Coming off a bender

While my sister was in town for a long weekend, the centerpiece of her visit was food. When I contemplate that statement, I wonder what images it inspires in your mind? Do you picture family feasts, home-cooked spreads, gourmet meals at local five-star restaurants? I mean, it's not often my sister comes to town. My older brother actually drove in from the coast for the occasion, so the entire family (all five of us) was all together, an occurrence rarer than a lunar eclipse. It would have been a perfect time to celebrate with fabulous food. That is not what happened.

The only one who knows how to cook in my family is my sister. I doubt it occurred to her to consider cooking a meal to celebrate the get-together. It certainly never occurred to me, because that isn't how it's done in my family. Cooking was our mother's job, and because she despised cooking, we grew up with canned green beans and hamburger patties.

Our idea of social food is Chinese take-out. My older brother has food allergies. I'm not supposed to eat sugar (among other things). My sister and mother eat like tiny birds. My younger brother will eat anything as long as it isn't from the vegetable family, and my father the compulsive overeater has gone to the all-you-can eat buffet in the sky. Even though we all have our preferences, food is still the center of the social time.

Food is a family thing, even when some family members have food issues. Or maybe that is where some family members get their food issues, I don't know. Just like money is a family thing, food is one of the sticky threads that snags you in childhood and trails after you the rest of your life, no matter how far you run. In my family, it doesn't matter how you feel, but it matters a lot how you look. People notice how you eat. Everyone notices if you gain a few pounds.

I picked my sister up from the airport on Thursday evening and delivered her to Mom's condo. As we pulled up to the back parking area, there was our scrawny mother talking with two older women. Mom stopped waving at her mini-roses and started waving at us. The two neighbors, who held two tiny yappy dogs on leashes, became the audience for the minor family drama that ensued.

Mom introduced us to the neighbors. We shook hands and petted the tiny dogs. I retrieved my sister's suitcase from the boot of my old Focus and started dragging it toward my mother's back door.

My mother grabbed my sister in a hug, gleefully saying to the two women, “This is my skinny child!”

I thought perhaps the neighbors looked a little uncomfortable, but I didn't stick around to find out. I rolled my eyes and kept moving into the house. I heard the subtext, loud and clear, though: This is my skinny child (and there goes my fat child!).

We aren't known for social grace in my family. My sister is the anomaly: She conducts herself like a princess wherever she goes (she's been to Europe, after all), but the rest of us are tooth-picking, armpit-scratching, conversational disasters. (Which could explain why my sister prefers Europe). We're all well-educated, but I fear we still exude a slightly sour aroma that indicates we hale from the wrong side of the tracks. No matter the Ph.D., my collar is blue and probably will be till I die. I mean, you can take the girl out of the public school, but... know what I mean?

I'm a chip off my father's block, so food has a special hold over me. This is why I don't buy anything but fish, chicken, turkey, and vegetables. If there is anything else in the house, I will eat it. Going out to eat is like taking an alcoholic to a bar and saying, oh, it's okay, just this once, have a beer. Live a little!

“I need to gain a few pounds,” my sister said as we perused yet another menu. Meanwhile, my mind was running in circles: Salad? I don't want any stinking salad! Could she tell how much I wanted the chocolate cake? (Or the french fries? Or the wheat bread? Or the cheesy pizza?)

“You only live once,” she said, as if she read my mind. At that point, she might as well have had little devil horns coming out of her perfect blonde hair. And a cute little pitchfork aimed at my bulging belly.

The rest of the weekend was the typical culinary nightmare. I get why my food-allergic brother avoids social situations. It takes monumental willpower to turn down food when you are out to eat with the family. It's just not done. Food is love. (And if you aren't feeling the love just then, you can focus on your food.) Food is the glue that holds family times together. If you don't eat (just a little bite of this amazing Belgian chocolate!), then you aren't on the team. You are undermining the team experience.

Clearly, I have no willpower. I know that. This is not news. As I wait for the wheat, sugar, dairy, soy, and corn starch to clear out of my overloaded system (the five fingers of death, according to Dr Tony the nutty naturopath), I reflect on powerlessness. My mother loaded me up with leftovers (week-old glop in a Chinese takeout carton, an unopened box of wheat-filled, sugar-laced granola), which I (eventually) tossed into the trash, but not after once again trying (and failing) to demonstrate that I can live life like a normal person.

