Belle Curve

Oh Girl

2012-01-15T03:01:00.000-08:00

Ah dear Sinéad Marie Bernadette O'Connor,

Universal Mother. I have loved you long time. We had our babies around the same time. I danced my beautiful son around our dark living room to the Lion and the Cobra when he couldn't sleep. I felt you there with us, your magic so real.

I see you tweeting sweet darling girl. I want to reply, to remind you that you wrote the anthem (the one I sang and played over and over to my daughter hoping to immunize her from the dangers of a self-immolating desire):

I never wanna be no man's woman
I only wanna be my own woman
I haven't traveled this far to become
no man's woman

Now, I know for all of us (especially you, me, and my girl) that doesn't mean we don't like blokes. We are more than we seem, like all women. We are glorious. We must remember.

Moonrise Kingdom

2012-01-14T00:17:00.000-08:00

This looks amazing.

Thanks sfgirlbybay for the heads up.

Peace is Every Step

2012-01-02T17:46:00.000-08:00

My luminous mother and I once did the Portland Marathon together. I know! Can you believe it dear reader? What's more fantastic is that we finished! I do not enjoy trudging uphill. Some might call this laziness. I don't look at it that closely.

The marathon course is pretty hill-avoider friendly except for the approach to the St. Johns' bridge which offers a hill challenge, albeit a minimal, modest, most people wouldn't notice yet present hill challenge. On my way up I alternated between whining at my poor mum ("Are we there yet?"), singing James Brown's "I Feel Good!" breathlessly, and reciting this lovely poem by Thich Nath Hanh, which, along with my glorious madre, was companion to me on almost every step of the 9 months of training we did to prepare:

Peace is Every Step

Peace is every step.
The shining red sun is my heart.
Each flower smiles with me.
How green, how fresh all that grows.
How cool the wind blows.
Peace is every step.
It turns the endless path to joy.

And, today you sent this dear reader, to remind me how much I love the monk and the world:

The Great Bell Chant (The End of Suffering) from R Smittenaar on Vimeo.

Here is to peace.

I'll Be Banging Pots With Wooden Spoons

2011-12-31T17:48:00.000-08:00

Everyone is loving on this right now.

Happy New Year Dear Reader. I hope that 2012 is a kind and gentle year that brings to each of us what we need. I love you.

Merry Christmas with Bells On

2011-12-24T01:31:00.000-08:00

Granny's Cookies

2011-12-16T01:27:00.000-08:00

It's my birthday! So far so good. Start as you mean to go forward, so I took a long shower. Washed all the worries I am not carrying forward away. Now I am all shiny and new and ready for adventure.

Just before it struck midnight (and became MY BIRTHDAY!!!) I was making three batches of Granny Kelly's cookie dough. My mother's mother-Granny Kelly- must have learned the recipe from her mama. All my life, every Christmas my family gathers and we make Granny's cookies. We roll them out. Pick out our favorite cookie cutters (I am partial to the scotty dog and the bunny). Cut them out. Bake them. Sneak a few while they are warm. And when they have cooled, we whip up some butter cream frosting (never royal icing) and tint it whatever colors we want. Cover the table with waxed paper. Put out every sort of sprinkle, colored icing sugar, silver dragees, cinnamon red hots, bowls of frosting and get down to business. It can take hours. The youngest decorators sometime lose interest and wander off only to be drawn back to the table because it is covered in delicious sweet stuff.

Tomorrow after school my nieces will come and we will start the process. Then their parents, my little brother and sister-in-law, will show up, followed by my daughter and her sweetheart. My son will be working but he will be home in time to eat many a cookie. And a birthday party of my favorite sort will ensue.

Down in Reno my littlest brother and his family will be making Granny's cookies this weekend too. I suspect my mother, who is spending the winter warming up in her desert home, will make a batch to give to holiday visitors.

We will all be together in spirit,gathered around the kitchen table, feeling lucky, remembering our Granny and Poppa and all the love that flows through us generation after generation.

Granny's Cookies

from the kitchen of Florence Kelly to the kitchen of her daughter and grandchildren, and now her great grandchildren

1 Cup Shortening
4 Cups Flour
1/2 t Salt
2 Eggs beaten
1 Cup Sugar
1/4 Cup Milk
1 t Vanilla
1 t Baking Soda

Sift flour and salt together. Cut in shortening (I use my cuisinart sometimes, sometimes a fork or pastry cutter). In a separate bowl combine the eggs, sugar, milk, vanilla, and baking soda. Add in flour/shortening mixture until just combined. Don't beat up the dough. Cover and chill overnight in the fridge. When it is time to bake, preheat your oven to 400 degrees F. Roll the dough out on a lightly floured surface to about 1/4 inch thickness and cut out with cookie cutters befitting the holiday (I make them sometimes for Valentine's Day and Keenan's Day too!). Bake until golden, about 8 minutes. Cool on wire racks.

When cookies are cooled (after you've had pizza and salad and sung a round of happy birthday to me) frost and decorate. We make the frosting with varying amounts of butter, powdered sugar, milk or cream, vanilla, and a pinch of salt. Use a recipe you love and don't make it too thin because that is just mean.

As I will be making these later today (after I sleep) I don't have a picture to show you. Wait! I think I have an example from my son's birthday party 2 years ago. He decided he would rather have Granny's cookies than a birthday cake. Let me look.........

There they are. His auntie made a portrait of him being grumpy. His cousins have always called him "deeda". He isn't always grumpy. You can see we are very fond of sprinkles.

Transitions and Perfection

2011-11-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

I adore Roseanne. She is unapologetic. This is too rare in female form. Her show was a blast. I remember laughing to wonderful dialogue like this:

DAN: Ah man, we're screwed.
ROSEANNE: No Dan. We are so far beyond screwed that the light from screwed will take 1 billion years to reach the earth.

Roseanne isn't hung up on perfection. Life is what it is and what you make it in her universe. As a recovering perfectionist, I find this so inspiring. If you have breath and love, you are rich. You have it all.

I ran across a recent quote that made me smile. I was comforted to know she is still trailbreaking with the best of them.

"I am old now: gray, wrinkled, tired, and bloated, and my joints ache, too. But I am ready to come into my full destiny—as my childhood dreams predicted—as a Neo-Amazonian Pirate Queen of my own vessel: firing cannonballs at the worldwide culture of patriarchy in the name of all that does not suck. I no longer fear moving on to a better existence than this one, which is, of course, no existence at all. Oblivion will be fucking sweet after a lifetime at the mercy of my hormones and my biological clock and the twisted logic that produced the craving for a dominant male sex partner. I’m quite thrilled to say that at this late hour, in my autumn years, I have at last found a man who is more savant than idiot, and with whom the sparse occasions of physical enjoining of souls is quite sublime."

- Roseanne Barr on life post-menopause

We need more unapologetic, fierce, and female voices in this world. Bless your brave soul Ms. Barr. You are a treasure.

As I approach my last birthday in my 40's, I suppose I am seeking out role models for the uncharted (by me) territory ahead. I have, of course and hallelujah, my glorious mother as torch-bearer. She gleefully reminds me that at 50 I can become a member of AARP. And then she laughs. I have another year and not quite a month until that milestone. When, the universe willing and all systems go, it comes I will be grateful. To be here is the gift.

The Pleasures of Home

2011-11-22T01:35:00.000-08:00

Beatrice Wood the Mama of Dada

I am so grateful to be spending Thanksgiving with both of my children. My kids are so cool. Funny, wise, loving. They are my favorite people. I love them so. The rest of our family is spread out over the west this week and we alone are home in Portland. A quiet day, a feast, laughter. How lucky we are.

Also, to my dear reader Red Tara a million thanks for coming to my rescue armed with pledge, windex,paper towels,elbow grease, and a vacuum to get me over my fear of tackling big things. Before you arrived I saw landmines everywhere and could not find a place to begin. I was overwhelmed. I can not believe we did it. In one day everything shifted and I feel at home again. Thank you so very much.

Beatrice Woods lived an extraordinary life- one she claimed was fueled by young men and chocolate. This quote has always encouraged me when I fret over decisions and failure, "My life is full of mistakes. They're like pebbles that make a good road." She loved her home and studio in Ojai living there for the last 50 of her extraordinarily rich 105 years. By example, she taught me to romance my own creative life into being. I feel like anything is possible. Wow. I just wrote that. I believe it too.

Happy Thanksgiving to you.

11.11.11 Today She Would Be Four

2011-11-11T00:49:00.000-08:00


Photo of Maddie by her mama Heather Spohr

Today is Madeline Alice Spohr's 4th Birthday. Every day Heather and Mike have to navigate the treacherous waters of grief because their glorious girl with the golden curls is not with them. A birthday must be so very hard.

