis?"

Somehow, though, I think we should have known.

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I have had someone at work steal my milk for three weeks running. As in, they use it when it is clearly labeled "Terrible Mother." It's for my coffee (the gallons I consume on a daily basis. No, I am not kidding). So, last week I got an ingenious idea. I labeled the milk "Spinach-Flavored."

No more thievery, although I am fairly certain no one here gets my sense of humor.

So, Oregon: filled with milk-thieves, strip clubs and Nazi soccer coaches. But hey, at least we never have to pump our own gas.

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*Portland actually has the highest number of strip clubs per capita anywhere in the country.

Poem of the Week

Getting Older

Sometimes what you remember is their voices again,
coming on inside you like strung lights in your blood,
certain words they'd tongue differently
from anyone else, or your own name
and its surprisingly infinite nuances.
And sometimes you remember their hands,
not touching you but draped over a steering wheel
or cupped briefly around a cigarette,
anywhere you could watch them
in their life apart from you, knowing how
they'd find you later, blind but sure,
and come to rest where you needed them.
You remember the hardness of their bellies,
the soft line of hair that swirls down
toward the cock, the look of each one
that entered you and then withdrew, or lay
quietly inside awhile longer before slipping
away like a girl sneaking out in the middle
of the night, high heels dangling from one hand
as her stockinged feet drew sparks from the rug.
Sometimes you wander the house all day,
the fog outside stalled at the tops
of trees, refusing to rise higher and reveal
the world you hope is still there, the one
in which you're still a woman
some beautiful man might helplessly
move toward. And you remember how one
looked at you the first time you undressed,
how another didn't mind that you cried.
Sometimes it's enough just to say
their names like a rosary, ordinary names
linked by nothing but the fact
that they belong to men who loved you. And finally
you depend on that, you pray it's enough
to last, if it has to, the rest of your life.

-Kim Addonizio

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Best Photo From Montana

Hands down:

This is the magnet poem Friend Two and I created (he did most of it) at the Good Food Store in Missoula while waiting for our coffee.

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Home

from Montana, safe and sound.

And fucking exhausted.

More later.

*tm

Road Trip Stories

By the time you read this, I will be on the road to Missoula, Montana*. I have the first driving shift, since Friend Two is a known late-riser, and we're leaving at something like 7:45 am. Therefore, he won't be any use to me until noonish. My plan of attack is to stop in Salem for coffee (at the coffee bus I frequent), and then get to The Dalles before switching drivers. I've got newly burned CDs aplenty and am ready to go.

So, in honor of the Intensive Weekend Roadtrip Friend Two and I will be taking--10 hours of driving each way--I ask for you, fanbase, to give me your favorite personal roadtrip story.

*tm

*Did you know typepad lets you write and save posts, then schedule when they'll go live? They do. I love this feature.

Coming Together

I found a house I love, in a good neighborhood, and just now the landlord emailed me to let me know I got it.

I think I should retitle this blog The Littoral Zone.

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Poem of the Week

For a Bitter Veteran Student Who Is 24 Years Old

Shipped out, you learned quickly that
the First World wasn’t the only world,
that numbers always become statistics.

Now, you are back among civilians with
their vaudevillian worries. Judgment
isn’t meant for someone who has just

jerked off in a desert far from his gods
who actually came from a similar desert.
You tell me your fantasy was: a gripped car,

skinnydipping, a gun up the moon’s ass.
Write as if your life depends on it; it does.
Write about how you learned to curse

in order not to be cursed, how cursive
bomb drops were your chandeliers, how
you were touched only when mourning

for someone next to you. Right it, fight
the fuck you in your ballsy little boy
looking for his mother in screaming

nights. You will yet play strip poker and
be astonished when no one asks about
the scars. You will not die on my watch.

-Rane Arroyo

What Happens When I Fly

nataliedee.com

Miscellany

Last Friday, Friend Omega came up from San Diego to watch the Oregon Oklahoma game. He brought along someone--Guy Who Defies Aging--and we all hung out for a few hours. We went first to one sports bar, and then a second one. The latter was on campus, and filled with Sooner fans. I learned the fight song (sort of) and drank a gin and tonic. They talked football and show tunes, and it was frightening to watch them switch back and forth from the two. But we had a good time, and I'm glad Omega came up.

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Last night, flush with the new job news, I took the kids out for sushi (cheap sushi, which is not really cheap), then on to buy a few more school clothes. Thing One picked out two pairs of gauchos and two matching shirts, layered looking things with embroidery on the front. This morning, she dressed in black gauchos and a dark blue shirt. She looked like she was 8 going on 16.

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Friend Two is giving a plenary panel presentation on Thursday in which, as an example of how "language is used to obscure meaning" he outs one of my best performances from our pedagogy seminar, where I made up the phrase "discrete discourse communities" when I talked about teaching techniques. What's a "discrete discourse community" you ask? It's a small group, people. I put them in small groups. Basically, the only thing I contributed to the Comp. program is that phrase, and now Friend Two is going to ruin even that. Damn you Friend Two!

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I have this bad ankle--my right. Years of soccer when I was younger, a fracture, a few really terrible sprains, and it went weak on me. Now, I have to be mindful of it. I don't typically wear heels (already I am tall, so this is acceptable), unless we're talking chunky heeled boots. Yesterday, I was wearing a new pair of Mary Janes, walking downtown with my coworker, when the slight heel on the right shoe caught in a tree grate. My ankle made an audible popping noise and down I went. It was mostly embarassing, and while I was sore, I figured I hadn't hurt myself much. Until last night, anyway, when I glanced my right forearm against the kitchen counter, hit something in there. The pain was excruciating. Now it's a little swollen, there's a sizable lump, but it doesn't really hurt unless I press on that particular spot.

I know, I know. I'll stop pressing on the spot.

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Friend Two and I leave for Big Sky Country early Friday morning, the day my divorce is finalized. As it turns out, I will likely not have to appear in court, as my lawyer is going to present the appropriate paperwork to the judge today. It's eerily anti-climatic, all of it.

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I rented a movie. Which is now late. Also, I haven't watched it yet. Also, I still have my two old Netflix.

I think I need a movie intervention.

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Kari and I are still planning the Thankgiving trip. Right now I'm thinking Thailand would be fab. Kari?

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Silver Lining

I landed the job.

Thank fucking God.

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