As I recover from this bender, I wish I could say that I won't jaywalk again. But even on a good day, my mind is trying to kill me. Sugar may be a slow death, but it's death all the same.

How to know if there is a vortex in your bathroom

My sister came to town for a long weekend. The fun began Friday evening when I picked her up at the airport, and ended this morning at 7:00 a.m. when I dropped her off. She travels light, like the veteran globetrotter that she is. We were lucky to see her: Portland was just the next destination after Boston, en route back to Europe where I suspect she left her heart. She graces us once a year, if she can. She looks better than ever. Every time I see her, I wonder how she manages to remain young while I am speeding into old age.

Speaking of perplexing occurrences, I am not sure, but think there might be an energy vortex in my bathroom. I'm not an expert. Maybe it's a tiny black hole, or an electromagnetic event horizon. Or a really small localized Bermuda Triangle. I checked a map of energy vortices and it appears that the nearest one is Sedona, although many people claim Oregon has an energy vortex of its own. I've never been there, so I can't say. But I have been to my bathroom, many times, and I'm here to tell you, something wacky is going on in there.

It's not a big bathroom. The tub runs across the end of the room, under the window, where I have built a large wooden window seat for the cat. The sink is on the left-hand wall, the mirror is on the right-hand wall, and the toilet is behind the door. The original taupe ceramic-tiled floor was amateurishly covered before my tenure with black and white linoleum squares (same as is in my kitchen), which are now spotted with kitty litter and paint splatters from many coats of dingy ivory enamel. Overhead is your typical mold-spotted, pock-marked, spider-infested ceiling. It's a nondescript room, despite my attempt to describe it. The vortex appears to be on the wall just to the left of the toilet.

Time out while I go rescue a house fly. He looks a little groggy, like he's been batted about the forehead one too many times by a deceptively lazy cat.

Ok, now I'm back. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Energy vortex. My sister managed to survive three nights in the guest room at my mother's condo (which might be sort of like a small black hole, considering how it sucks life energy from visitors foolish enough to linger). She would have been welcome here, vortex or no. Maybe she wanted to avoid going home covered with cat hair and dust mites. Can't blame her. Maybe she just wanted to avoid hurting our mother's feelings. Whatever the case, she decided to brave the condo. The first night she was attacked by fleas. At least, we think they might have been fleas. Or maybe just one really energetic flea. I think a linen change resolved that issue.

My mother's condo gets only evening sun through one living room window. The master bedroom has one east-facing window smothered by huge pine trees. The rest of the place has a few small north-facing windows. So, what I'm saying is, the place is a cave. Maybe that is why my mother resembles a mole: She stays up late reading by one dim lamp or playing Castle Camelot in the dark. She sleeps late, swathed in fleece and slippers, buried in the dark depths of her huge bed. If she didn't snore occasionally, you wouldn't know she was there.

Maybe energy vortices run in my family. I never thought of that before. That could explain my mother's condo. Maybe that also explains the problem in my bathroom.

Here's the deal. I've had a battery operated clock on the wall next to my toilet for several years. I installed it while I was still working, when it was important to keep to a schedule. Now that it's not so important, I pay less attention to time, although I have battery-operated clocks in every room. One day a few months ago, I happened to notice the clock in the bathroom had gained time. Like, a lot of time. Twenty minutes of time. It's just a cheap battery-powered clock; I figured it had lost its clock mojo or something, although it seems to me that clocks usually lose time, rather than gain time. But what do I know about time? I installed a new battery, moved the hands back to the proper time, and hung it back on the wall. Within a few days, it had once again gained 20 minutes.

I took the clock off the wall and set it on the toilet tank, propped it against the wall. Weeks went by: It kept perfect time. I hung it back on the wall. Within a few days, it was 10 minutes ahead. That's when I started to think there might be something odd going on in my bathroom.

I'm guessing the neighbor also has a vortex in her bathroom, right on the other side of the wall. I know by the sound of her toilet flushing that not much space separates our facilities. Maybe she's hung a large magnetic bathroom ornament on the wall, directly opposite my clock. If I see her, I'll ask. In the meantime, I'm going to hang the clock on a different wall and see what happens.