I have written a bit about Maddie and something of what I have learned from her brief and shining life. I love her parents. They are courageous, funny, honest, loving people. Together they created Friends of Maddie to honor the life of their firstborn. You can visit Maddie's site to learn about how you can team up with Maddie's people to make the world better for premature babies and their parents.

This year in honor of Maddie's birthday Mike recorded a song, "You are the One". Heather sings backup and Madeline's little sister Annabel was in attendance in the recording studio to cheer her parents on. Buy a copy! It's a wonderful song written by Mike. 100% of the profits from sale of "You Are the One"on iTunes/Amazon will go to Friends of Maddie to continue Madeline's legacy as a brilliant light in the lives of so many. For the links and more information please visit The Spohr's Are Multiplying.

Mike wrote to Maddie (on the occasion of her 4th Birthday), "So tomorrow I will try not to be sad. Instead I will focus on celebrating the day you brought color into my life. And while 11/11/11 won’t be as joyous as I had imagined when you were alive, there will be joy. Because it will be a day about you."

For everyone celebrating Maddie it is a day about a delightful little girl, a lovely family, unimaginable loss, and the exquisite joy of the day her parents met their beloved child. I will never forget her. Not ever.

Watching The Occupation

2011-10-15T17:40:00.000-07:00

I'm live streaming the OWS protesters and NYC cops in Times Square. Guess the broadcast networks can't be bothered to interrupt the football games. I learned that there were 60 to 70 thousand who joined them in spirit in Madrid today. Here in the Rose City we have our own OWS camp in the Park Blocks near Portland State. What to say? I feel so old and jaded.

When I was a child my mother took me to picket the City Club of Portland whose membership was not then open to women. And as a girl I saw that the efforts made by my mother and her friends were not wasted. The City Club began admitting women in the early 70's. Protest and assembly was a regular feature of my childhood as the daughter of two politically active, passionate people.

Sadly, in an age where corporations are people endowed with greater rights and freedoms than the people who granted them existence, protest seems so much more dangerous. I admire people taking action. I hope we can enter into a new era where the interests of the human person are considered of value, precious just as those our government so desperately courts and fawns over for the corporate "persons" currently calling the shots.

I retweeted ReformedBroker -Downtown Josh Brown's comment:

"But they paid back TARP!" Great, where's everyone else's interest-free, second chance loan? Where's everyone else's debt forgiveness?

Good question. And what further indignity will it take to make the majority wake up and ask the same question? What moves Americans these days? I shudder.

Also, I run into this picture all the time:

I think I've mentioned my personal political heartbreak. This picture, every time I see this picture, I remember why I voted for Hillary. I am no longer naive enough to imagine that this photograph proves she is a more compassionate person than our president, nor do I suffer from any illusion that her scruples would have prevented her from executing Bin Laden as he has done. But I do believe she has maturity and the strength of character to value substance over style. I can't help but question the sitting president on this. She was so much less invested in branding, pop art portraits, and taglines. The change we all wanted to believe in sounded so good. It was like believing in the tooth fairy and Santa. And sweet children that we are, we tried to keep up a good front after someone spilled the beans. Ain't no tooth fairy. Santa is yo mama.

I just float around in dread of the 2012 election cycle. Devastated that Supercilious Slutlicious Sarah chose not to run. If anyone could unify my people, it is the Thrilla from Wasilla. We'd all be heading for borders north and south and the truth that our culture is bleeding out would be a global statement of fact.

Despite a lifetime of interest, I try desperately to let go of any illusion of a participatory democracy and find a new outlet for my poor, weak mind when it turns it's focus to humanity.

I have this book on hold at the library. Thanks to MissWhistle I found it via this article.

I think for mental health purposes the scope of my activism will grow smaller - so tiny in fact that it will be invisible. For now. I promise if we are in the same place you will feel it.

Yes Ma'am

2011-09-22T00:46:00.000-07:00

Video Source (brought to my attention via littlest brother)

My Sweet Tooth To The Rescue

2011-09-13T01:29:00.000-07:00

So, this week is all about change. Change and English Toffee. I find that toffee assists in the many small discomforts that accompany change.

I've never been a skilled candy maker despite my excellence as a candy consumer. My friend Jessie spent a good amount of time trying to teach me the delicate art of toffee making. This elaborate ritual involved candy thermometers and a marble slab. I never seemed to be able to achieve success. My best effort resulted in something very like a soft praline, but never the crisp, rich snap of toffee.

One day I was cruising through a variety of pages at Instructables when I saw a link to The Infamous Benson Family Sinful Almond Roca recipe.

Intrigued by the idea that an infamous family was sharing such a recipe, I clicked through and discovered that I was a master confectioner.

The recipe is fool-proof. I have added some twists on occasion (malden salt, mixed nuts, chili powder) and each and every batch has turned out beautifully.

I note this here solely because in my rash decision to reduce my consumption of sweet things I had neglected the recipe for months. When I tried to recall it from memory it had vanished. This worries me as it takes just 5 simple ingredients to make a perfect batch. Here's the list:

1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1.5 tsp water
almonds about a cup
chocolate pieces

Melt butter, sugar, and water in a heavy pan over medium high heat.
When mixture begins to boil stir constantly with a wooden spoon for 5 minutes or until bubbling gooeyness is a caramel color..
Pour over nuts placed on a parchment lined baking tray.
Cover with chocolate (I use chocolate chips most of the time-about 12 ounces).
As chocolate melts spread evenly over toffee.
Cool in fridge.
Snap into pieces and eat-or like the infamous Benson's give as holiday gifts or party favors

So I won't forget

2011-09-09T00:06:00.000-07:00

I'm in LOVE

2011-09-01T20:59:00.000-07:00

And this from 2002 with D'Angelo:

And oh Lord have mercy:

It's official. Raphael Saadiq where have you been all my life?

I Love You

2011-08-01T00:12:00.000-07:00

I was married to a man who told me that I said "I love you" too much. That to say it cheapened the emotion (quick aside dear reader-major red flag-just trust me on this one). This man was not my first husband.

My first husband was a sweet, loving young man who took delight in me, cared for me, a kind man who did willingly abide me and my hysterical youth, my confusion of drama for passion. He was a patient person who had a deep faith in life's goodness. Naturally, I had to get away from him. I was so young. I love you Scott.

No, the husband who insisted that one could over do "I love you" simply by stating it more than once was my second, my last husband. The one who was invited in to shatter my heart. The one who helped me grow up by being so much a child. He probably still believes that I love you's should be carefully doled out like penicillin or anti-retroviral therapy. Maybe once per relationship. Never between parent and child. That I endured with him is testament to my foolishness and my vanity as he was oh so beautiful to me. What woman in her right mind would tolerate such ridiculousness? I love you Vivek.

Recently, I started reading Cherry Menlove's blog which is very sweet and right now a bit sad as her beloved struggles with cancer. She signs off every post with "I love you." Sometimes she adds something else too like, "thank you for visiting" or "I want to wish you joy in the small things." At first, I was a bit struck by the sentiment. I wondered how she could be so sure she loved me.

Now I know that Cherry is on to something and that I had just a few little kinks left over from a failed marriage to work out.

As my son can attest, I have always been lavish with "I love you's" despite the dire warnings and asshat censorship. I am fond of kissing and clinches. But I openly loved just a small circle of people. As my heart reassembled into a new and better organ, I began to feel certain that it's well-being, it's joyful thrum was enhanced by my ability to love in a bigger, better, faster pussycat, more, more way. It is also entirely plausible that one can love the unknown and accept that the truth of love is in the pitching, not the catching.

I am grateful to Cherry for the love. And I love you.

The Bluest Eyes

2011-07-28T23:44:00.000-07:00

Mendenhall Glacier

My obnoxious father is dying. He has the bluest eyes. I may never see them again. He prefers distance. He was born in Texas. He was an Eagle Scout. He married a beauty queen. He took his California born children to Alaska where he built highways and in collaboration with our glorious mother gave us a beloved little brother. He brought me to Oregon, my home. And left me here. I love him.

Savage Beauty

2011-06-28T00:21:00.000-07:00

I just received my copy. The cover broke my heart.

Inside, breathtaking.

As Susannah Frankel's introduction mentions, much mythologizing has and will forever occur around the late, great Lee Alexander McQueen.

As someone who loves the romanticism and drama of great design, for me he is unparalleled.

His creative life produced an inspiring, completely original body of work.

He made terrifyingly beautiful rags.

I wrapped this book in a satin pillowcase to protect it.

I've never done such a curious thing with a book before.

The retrospective runs through August 7th.

How I wish I could see it in person.

I am so grateful to have the book.

Put A Bird On It Portland

2011-05-10T22:16:00.000-07:00

New things for the shop in honor of Portlandia

I Remember Her

2011-04-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

Maddie's Portrait by her Mother Heather Spohr

Today I am honoring the big, bright, too brief life of the lovely Madeline Alice Spohr? I am thinking of her Mama and Daddy. Two years. They should not have to be without their darling girl. No one should suffer so. And yet, every day, everywhere we do suffer such unimaginable loss.

I look at life differently. I look closely. I wish things were different for all of Madeline's loved ones. I know it never gets better. I rememeber Maddie every day. She is indeed with the stars.

Cesar Chavez National Holiday & Week of Service

2011-03-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

Today kicks off the Cesar Chavez Week of Service. Cesar Chavez worked tirelessly his whole life. Never earning more than $5,000 dollars in a single year. He believed justice was our natural state, that human beings sought it and that it was the expression of our highest, best self.

I can not bear the news of persecutions, union witch hunts, repuliwhore rapes of our labor movement, our unions. Sadly, the agrofratards amongst us cheer the right wing on, forgetting that their $12.00 an hour job was built on the backs of people who accept the toughest, least paid work and still found energy to work for justice, workers rights and safety, and a fair wage.

You may resent that your tax dollars pay a state employee 3 dollars an hour more than you can swing at your place of employment. Seeing teachers loll around free as birds on their summer "vacations" (FOR WHICH THEY ARE NOT PAYED BITCHES!!!) may really yank your chain. Guess what! When our unions and labor movement fall, the prospects for all workers dim. And you my friend are not an agent, you are a cog, a worker, hand in hand with Cesar and every field worker. The grapes you're picking may not be poisoning you right now, but they surely will when no one stands between you and the overseer.

Honor Cesar's life and work. Tell your government you do not accept the republihate agenda of demolishing the rights of workers. Ask president Obama to demonstrate that he is not a ringer and explain why it is OK to wage so much war and destroy our culture in the process. Lobby to raise the minimum wage. Remember to buy organic grapes. Instead of snarling when you pass the guys waiting for day labor on the corner, thank them for coming to a place of such cruel judgements and for their willingness to risk our irrational wrath just to complete jobs we can not soil our fingers by touching. Tell a teacher, a flagger, the dude who is working on the sewer improvement in front of your house THANK YOU. Visit the UFW, sign the petition to have March 31st made the National Cesar Chavez holiday (it is currently a state holiday in California, Colorado, and Texas) and buy a t-shirt, read a little, write a letter, remember you are not alone.

Irresistible Mayhem

2011-03-25T01:33:00.000-07:00

"She was irresistible mayhem."

Joel Rosenthal,a jeweler, on his friend Elizabeth Taylor.

Women are the real architects of society. ~ Harriet Beecher Stowe

2011-03-08T12:08:00.000-08:00

Despite appearances to the contrary ( the entire planet's sick obsession with an aging, washed up, drug-addled fool who has a lengthy history of abusing the women around him-ask Kelly Preston who he "accidentally" shot), today is International Women's Day.

Ladies I love you.

To me the fact that it is only the 100th anniversary of the event is ridiculous. Who better to celebrate than those who bring life to fruition, those who are the center that holds, those who make the magic.

Spring Me

2011-02-11T18:30:00.000-08:00

Source

Dear reader I wait with bated breath. 'With bated breath, and whispring humblenesse.' Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice i. iii. 125

This week I notice that the sky holds light longer. Just fully dark now after 6. We have had sunny days and less rain than one could expect. I crave bright sun, a warm, soft wind, and the smell of lilacs in my garden.The problem with January is that it's hard to hope that spring will come. So much grey. Then comes the month of sunshine that is an Oregon February. Really! Still cold, sometimes snow, sometimes rain. But sunshine. And the blossoms peeking out to inquire "is it time?"

My best beloved, my beautiful child born 23 years ago this month came home with me on a late February day of bright sun and warmth. February always gives me the best gifts. The gifts I dare to hope for in winter.

Supercilious Sarah is a Hate Monger

2011-01-08T17:13:00.000-08:00

"For example, we're on Sarah Palin's targeted list, but the thing is, that the way that she has it depicted has the crosshairs of a gun sight over our district. When people do that, they have to realize that there are consequences to that action," Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords said in an interview with MSNBC.

Looks like that target she painted on Gabrielle Giffords work a charm.

Someone should prosecute the wicked witch from Wasilla for murder.

News media note that the bitch removed her SarahPac graphic calling for the slaughter of people that don't agree with her crazazy-assed, morally bankrupt political positioning. Yeah republitard, let's split hairs. You will whine, "She only targeted their political campaigns."

We will watch and see you for what you are as you desperately try to distance yourself from the obviously insane person who committed these acts. Crazy is as crazy does and The Tea Bagstress and her strap-on legion of un-patriotic, un-American sycophants should be put away some place where they will be unable to hurt others. A little too late for the young girl, the federal judge and the 16 others reported killed or injured.

Fuck all y'all who scream about the right to bear arms. GUN CONTROL NOW!

I wanted to blog about making and cooking and the sweetness of life, because there is oh so much sweetness. I suppose my grief over the state of my "homeland" (in parenthesis because it sounds so 3rd Reich-esque) is what calls me to write about the great shame that is amreeka these days. So incredibly sad that in a nation filled with gentle, loving, engaged people working for the improvement of humanity our crazy feckers outshine us all.

At last and thank you

2010-12-18T13:33:00.000-08:00

"I don't care who you love, if you love this country enough to risk your life for it, you shouldn't have to hide who you are. You ought to be able to serve," said Sen. Ron Wyden (D-Ore.)

Thank you.

I am holding a good thought for you Senator for Monday. Be well.

Gonna Have A Good Time

2010-12-16T00:42:00.000-08:00

This Weekend=Crafty Wonderland Super Colossal Holiday Sale!!!

2010-12-10T11:58:00.000-08:00

Check out the vendor list here!

And they have a bar people.

I am so there.

Imagine

2010-12-09T22:34:00.000-08:00

The Beatles were the soundtrack of my childhood. I can remember being 4 or 5 years old and spinning around our home in Juneau to their Sergeant Pepper album.

I miss John Lennon. I wonder what music he would have made. I love how he and Yoko almost leap into a kiss at the end of this.

Elizabeth Edwards

2010-12-07T14:32:00.000-08:00

I just heard the news of her death. I am sad for her children. Instantly I thought of how angry I was at John Edwards. I used to adore him (in a purely political way) and then he proved to be all too human and I loathed him and judged him for his supreme lack of decency.

Only a couple of people know what goes on in a marriage.

Life beats the shit out of us all.

I am so sad for Elizabeth's daughters and son. No mama. That she had to survive the death of her own child and the loss of her husband to his own ego and a ridiculous tart seems too much.

Even for her estranged and unfaithful husband I feel grief.

Such a high price to pay. Eventually we all have to pay it. As my obnoxious father says, "Life is a fatal sexually transmitted disease." For some of us life is a bargain. For others it costs so dearly. Most of us have the relative peace of obscurity in which to conduct our messy journeys and take our leave. Elizabeth had to buck up and move on with her life splayed before a world free to scrutinize her as if her days and losses were no more than simple tidbits of juicy gossip. She kept her chin up - the southern belle with a spine of steel. That she did.

Yo! Ron Wyden- remember me?

2010-12-04T21:10:00.000-08:00

So, remember when I told you that you owed Oregon a lap dance 'cause you had turned into a blue lap dog??? Today I am giving you a shout out to remind you of our history and to make a confession.

Confession first: I voted for you! Once again for the man I swore I'd not vote for under any circumstance. I believe I said we were through. Kind of like me and my Monkey Muffin. Only I haven't cheated there. ORLY you say. "Did you not tell me you'd never vote for the blue dog again?What's up with that ?" You may wonder Mr. Wyden and dear reader. I know I still do.

See, like most of life, it's complicated. I had my nose pressed against the pavement, jackboot on my neck, facists surrounding me.

In our sane state of Oregon where we elect-

hot doctors

instead of inexperienced tall guys (thank you a million times over to every progressive Oregon voter for turning out) whilst voting by mail and every vote is a real and counted vote, when faced with the ballot, I caved.

Now breathe. Then watch this:

Thanks Momocrats!

So, I am calling out to you Mr. W and all those other strange people in Washington. The unemployed need you to stop the circle jerk and do something meaningful. Extending benefits for the long-term unemployed isn't an esoteric concept. Anyone can grasp that it is almost impossible to survive in this place without a dollar or two. And for the love of dog, it's Christmas!

We need to believe there is some function the American government still serves on behalf of it's citizens. Please demonstrate that real people hold some value, that you may in fact be wholly owned corporate subsidiaries, but that you still have human parts-including beating hearts and minds capable of empathy. Stand up to your minders or be subversive-whatever is required of you to do the right thing.