I just Googled "battery-operated clock gaining time" and found out I'm not alone. Other people have encountered the mystery. A few offered some lame explanations. The last commenter said, "Maybe you are at the nexus of the universe or something." I like that idea. Maybe my bathroom is at the nexus of the universe. Or something. I can think of worse places to be.

The old gray maternal parental unit floats on the stream of life

Today I've been cleaning in preparation for the arrival of my sister. She's coming in tomorrow evening from Boston for a long weekend in Portland. I hope she notices that I cleaned the white squares on the black-and-white checkerboard linoleum floor. I also baked some chicken in the ancient oven in case she feels like nibbling some desiccated poultry while she's here. I hope the smoke dissipates overnight. Tomorrow I'll stir up some dust with my like-new vacuum cleaner. She'll like that, I bet.

Eddie, my cat, lies on my lap while I'm trying to type. He looks up at me and says what he often says, "Do you work here?" It's almost as plain as that Internet cat that says, "Hey." Yep, Eddie talks. I'm not sure what he's wanting... a drink, maybe? A back rub? To be a guest blogger?

Here, dude. You take over.

He apparently wanted a back rub. I complied, and now he's enjoying a snack in his personal lounge (a built-in sideboard in the kitchen, complete with bird-watching window, three entrees, a huge jug of water, and two containers of well-mown hand-grown oat grass. I should have such a life.)

Tonight an odd thing happened. My cell phone buzzed. That in itself is odd, because I rarely get phone calls on my cell phone. Odder still: It was my mother. Wha–?

"Hi Mom," I said guardedly.

She said, "Where are you?"

I said, "Where am I supposed to be?"

"Aren't you picking up your sister at the airport?"

"No, Mom, that's tomorrow night."

"Really? What day is it? Thursday?"

"No, Mom, today is Wednesday."

"Are you sure? I don't get a newspaper anymore, so..."

She sounded chagrined and just a tiny bit worried as she realized her error. I am feeling perplexed and slightly unnerved. I get that she loses track of the days. That's easy to do when you are retired. Or self-employed.

I wonder, is this a sign of a pattern, a portent, a harbinger of things to come? Or is this just a one-off, put it down to her carefree retired lifestyle and the excitement of seeing her youngest daughter? I hope she doesn't flagellate herself with this episode. Well, at the rate things are going, she might not even remember it tomorrow. I don't know if that is looking on the bright side or the dark side.

There's a certain relaxation that can come with old age, I think, for some old folks, anyway. I worked for a brief time as an activities director at a care center, and I met many interesting people. Most couldn't walk. Many couldn't talk. Some were anxious and worried. And some cruised through their remaining days, drifting blissfully along on the stream of life, from ice cream cone to nap to chocolate cake to ragtime music to family visit to fresh flowers to more ice cream, through the clockless days, winding down gently to death. I wouldn't mind going out like that, floating on the breeze.

We are all at the epicenter

In the past few weeks I've heard or seen a reference to what you should do if you have six hours to chop down a tree (spend four hours sharpening and two hours chopping, according to Abe Lincoln). Apart from a brain hiccup where I mixed up Abe Lincoln with George Washington (“I cannot tell a lie”—although I now understand that quote is attributed incorrectly? What the hell, people!), does anyone besides me feel just the slightest bit queasy at the idea of chopping down a tree?

I mean, we're losing trees at an alarming rate all over the planet (80,000 acres of rain forest daily is a lot of trees to be losing), and we all know that losing trees is a bad thing, so why would you even talk metaphorically about chopping down a tree? I predict that in five years using the idea of sharpening an axe to chop a tree to metaphorically refer to honing your performance through preparation will be so politically incorrect that people will shun you with hisses if you dare mention even the thought of tree demise. Tree destruction=not cool. Maybe axes will be outlawed. Maybe you'll have to have a background check to purchase an axe. Maybe there will be a National Axe Association, to help us retain the right to bear axes. Axes don't kill trees, people kill trees.

Speaking of which, just a few miles from here, here being the east suburbs of Portland, Oregon, a kid shot another kid in yet another high school shooting. Nobody wants to think about it (ho hum, another one down, tsk, tsk). It's interesting, however, to watch the amount of news coverage. It occurs to me that the media attention flows outward in concentric circles from the epicenter of the carnage. The closer you are to the incident, the more media coverage spews out over the airwaves. Since I'm within the ten mile radius, I was treated to extensive news coverage. (I watch the 11 o'clock news on the local ABC or NBC affiliates; I won't watch CBS news since they let Meteorologist Bruce Sussman go).