And, if one of you (yes YOU Mr. Wyden) goes home for a lovely Christmas break without ensuring this extension or, worst case scenario, standing nude on the steps of Congress holding a press conference surrounded by the homeless, hungry, and desperate citizens of this land of milk and honey, screaming out with righteous and telegenic indignation that REPUBLICANS DO NOT CARE HOW MUCH MISERY THEY CAUSE NOR HOW MANY LIVES THEY DESTROY, I can assure you that the next time I see your name on the ballot, I will not fill in the oval with a blue or black ink pen. Because, since we have always had such a frank and honest relationship, I feel O.K. telling you that Earl is starting to look pretty Senatorial despite the fact that he once tried to kill my daddy with a canoe on the Nehalem river.

Hey! Look at that tie! Remind you of anyone Mr. Wyden?

Just saying.

Our President wants to cuddle with these rat bastards Ron. I do not understand why. Where is the change in which I can believe? Time to buck up and remember the wise words of my obnoxious father - dance with (and, since you still owe us a lap dance, for) the ones what brung you.

You must not leave Washington without first staging a meltdown of epic proportion on live tv and not just cspan 'cause I think I am the only one still watching it. Make some noise! Put on your pasties! Strip down and shake your groove thing. Not so much because I want to see you naked, no offense, but because it will in fact work at getting some sort of media coverage. You feel me?

What we have here is an empire in decline. Not necessarily a bad thing. We just have to adapt. If you want your serfs to keep feeding the machine, throw us a fucking bone.

I gotta go knit a safety net.

Do that thing you used to be able to do. Stand and deliver. I promise I'll love you long time.

A Third Birthday

2010-11-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Madeline Alice Spohr, the girl with the golden curls, would be three years old today. Heather and Mike's sweet, firstborn child- I will never forget her.

Heather wrote a beautiful post about preparing a memorial for her Aunt Kathy who passed away this summer. Her aunt traveled the world and when she was in a particularly exquisite place she liked to imagine her beloved people, those who were no longer alive, in that very place. She would imagine their joy in being there. While she was visiting New Zealand she felt Maddie close and wrote to Heather about what Maddie would have seen and loved.

This must be an excruciating week for Maddie's family. When I saw the pictures Heather took of Maddie and her little sister Annabel visiting the same beach on different occasions I lost it. The picture of Maddie looking out into the sunshine, her tiny arm resting on the fence, her windblown curls, it's breathtaking and heart breaking and I am reminded of the great love and strength her parents live daily. Their grace, honesty, and simple humanity are so very moving. I believe they are deeply inspiring people. Maddie's folks would make her proud.

Madeline's yummy little sister Annabel and her sidekick Rigby have made a series of wonderful films during the short time Annie has been "in the industry". They are a high profile Hollywood duo-think Affleck and Damon with serious acting chops and unparalleled comedic timing. They will make you laugh out loud. They will make you want Heather Spohr to be your very own mama. You will know that it would be big time fun to share a dream come true with a daddy like Mike.

In honor of Maddie's third birthday the Spohr's are making a special DVD of The Adventures of Annie and Rigby available to benefit the Friends of Maddie the non-profit organization founded to honor their daughter. Friends of Maddie is making a difference for premature babies and their families. It's a little present for her big sister from Annabel. Actually, it's a gift to the entire universe!

You too can be a friend of the glorious girl with the golden curls your own fine self. Celebrate a brief and bright and shining life. Help NICU families through some scary times. Step up. Be there. Let Annie be your guide. From litle things (and tiny people) great things come-LOVE.

Zut Alors!

2010-10-28T23:53:00.000-07:00

Time, time, time see what's become of me?

It's fall. Autumn! Torrential rain arrived in the pnw and guess who has a new roof? I am a lucky duck.

Quelle joie!

If only I can re-train this brain to stop panicking at every grey cloud, all will be tripendicular. Big shout out and props to you dear reader Red Tara for the emergency tarp that made it stop raining in my bedroom (on my tiny bed!!!!! The horror!) last winter!

I was reminded of the fact that it was ALMOST THANKSGIVING by the recipes in Sweet Paul's Magazine. Issue #2 was just voted best online mag by DMA (which is a digital media thingy I guess). I think it is my favorite magazine, digital or otherwise, for the Autumn 2010 season.

I've made the pate and soup and will be working my way through the lemon&coconut cake, orange cake, sweet potato and spice cake, and cupcake recipes for the next few months. Have I mentioned that I LOVE cake?

Bless his sweet heart. Paul delivers real treasure on a regular schedule.

I am also loving in no particular order:

Crochet

My mother's healthy new knee

Bloody Marys early & often

Tillsammans

So strange. I have developed a thing for Michael Nyqvist.

However, in this nostalgic fairytale my heart belongs to Goran played by Gustaf Hammarsten.

Insta-Dress Tutorials!

and always and forever

my tiny bed

Drinking my vodka and lime, I look around, Leaves are brown, And the sky is a hazy shade of winter.

night night

Dear dog the teenage squirrels!

2010-09-04T19:46:00.000-07:00

Dear reader let us turn the page. Enough with the raving. Summer we now leave behind. On to autumn with a new roof, some rain, a lot of leaves to rake, soup and bread, and the perennial signal that winter is imminent- the crazed teenage squirrel, fresh from the drey, filled with bravado and an urgency to do all the teenage squirrel related activities possible directly under my truck tires. The streets of Portland are a mosh pit for headbanging juvenile sciuridae.

Dang little friend! Slow down and accept your amatuer status. I careen all over the road trying to avoid you as first you hop directly in front of me, then freeze, then skeedaddle back the way you came only to zip back at me with a hearty bonzai and whoa. I have managed to avoid you so far but really, calm the hell down and read a book or talk to your mama about what it means to be a grown squirrel. Cause you are gonna wreck yourself if you don't checkit ok? Really.

Aside from suicidal tendencies, I adore autumn.

I'm Out

2010-08-12T23:04:00.000-07:00

I'll be here

Off to Lost Wages next week. Why Nevada? Why? I don't want to go to the desert in August. That's where the clothes are. Wish me luck and be good while I'm gone.

I'll be back!

Ode to my monkey muffin

2010-07-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

What a delightful euphemism! Actually, this is a dear john letter to you my beloved. We met just a few short years ago. It's been pretty passionate between us ever since. There is almost nothing I'd rather do, no where I'd rather be, no one I'd rather, well, "have coffee" with than you.You've really been there for me. Except for that time when you wouldn't take my check, which was awkward.

So, this will come as a surprise my dear. We are through you and me. It's just not working. And increasingly, after our time together I feel used and old and blah...I need something new and fresh. Perhaps we will meet again for a quick nibble or a walk in the park with a hot cuppa on a winter's day. But for now, we must part. I'll miss you but we were never really any good for each other. Buh bye!

Get excited and make things and then share them

2010-07-18T22:19:00.000-07:00

I am starting to find my mojo. It began with organizing and it is blossoming into something fun. Meanwhile, the delightful Blah, Blah, Blahg lets you download the image above in a multitude of lovely colors. You can visit the original art from moleitau by clicking on the pic.

I love creative people who share. Recently, thanks to my dear reader Red Tara (herself a fine example of sharing and inspiration) I was turned on to the lovely Sita Sings the Blues. Sita's creator Nina Paley feels the same way I do about Digital Rights Management. I adore her "I am the Content Industry" tee. You really should check out her blog and watch the lovely and tuneful Sita Sings the Blues- a film she created and freely shares with all of us.

When it comes to art and craft I believe it has all been done before and we riff on the tunes of previous makers. Naturally, we develop new materials and refine techniques all the time. But the creative spirit that is in all of us predates each of us to be sure.

There are artists I admire as much for their interest in spreading skill and knowledge and love of art and making as for their own personal artistic expression. Commoditizing everything is so fucking depressing. Believe me, corporate tyrants want to put a price tag on all of it.

Nina has a quote on her blog from Frederick Douglass:

“Find out just what people will submit to, and you have found out the exact amount of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them; and these will continue until they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress.”-Frederick Douglass, August 4, 1857

Shall we sleep through the sale of our souls? Comcrap wants to buy a piece of them at a bargain price. And that is but one example.

I was freaking out the other day ( as I am won't to do on occasion) saying really weird stuff about corporate/government conspiracies to control and ration/re or mis-direct the innertubes, denial of access, censorship etc. etc. etc. At one point I wailed something incoherent about "what will we do when they take over the internet?!?" And my gorgeous child told me with infinite patience, "Mama we will just make a new one." And then he proceeded to tell me all about BBS and the kinds of technical evolution he could imagine and I was blown away by the beauty of that mind. He made me feel hopeful.

Perhaps it is just this decrepit collection of baby boomer decision-makers that has me freaked and when we pass on the young will have a better way forward. At least among my child and his pals there is a sense of creative collaboration and problem solving that is inspiring. They have somewhere along their way learned the fine art of sharing.

As usual, an incoherent but nonetheless heartfelt post.

Dear Netflix stop freaking me out!

2010-07-02T21:46:00.000-07:00

O.K. let me think this through:

The Virgin Spring

(Jungfrukällan)

1960NR89 minutes

On the way to deliver candles to a church, the virginal daughter (Birgitta Pettersson) of feudal landowner Töre (Max von Sydow) is savagely raped and murdered. But fate takes a vengeful hand when the killers unknowingly seek food and shelter at the girl's home. Will the grief-stricken Töre learn the truth about his visitors? Set in medieval Sweden, this disturbing tale directed by Ingmar Bergman earned an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.

Recommended based on your interest in Arrested Development, Season Two

Which is described as follows:

Arrested Development: Season 2

2004NR3 discs / 18 episodes

With George Bluth Sr. (Jeffrey Tambor) busting out of prison and never-nude "analrapist" Tobias (David Cross) running into the arms of the Blue Man Group, things have never been so bad for the put-upon Michael (Jason Bateman). But isn't that why we watch? The second hilarious season of this Emmy-winning series (narrated by Ron Howard) brings back all your favorite characters plus a few more, including rival magician Tony Wonder (Ben Stiller).

Really?

Hmmm...no. I still don't get it.

Are you saying that

is like

Now Netflix, I know you like to tell me you understand me. Pandora likes to mess with me like this too. Lull me into a false sense of belonging. Make me feel that I am deeply understood and completely accepted. And then, like any mad-hot relationship, one day I discover you don't know me at all.

Recently Pandora compared the musical genome of Husker Du with that of Peter Frampton. And now you pull this.

It is safe to say you are bugging me out. To further the creepiness you choose to characterize my viewing as "emotional and cerebral" (which sounds like you are suggesting I need therapy) and use this as a basis for recommending films. How does this "emotional, cerebral" tag fit in with my ardor for Shameless and my endless passion for SouthPark?

Matt and Trey are so pretty!

What was I talking about? Oh yes. Srsly Netflix you are making my head throb.

I have seen both the Bergman and the tv show and I can't find any common ground.

It's sort of like recommending Carl Rove based on my interest in Justice or British Petroleum (RAT BASTARTDS!!!) based on my interest in clean energy or Miley Cyrus based on my interest in Paul Robeson.

I love you Paul Robeson

...seriously odd. I feel completely misunderstood. Or perhaps you know me so intimately that I have yet to discover parts of myself that would recognize such a meaningful yet exquisitely subtle correlation between Virgin Spring and Arrested Development. Ouch and Whoa...spooky.

A Bargain

2010-06-18T22:53:00.000-07:00

photo credit

Wow.

Did you know you can buy an entire gulf for 20 billion american dollars? Then you can trash it beyond redemption and say "What?" like an arrogant dumbass when asked 'wtf?' Sweet Deal!

I'm speechless.

Almost.

Oh lawd dog! Speaking of dumbasses:

Give me strength.

Edited 6/19/2010 to add this picture of a rat bastard hypocrite. Click the preceding link for the CBS news story about how the rich like to relax on their yachts while the ocean dies. I guess it's a power thing. Don't ever doubt they are wishing with all their black hearts that it was you they were defiling.They don't really get off unless their victims scream audibly.

Tony enjoys the regatta today.

What a small, supercilious prick.

I hope he takes a swift one to his stern.

Rat Bastards.

Dear Fabric Depot it's not me its you... I HATE YOU!!!I HATE YOU!!!I HATE YOU!!! Or why customer service is 99% of a business's lifeblood (the other 1% is cash)...

2010-06-05T21:07:00.000-07:00

This is not about Johnny Depp or John Waters despite my undying devotion to both

Hello Dear Reader. Let me set the scene for you. Just past 6PM on a Saturday night in PDX. Everyone else is downtown getting ready for the Starlight Parade. Yours truly is obsessed with stitching Natalie Chanin's rosebud stitch and decides, after a long day's work at her own retail job, to head to Fabric Depot -hereafter (and occasionally prior to) known as Fabric Creepo.

My beloved Mill End is already closed for the day and it is a sewing emergency. I need buttonhole thread.

As usual, Fabric Creepo, you do not have what I need, but I find a few things I want. It is me, about 4 other customers and 15 staff members in the gigantic store. I pick out some stretch denim for a skirt I want to make and embroider. I just need a yard or two.

There is one customer at the huge 4 sided cutting station. Normally there is a line at each corner with 2 employees on each side cutting for 8 customers. Tonight, praise the Rose Festival Princesses, it's just little old me waiting for the sole employee who is assisting the customer ahead of me.

As I wait calmly for a few minutes I am approached by two different employees. Do these employees want to offer to cut my fabric? Hell no! Each of them has decided I need to be herded like the stupid sheep I am.

The first says, "You need to stand at the corner of the cutting tables." She then walks away. O.K. I move to the corner. Then moments later another employee sees me standing with the bolt of fabric in my arms by myself, still the sole customer waiting at the cutting station. She also decides I need to be moved and tells me " Please move closer to the sign with the arrow." Oh, the sign a foot to my left? That one? O.K.

A minute or so later the employee who has been helping the other customer wanders my way to tell me, "You need to be standing behind the sign."

O.K. ladies, throughout each of these encounters I have moved exactly where I have been directed. I have not made a single sound or strange facial expression. I have merely complied with your need to assert your dominance over me your obviously highly annoying customer.

However, I feel at this juncture that its my turn to give some directions. So I say, "I have now been asked to move 3 times by 3 different employees and still no one will cut my fabric." That's all. Said in a friendly, if somewhat ironic way.

The employee looks at me ( in a rather self-satisfied manner imho but I am trying to spare embellishment for the sake of absolute clarity here) and says, "Well, if you won't stand where you are TOLD to, we will think you are being helped and we will ignore you." Then she smiles nastily, walks away, and does just that.

Bitch please! Have I mentioned that I also work retail? It is a tough gig. I know. There is no glory, only guts and not always your own. I give tremendous latitude to retail workers because we see some pretty atrocious human behavior on a regular basis. I have been at no time during this visit unkind or, up until my first exchange with the 3rd clerk, verbal at all. Now I am rendered speechless.

I stood there for a few moments just stunned and heart sick that someone felt so small they need to wound a stranger. I must have looked like a deer in the headlights. I was immobilized by such a sense of grief.

She wandered back, took my bolt, and said "How much?" Still in a state of disbelief I simply said, "Two yards please." She cut it and I moved quickly to the bank of cashiers. No waiting there. No directions for location changes either.

However, as I tried to pay with my credit card, the cashier kept scrutinizing my signature and then looking up at me with a very puzzled expression (which probably matched my own). Then she said, "I'm going to need to see some ID please." " Going to need to" not "please may I."

O.K. no big deal. It is good to be careful about credit cards. And admittedly, a $9 dollar fabric purchase is probably the perfect crime. So, I hand her my license.

She takes a good long look at it and then, apparently horrified, a good long look at me. She does this not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES. THREE DOUBLE TAKES AT ME!!!

O.K. yes, my license picture could be better. I look a bit like a serial killer in the photo and at the time it was snapped I had long hair which was today curled up in two buns on either side of the back of my head. But lets take a moment to return to reality. A $9 dollar charge that has been authorized by the credit issuing bank. A woman wearing a blue linen jumper and birkenstocks (for the love of dog!) with a wallet full of id splayed before you, and your thoughts turn to what? Robbery?

Finally, I snapped.

I said, "Now I remember why I always vow never to shop here again." And she looked at me like I'd asked for the cash in her register. I asked if she need more forms of ID, a DNA sample, or if she and her fellow clerks would like to take a moment to see if they could possibly cook up any other ways to make me feel more uncomfortable. I started to flash on Jack in 5 Easy Pieces (you know the diner scene) and yet I was barely making any noise at all-still in shock.

The cashier just next to us asked if there was any trouble and the clerk said, "No. She doesn't want me to check her ID."

My head exploded.

Then I detailed calmly and concisely (with, I am certain, an embarrassing crimson red face of mortification) my experience of Fabric Creepo's customer service during my 10 minute visit for this newly interested employee.

She apologized multiple times for my "being made to feel uncomfortable" which was nice of her as she was blameless and yet took one for her ridiculously rude team. She gave me a comment form to send in to the company and a card with the address. So, I am grateful for her attempts to be kind when all around her a sea of retail workers seemed hell bent on making me cry.