The reporters and interviewees said essentially what they always say when preventable tragedies happen, yada yada, hearts go out, prayers stay in, etcetera, nothing new there. Here on local TV, there were long, soulfully lingering shots of grieving high school students holding flickering candles (it's windy in Troutdale, out there at the doorway to the Columbia River Gorge), whereas on national TV you might see just a couple seconds' worth of flickering candles. I got to see how people ingeniously created little lanterns by shoving a candle through the bottom of a Dixie cup. Clever! And there seemed to be more in-depth explanation in the days that followed, compared to what I've seen for shootings in other places. This go-round included some curious introspection by the reporters (Should we divulge the identity of the shooter or not? Are we glorifying the act, or are we simply reporting the news? Ah, hell, everyone else is showing his picture, so rather than be left behind, we'd better show it, too.) I've had my fill, as no doubt you all have. Enough already. In 20 years, we won't remember. Unlike O.J.'s trial, which is getting a lot of airplay this week, too. If there was any rain forest left, I'd run away to it.

Last night I went to the local AMA-PDX MAX awards at OMSI. Those are a lot of acronyms for what turned out to be a relatively fun event, even for me, the chronically malcontented introvert. I wore my jeans, which aren't quite as skinny as I'd like, but actually can be buttoned, and over that I wore a long shirt so I didn't have to worry about the muffin top. They made me a name tag for my $45. Plus tickets for two free drinks! I asked for an iced tea; the server had to rummage through the kitchen to come up with a bottle of ice tea, guess they weren't prepared for any teetotalers. Along the walls, multiple tables laden with appetizers (salmon, asparagus, cheese in bizarre formations, and pizza!) I had two little pieces of pizza (cheese and wheat... heaven!) and found a spot at a long tall table.

Almost immediately a young blonde kid wearing, I kid you not, a purple velvet blazer brought a plate of salmon and asparagus to the table opposite me. British accent, a little dorky, my kind of guy. Come to find out he volunteered his marketing and design skills to create all the promotional items that were associated with the event. I told him my strategy of insinuating myself into an organization through volunteer work; he's already doing it! We exchanged cards. I feel heartened to know I'm on the right track. All I need is a purple velvet jacket.

OMSI stands for Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, in case you were wondering. AMA is the American Marketing Association, and I have no idea what MAX stands for. It was an awards ceremony, emceed by a fascinating creature named Poison Waters, who wore a slight beard, a tiara, and a gold lame evening gown. Most of the attendees were much younger than I, but there were a few grizzled oldsters (men, not women) rocking buzzcuts, plaid shirts, and long shorts.

I topped the evening off with strawberry shortcake, the effects of which I'm still feeling today, but all I can say is... you only live once, so yum. Won't be doing that again anytime soon, but mmm mmm.

Tonight I helped my mother update her Facebook profile with a picture and a cover photo. (Look out Internet!). She repaid me with home grown lettuce. Next week my sister the world traveler comes to town. Soon it will be summer. Nothing is different, but the air smells like hope.

Keeping Portland weird with the World Naked Bike Ride

You've probably seen the pictures by now, the streets of Portland clogged by naked people riding bicycles. It's called the World Naked Bike Ride. I don't know any more about it than you do, even though they've been doing this since 2004, and I live here. I guess people take off their clothes and ride bicycles all around the world to inspire people to ride bikes (naked or clothed, I presume either one is ok). My guess is that even though Portland may not be the only city offering annual naked bike rides, Portlanders are probably the most enthusiastic, especially if the weather is fine.

Yesterday was a perfect day by Portland late spring standards: clear blue sky, 79°, really great weather to get sunburned on your ass if you aren't wearing shorts. I was wearing jeans, because I can now (lost a few pounds, yay me), and as I was driving through the neighborhood I came upon a small traffic jam. Was it an accident, a pedestrian...? Oh, wait. Gleaming bikes, glistening skin... yep, those people are starkers. I caught some fleeting glimpses of flopping genitalia and one tanned behind as the owner bent over to fix something on a fallen bike. Just slightly surreal, and then the drivers got over it and we all moved on. Just another wacky day in the city of weird.