I love textiles of all sorts. I think I have mentioned that I am a die-hard Mill End girl. They may not offer 35% off sales often, but they are near my hood and have everything I need when I need it. Their staff is made up of fellow artists who are professional, helpful, and kind.

They close shop before I am finished with my work day. This is an O.K. thing. Apparently, assisting fabric store customers is equivalent to hand to hand combat or bomb disposal. I believe stores should keep human hours and workers should have time to be home for dinner. When forced to work past 6PM on Saturdays, they can not be held accountable for their rage.

I can only visit The Mill End on my days off. I will bear that in mind whenever I am jonesing for buttonhole thread, denim, embroidery floss, or in fact, anything textile related. Mill End and Etsy only from here on out.

I promise you Fabric Creepo I will never darken your door again.

Now I'm gonna go have a good cry and maybe tell Johnny all about it.

Wherein the pacifist changes her mind on the death penalty...

2010-05-19T21:39:00.001-07:00

The Bayou Buzz informs us that the State Bird of Louisiana, the brown pelican, is washing up in need of de-greasing as are her fellows the green heron and northern gannet. So BP, here's my take on your "little accident".

Here in 'merica we have a system of justice that is horribly flawed. We tend to lock up citizens of all colors other than pasty with a rabid proclivity unseen in just about any other culture. We also feel poor folks are guiltier and more deserving of prison sentences than rich folks. The persecution of Martha notwithstanding. Basically in the good ole us of a only professional athletes are allowed to commit crimes penalty-free. We love our rapist basketballers and wife-murdering football types. I mean honestly are crimes against women really even crimes?

That being satirically said (well, just the last question), we do have a justice system. And one thing that we try to do within this legal system of "justice" is ensure that penalties are designed to address and mitigate against crime. It is hoped that these penalties or punishments or sentences are a deterrent to willful misbehavior and in some instances even un-willfull or accidental, but no less egregious behavior.

For example, should I one day decide to hire someone to operate my forklift and neglect to provide them with safety gear and training, I would be held to account and found, at the very least in a civil court case, responsible for any accident and associated costs that befell my hired hand.

If through my negligence as a landlord who did not maintain working fire alarms and fire escapes, I was responsible for the deaths by fire of my tenants, I would surely spend time in prison for manslaughter.

And, I believe that if I was drilling a well for my neighbor and I had a device that would ensure that I could stop the flow or output of said well in an emergency, thereby preventing any damage to my neighbor's property and I chose not to deploy said emergency device due to my concerns about the convenience or cost of same- I would be legally responsible to restore my neighbor as closely as possible to pre-loss condition.

Now BP I am sure you are hearing a lot of "let the time fit the crime" talk right now. And truly how can any time fit this heinous crime? I am simply here to add my voice to the choir. And I am not as naive as my vacant stare would have you believe. I know you have a universe full of attorneys ready to defend your right to rape and pillage. Let's just imagine some person of conscience is driving the bus for a moment...

You have annihilated an entire ecosystem, very probably destroyed the only coral reef left in this hemisphere, and devastated countless businesses - perhaps permanently destroying an entire fleet's lifetime of fishing. And you have only just begun.

Your willful disregard for the natural world and the human landscape which you are exploiting renders you unquestionably culpable. You did it. And you have the powder burns on your hands to prove it. We need to put you down for the benefit of humanity.

I am not a supporter of death penalties for people. However, as the Supreme Court so recently decided to elevate corporations to the status of persons, I am willing to re-consider my opposition. In this case, I want to see you spending every penny of revenue you will EVER generate on repairing the losses you have caused, on making restitution to the countries, the peoples, the animals, and the environments you have willfully destroyed.

And then, when your life as a corporation has been spent to the satisfaction of all of your victims, I want you put to death. I'm sorry, but I can think of no punishment to fit this crime except that you British Petroleum pay the ultimate price. And by you I don't really mean all of your executives and your investors whether they be rich white bastards, pension fund investors, or the governments of the world. Those losers just need to be rendered broke. But you BP - Corporate Person - no BP, no more.

Here's your mugshot you rat bastard

I know we could get a jury to convict and a judge to hand down that ultimate sentence. We need to establish a clear penalty for destruction on such an epic scale (because then perhaps we could apply the law to weapons manufacturers and crazed, war-hungry governments too-you know what I'm talkin' about- lawyer types call it a precedent).

After all , here in 'merica we execute developmentally disabled teenagers and innocent people. While you may have some fools believing you are a people, we all know you ain't an innocent. And I am O.K. with this little aberration in my moral code. BP I want you dead.

Boys and Beauty

2010-05-07T10:48:00.000-07:00

A mighty fine mama

Elizabeth Cady Stanton with her daughter Harriot

Shout out to all my mama peeps. You make the world go round. You are the center that holds. I love you.

I also love the William Morris quote, "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful."

I must re-focus on this as my house is filled with dog hair and paper. Things functional, but not so beautiful.

To turn our minds to useful beauty, a brief round-up of my recent blog trippin'.

Sweet Paul has a magazine!

Amaretto-baked French Toast with Pecans! Heavens! I'm making the Papaya and Citrus Salad with Maple Syrup Dressing this weekend.

It is all, every inch of it, glorious. I am old school re: electronic readers and eZines, but Paul's magazine is so visually rich, filled with practical, real-life-possible grace notes- I'm sold. I'll forgo the paper and bliss out laptop-wise.

Thank you Sweet Paul for your inspiring, delightful blog and the reminder that beauty and simplicity are at hand every day (and meant to be shared).

photo from HartsFabric.com click to buy

Dear Kaffe Fassett I love you.

I am working on a prototype and need some voile (I say "Vwall" like Toile- chicks at Fabric Depot say "Voyal" like Toil or Soil-so odd). This Orange Jungle Paisley makes me happy. Your magic ways with form and color are a constant inspiration. Besos Kaffe!

Humane writing from Mig. This post came at an important time for me and I return to it again and again: Careers in Science: Balneology.

I was in my crazy tree and it helped me come down. One of the most resonant, beautiful, and kind things I've read in a long while.

Thank you for so many beautiful metaphors, valentine limerick contests, leads on blogs I can't imagine having missed, 10 years of Metamorphosism. When I despair of huMANity, I think of you like a touchstone.

Stephin Merritt

The Magnetic Fields 69 Love Songs is beautiful, hysterical, sad, sweet (gifted to me by my sweet brother ptj). I listened to it non-stop during a long family road trip through Mexico several years ago. I sing to it constantly. "Hey lady day can you my save my life again? My only love has gone away. Will you be my only friend?"

Stephin your voice is big and deep and masculine and fragile all at once.

Sweet Paul, Kaffe Fassett, Mig, Stephin Merritt, and all the creative men that inspire me (especially my lovely brothers who are such fabulous adventurers and collectors and makers and daddies), I wonder what you would say about the inspiration and influence your mamas had on you.

In their presence and in their absence, their love and their devotion, their neglect and their distance mothers are absolutely influential in our lives. As my obnoxious father says, and I often quote, "You gotta dance with the one what brung ya." The dance between mothers and their babies is sometimes sweet, sometimes excruciating. They made us, those mamas. I thank yours and mine for the invitations to the dance.

Boy Howdy! Welcome Natalie Chanin to PDX!

2010-04-08T19:49:00.000-07:00

I can not believe on of my heroes is winging her way to my green and pleasant town. SQUEEEEEE! Natalie Chanin has a new book out and will be here at Powell's Books on Tuesday the 13th!

She will also be speaking at PNCA on Craft, Identity& Commerce. Her lecture is free and open to the public. You should go! Srsly! Anyone want to work for me so I can go????

If I were able, I would love to attend her retreat at the ACE on the 17th. As it stands, I will have to wait patiently in the hold queue for the book and dream.

I just finished reading yesterday's grey lady piece on Ms. Chanin's partner Butch Anthony. The article is delicious and the accompanying slide show has accomplished an unprecedented feat-inspiring within this Cascadian girl a strong desire to ramble around the South, specifically Alabama, for a visit. You can tuck me in here:

Photo source this & next Robert Rausch for the New York Times

and there's this:
An artful life is what these two inspiring people are forging.

This is a quote of Natalie's from the article:

“Butch can work wood or metal, he can grow anything. He has an incredible way with the things of the world, whether it’s a tree or a piece of junk, and he has his own aesthetic about how it should go together. He knows the name of every leaf and every plant and which ones you can eat. And if the world ever came to an end, I would want to be by his side.”

Damn that's good and strong and sweet.

One Year Gone

2010-04-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

I don't know how Heather and Mike have survived this first year without their daughter Madeline. I think it remains a mystery to them as well. How can such a devastating loss not kill you? Throughout this most difficult year they have written about their grief with grace and honesty. Thankfully, there has been great joy for them too with the birth of Maddie's little sister Annabel. But their pain will always remain unfathomable to anyone outside of Maddie's family. As Heather has written, it is the daughter who should be present when the mother breathes her last. Never the other way round.

Despite the worst of all possible losses the Spohr's continue to create a beautiful legacy for Maddie while making a difference for babies and their families. I admire them endlessly and wish them peace and so much love.

To learn more about the girl with the beautiful curls, the famous Madeline Alice Spohr and her equally remarkable parents please visit Heather's blog The Spohr's Are Multiplying and the Friends of Maddie website.

I will always remember your darling girl Heather and Mike. Always.

Sunflowers and Blue Skies

2010-03-29T14:41:00.000-07:00

Photo of Elspeth by Tanza Smith from her website

Some days I wake up grieving I know not what. There's always plenty to sigh and storm over. So, most often, I don't puzzle on it too much. It is what it is or maybe it is nothing.

Today there is something. After reading Mig who wrote about justifying one's own existence (or not), I was reading Yarnstorm at Jane Brocket's little slice of the world. Jane wrote about the sad news of Elspeth Thompson's death.

Elspeth sort of enchanted me ( and I mean that in the "moved by magic" way it sounds) with her beautiful blogs, books, and columns.

I read a comment left in condolence by arusa that quoted a poem:

Why did you vanish
into the empty sky?

Even the fragile snow,
when it falls,
falls in this world.

- izumi shikibu -
woman poet of the Heian period, Japan

And then another comment that is one of my beautiful Mother's favorite poems by Mary Oliver:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Dream Work by Mary Oliver

published by Atlantic Monthly Press

© Mary Oliver

And lastly, I recalled this from Kathleen Raine posted by Elspeth on her own blog here:

I BELIEVE NOTHING

I believe nothing – what need

Surrounded as I am with marvels of what is,

This familiar room, books, shabby carpet on the floor,

Autumn yellow jasmine, chrysanthemums, my mother’s flower,

Earth-scent of memories, daily miracles,

Yet media-people ask, “Is there a God?”

What does the word mean

To the fish in his ocean, birds

In his skies, and stars?

I only know that when I turn in sleep

Into the invisible, it seems

I am upheld by love, and what seems is

Inexplicable here and now of joy and sorrow,

This inexhaustible, untidy world -

I would not have it otherwise.

Elspeth had that extraordinary ability to appreciate and nurture the exquisite in the ordinary and untidy. Sometimes extraordinary skills demand an excruciating sensitivity.

So, to make sense of the painful impermanence of the beautiful we can try words, frail though they be.

I like to look at my child's eyes. From his early days to now they are made of sunflowers and blue skies.

click on photo to see the sunflowers up close

They are as miraculous as anything I've known.

What is enough? Enough to convince us to stay. To see things through. To believe that there is something ahead of us or something right now that requires our presence.

To steady my gaze on the now, I claim the natural world, these eyes, and a quote that I believe originated with Pam Houston in Cowboys Are My Weakness:

"A death wish is a life wish, as love is the flip-side of fear."

And I will not judge another for their own conclusion.

Not You Again!?!

2010-03-06T21:53:00.000-08:00

Oh No!

Dear OPB,

For the love of dog how can it be possible that it is again time for PLEDGE Week/Month? Why?Dog why? How many years is it really appropriate to replay Rock, Rhythm & Do Wop? Seriously! Frankie Valli is freakin' me out! Have Mercy!

I've not yet completely forgiven you for the whole soft ball lob from Jim Lehrer to George Bush during the Bush - Kerry debates when your rabid neoconservatism reared its ugly head (as an aside, how the hell you got to good old liberal Texan Jim Lehrer is a frightening thing upon which to speculate. He was so obviously and deeply affected. It aged him overnight.)

So, back to what I once was able to refer to as pledge week-now pledge month. Is your target demographic really the over 80 set? Really? Because I don't feel that old. I am a pretty regular viewer now that you have mended your ways and put a little Public back in public broadcasting. I think Frontline is amazing. I dig Art Beat. I watch Julia cooking with Jacques religiously -it is my sole religion come to think. Mr. Roger's owns me as we have discussed previously. Sewing with Nancy makes me sweat in a good way. Do not get me started on Masterpiece Theatre. Zut! I have never been the same since I watched Glenda Jackson as Queen Elizabeth in my first remembered Masterpiece Theatre viewing orgy as a wee girl in the early 70's.

Heavens! I could rave endlessly about my devotion to you. It is an awesome thing.

However OPB, despite my obviously overlooked devotion to you, you consistently and quarterly wound me. Honestly, I can not watch Victor Borgia one more time. Nor do I need a quarterly review of the Big Band Years. I am also worn out by Ed Sullivan and the Beatles. That's saying something, as I bear a deep and abiding love for all things Liverpudlian. I hold you personally responsible for permanently destroying the Beatles-induced frisson I've cherished MY ENTIRE LIFE.

Shall we talk aerial views of Italy, Scotland, Ireland, and Greece to uplifting, ethnically appropriate elevator music?

These shows are probably fab when the viewer is stoned beyond high. But sober, again, once is enough.

Oh yeah! Suze Orman can blow me. She and her helmet hair creep me out and pleez with cheez sister who in this third world nation we inhabit has the resources to set aside 6 months salary in a rainy day fund? She tells me at least 4 times a year that I am heading toward financial ruin. Always a heartwarming thought. Well Suze, excuse me but you do not inspire me to give OPB any more money than my basic membership because, as you remind me ad nauseam, I am on track for abject poverty. As I said, "Suze Orman blow me."

And Suze, what is with all the weird jackets girlfriend?

Also, if Wayne Dyer tells me about that butterfly that came and sat on him one morning whilst he lounged in perfect mental health on the lovely lanai of his house in Hawaii because he is highly evolved and therefore in possession of a beautiful Hawaiian estate complete with friendly winged insects one more time I will expire. Hey Wayne! A freaking GINORMOUS red dragonfly once landed on me and convinced me that life was worth living.

I don't show up in your living room 4 times a year to tell you about it.

As for Celtic Thunder, Celtic Women, and the Celtic Tenors - I get it. My name is celtic. It translates to warrior. And yet, whenever I observe that yet again you are inflicting Michael Flatley upon me

or those weird generic blonde and redhead waifs that sing Enya songs badly 'tis not my Celtic blood which rises but the Viking Berserker who dwells in my heart and feels the call of a good and frenzied pillage -perhaps at OPB headquarters.

Now, you may feel that I am overreacting. Certainly, there are people who adore repetition of all things celtic, baby boomerish, 1950's US gloryday-ish, rockandrolldowopish, and self-helpishisms. It must be working for someone. It is your go-to fundraising formula. But here's the thing OPB, allow me to one up your own rerun mentality.

When, of an evening, I come home wired and tired from a day of trying to make impossibly unhappy people happy and all that I want is a cup of tea, my cozy bed, and a good Brit-com (and here we catch the author suffering from her own bout of regurgititous)

it pains me, nay, near slays me, to find that 12 weeks have so swiftly flown and once again I'm subjected to weeks of the same crap you've been slinging to solicit dollars for the last twenty years. Gee, next weekend I'll get to watch that creepy guy who bears a slight resemblance to Willford Brimley making Down Home Favorites and American Comfort foods on those weird cooking USA shows you love so well. And then, I'll have another chance to catch Celtic Thunder!

I have a proposal.

Please, please, please-the prettiest of pleases with brown sugar on top PLEASE just once could we have an all BBC Pledge Break?

We could start here:

Move on to this:

Add a dash of circus:

Revisit Grace Brothers and Mrs. Slocombe:

Kick it into high gear with my darling Inspector:

Schedule a week night with Basil:

And the Pledge Month climax could always be:

You would rake it in OPB! I swear. I'd beat Suze's projections for my complete financial collapse by instantly gifting my entire estate to you! Seriously squeeeeee!

I am a pacifist despite my inner berserker. But hear this OPB and let me be clear. One more of these and I may blow:

This one goes out to the ones I love...

2010-02-12T20:27:00.000-08:00

Off to a Groovy Start!

2010-01-29T15:55:00.000-08:00

Well done Oregon!

We kicked off a new decade by insisting on tax fairness. Every once in a while my fellows in the pnw surprise me with votes for justice (for example, our death with dignity vote, which was challenged and re- affirmed by Oregonians).

Again, well done you! This vote was much needed by yours truly as an affirmation of social sanity after the Supreme Court sold our democracy to the highest bidder earlier in the month (it's been a long drawn out sale-now complete. I hope the buyer doesn't notice the holes in the roof!).

I would also like to thank my Oregon peeps for the whole vote by mail deal. No dangling or pregnant chads, no corruptible Diebold machines (hackable in 4 minutes flat!). Simple is good my friends.