I've had dreams before of traipsing through town in the altogether, thinking nothing of it, and then gradually coming to the disconcerting realization that no one was naked but me. Invariably in my dreams, true to my inner empress, I refused to indicate that anything was wrong, staring belligerently at anyone who raised an eyebrow. That feeling of isolation and alienation is my normal state when clothed, and I imagine it would be about a thousand times worse were I to be unclothed in public. Well, fortunately, you won't see me parading my lily-white cellulite-riddled skin out in the open anytime soon. I don't want to blind anyone. I don't even like to show my arms, flapping as they do in the breeze. I'll condescend to wear (long) shorts to go jogging sometimes, but only if the temperature exceeds 80°. Those are the rules. You have rules, too, don't deny it.

I used to live with a nihilist. We liked to travel around looking for natural hot springs. We found a few, many of which were clothing-optional. These secret pools were written about in books: Hot Springs of the West, etc. They were always at the ends of long dusty trails or situated high on the flank of a steep, snake-filled scree. People packed in beer and got high and sweaty, sitting up to their necks in steaming sulfur water. Yeah, those were some kind of days. My personal favorite was Hot Creek, a foggy confluence of a cold stream and hot geothermal water bubbling up from below. Every now and then, a fumarole would shift and boil some hapless bathers alive. Hence the large sign on the trail leading down to the river: Bathe at your own risk; 271 (or some ungodly number) people have died here. Nothing like fear of parboiling to really relax you on your vacation.

Being naked in public gives you a new perspective. Ask any two-year-old. The wind and sun on your skin, nothing between you and your human life. I can almost understand the appeal of nudist groups. Wouldn't it be nice to live in a world without judgment or shame? Until it gets cold and you have to put a shirt on. Back to the real world.

What's with this twiddling thing?

Hey, all you chronic malcontents, here's a question for you:  Is there some new meaning of the word twiddles? Like, is it a new euphemism for doing the nasty? (Or having fun, depending on your point of view, I guess.) The reason I ask is that I can't understand why one of my posts is getting so many page views. One post is getting five times as many hits as any other post. Maybe it's the word frets? I don't get it.

Well, just thought I'd ask. Although, because this is an anonymous blog, five times as many hits adds up to a whole lot of not much. Don't worry, I won't be selling out to advertisers any time soon. Just keep on drifting by, and I'll keep on ranting about my strangely malcontented life.

It's late. I've been working on revising my website today, learning WordPress as I go. I am proud of myself, I wrote a few lines of code to fetch an image. Wow, look at me go, I'm like coding now! Oh, wait, isn't that jargon for oh, oh, my heart just stopped? Well, I'm so tired right now, I could be dead and not know it.

I've been receiving the Oregonian newspaper for free for a few months. I think it's a promotional effort to motivate people to become subscribers. The newspaper has reinvented itself into a magazine-style format, complete with minuscule fonts and color photos of car wrecks and unpopular politicians. It looks to me like the paper is gasping its last breath and will probably expire shortly. I'd feel worse about it, but today in the advertising inserts were two slick perfume ads. You know what I mean, those flyers where you lift up a corner and peel back a strip to release the scent? Well, if your nose is anything like mine (large, constantly clogged, bristling with nose hair), you would smell that scent (and I use the word scent very loosely) the moment you carried the paper into the house.

Which is exactly what happened. Once I realized my error I quickly isolated the offending ads and shoved them out the back door. The cat watched me with some confusion. I don't usually dispose of paper by throwing it out the door. But we are both interested in maintaining the integrity of our indoor air quality. All this is the long way of saying I'm going to call those numskulls at the Oregonian and tell them I don't want their stinky paper, even if it is delivered free to my front door (only once into the garden, not bad) four mornings every week.

Oh, and in other news, I got paid for all the academic editing jobs I did in May, and I used the money to join the AMA. That's the American Marketing Association, in case you thought being a Ph.D. suddenly allows me to practice medicine. Har har. I am now a fisherman. My strategy is to go where the fish are. Next week I will attend a local marketing event and hobnob with the hoi polloi. Yay. More networking.

I'll keep you posted. Meanwhile, stop twiddling! It's probably bad for your health, whatever it is.