When my baby was younger we would make a big deal of trips to the polls. The first few rounds of vote by mail I insisted he walk the 12 blocks to elections headquarters with me. But now, it has become such a simple ritual-whoever is driving, walking, running, biking past drops our secure ballots off-saving a stamp and celebrating the fact that at least for this day, in this unique place, we are free to vote our conscience with a black or blue ink pen and a secrecy envelope and a signature.

So far, January has been more pluses than minuses. Most happily Heather & Mike welcomed Maddie's healthy and gorgeous baby sister Annabel Violet. I cried. Mama and baby are well. Life insists.

I, somehow ( I think via sfgirlbybay), discovered John&Fish's Flickr photostream:

I wonder if birds in Taiwan are indeed more colorful than in Oregon? Perhaps I am not paying close-enough attention. These photos are worth a look for the diversity of the beautiful,winged creatures so exquisitely captured by camera.

I finally have my own Rosehip Crocheted-edge Pillow Case from Beata! It's the one on top in this photo:

You can grab one for your own cozy, tiny bed from her etsy shop.

Baby brother and familia are safe in their new digs in Mexico and obnoxious father has returned safely from escorting them south to prepare for his first landing upon European soil. Peace be with all of you in the EU.

My beautiful mother enjoys the warmth of a winter sun in her secret, sunny lair. I miss her but enjoy imagining her basking in those Vitamin D rich rays.

Assorted nieces are insisting I watch Glee with them. How lovely is that! To have assorted nieces and to have them like you enough to plan movie night with you! So sweet.

My delightful son with the wicked dry sense of humor cut down the neighbor's invading bamboo forest for me and used it to create a privacy screen so that I can romp around deshabille in privacy (where are my accents?).

My daughter of choice, the glorious Alexandrea, has found her own cozy, warm, and love-filled nest. I am so very happy for her to be so well situated after so long a search for a home of her own.

Additionally, I have creative commissions to work on and a quick trip to market in Seattle next week to look forward to.

Supa Dupa so far is the verdict.

December=Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

2009-12-30T23:07:00.000-08:00

Blurry?
That's how it looked.
I'm now 47.
Merry was made.
Many Christmas presents were made too!
Perhaps we can talk ear flap hats and cowls and snoods and bunting in 2010.
Santa arrived.
Presently hoping for less blur and more peace in the New Year.
Adieu 2009 you were sort of fine. I won't miss you.

Thank You

2009-11-26T10:50:00.000-08:00

MissMazyMoon

We (being the royal We) officially call a truce with the universe (don't think we were winning any way) to offer gratitude and thanks for the following:

1. Keenan and his hearty good health and humor
2. Mama who loves unconditionally
3.Obnoxious Father who tells me he loves me
4.Family who hold me up, make me laugh, and play with me
5. Wonderful pals like you dear reader Red Tara who inspire me
6. A roof (less-leaky) over my head
7. A kitchen filled with roasting and baking things
8. Santa arriving promptly at the end of every Thanksgiving Parade
9. Creativity kicking in

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Despite the whine, I know I am blessed beyond measure.

We Shall Love One and Other

2009-11-12T13:12:00.000-08:00

Migrant Mother
photo by Dorothea Lange

"To feel the love of people whom we love is a fire that feeds our life. But to feel the affection that comes from those whom we do not know, from those unknown to us, who are watching over our sleep and solitude, over our dangers and our weaknesses-that is something still greater and more beautiful because it widens out the boundaries of our being, and unites all living things."
-Pablo Neruda, from "Childhood and Poetry"

I usually find Newsweek sadly lame. Spending time recently in various medical waiting rooms, I've been exposed to countless noxious substances like contrast dye for my brain-scan, various flu viruses, In Style magazine, Golf Digest, and Newsweek. With not a National Geographic, The Nation, or Highlights in sight, I perused this week's (actually next - 16 November) Newsweek and found an editorial by Julia Baird that was of interest: Seeing Dignity in Poverty, Dorothea's Lange's politics of respect.

Ms. Lange's photographs are mesmerizing. Her work-and that of her fellow FSA photographers- has been an important influence in my life. I will never forget the moment I cracked open Agee and Evan's brilliant Let Us Now Praise Famous Men and out fell truths that sharpened my teenage mind to justice and injustice and what it means to be human.

Ours is a terribly confused culture. We miss essential moments, attend to illusions, and deny our connection. While crying out about how blessed and Christian we are as a people, Americans are practicing an entirely different set of values. We reject the idea that we are our brother and sister's keeper while, at the same time, employing a religious moral foundation to infringe upon human rights and attempt to "reform" (or failing reform, to discard) those among us who do not fit our narrow view of the acceptable. Damn dear reader Red Tara, I am so pompous.

One thing I know to be true is that it is so much greater a test of your humanity and your courage to be poor. To be poor in America is to be stripped of your dignity and to have assumptions made about your essential humanity. There must be a reason why the misfortune of poverty has fallen upon you. You are obviously not one of the "chosen people". Perhaps you are not even American. Yeah, maybe if you don't like it here/can't make it here, you should just leave. As Americans we are raised and rallied to believe that we have been "chosen" for the winning team, to lead the world, to provide its moral compass.

As the health care reform debacle and the global monetary crisis demonstrate, we Americans are"not so much no more" the chosen people nor arbiters of morality. Rather, we are the formerly entitled who must now awaken to a world in which we are merely another group of hominids trying to make our living.

Will this old/new state of affairs lead us to a greater sense of connectedness? Will we discover the truth that we are all each others keepers? It is so hard not to be cynical.

As a young woman I studied 17th century French theatre. Moliere's Tartuffe and Le Misanthrope are favorites (Le Bourjeois gentilhomme aussi). I was in agreement with Moliere's Alceste, “…Mankind has grown so base, I mean to break with the whole human race." Ridiculous social conventions and the absurd significance placed on position and perception seemed to be unchanged in the intervening centuries. I renounced human-kind (except for a series of hot boyfriends- do not get me started on the latitude given to beautiful men in my life) and prepared myself for life as a curmudgeon, a true misanthrope.

Alas, dear reader, I kept falling in love (much like Moliere's protagonist) and I continue to do so. This falling in love with people kind of jacked my whole "unabomber-cabin-in-the-woods-I-want-to-be-alone" deal.

On an individual basis humans are exquisitely lovable. One on one I want to smooch you all.

We are also extraordinarily thick-headed and resistant to change. If you pay attention to history, always a fabulous idea, you see the regularity with which we repeat failed plans and political strategies. We relive the same plot over and over and over. Our memories are so short that it all seems entirely original. Every day feels novel, shiny bright, or terrifying depending on how the news waiter/waitress tells us we should feel.

We are either completely myopic or possess tremendous powers of denial as we move through our lives imagining that they are unique, all these moments we are spending- no one has ever felt thus, loved thus, been this sad, faced this crisis, lost so much, been as joyful, written this blog post.

I think we are weird.

My dogs have a stronger true north on their moral compass (all dogs share one compass). Like Dug in Up who says, "I have just met you, and I love you," they are willing to pitch in with your lot and see you through or go down trying. As the beloved Ani sings and dogs know "we are not here to see through each other, but to see each other through." Nevertheless, or perhaps therefore, we are amazing creatures. And we do have a deep well of compassion from which to drink- to get all cliched and stuff.

Each morning I wake not knowing who will win the battle between my inner misanthrope and my Pollyanna love child. It is all so very disorienting -that is until I see my son or I look at that face above or notice my neighbor Crazy Mary passing by on the street muttering epithets under her breath or read your blog. Then I remember that I just met you and I love you and that "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together"- So we must all be walruses.

Photo Source

With our majestic tusks and stately whiskers, we are imbued with tremendous dignity.

Updated 11/16/2009 to add that the universe conspires to delight. Right now in my green and pleasant town you can see Dorothea Lange's 1939 photos of Oregon during the last great depression. For details visit here.

Madeline Alice Spohr should be two today

2009-11-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

Photo of Madeline from her mother Heather Spohr's blog The Sphor's Are Multiplying. Once again, I'm hoping Heather and Mike wont mind that I borrowed a picture of their Maddie.

Today is Maddie's second birthday. She was born early at 29 weeks. She survived and thrived for 514 days. I can only try to imagine the sadness of a birthday celebration missing such an enchanting birthday girl. In her honor, as her birthday gift consider donating to Friends of Maddie and The March of Dimes on the March for Maddie page. You can see pictures of her teams marching all over the country last spring on the March for Maddie Flickr group.

Mike, Maddie's Daddy and Heather, her Mama have channeled their grief into acts of such generosity - supporting NICU families, leading the March for Babies in their community, speaking in Washington D.C. and so many other places. They have miraculously, honestly, and with great beauty shared the process of grieving their glorious daughter with their readers. So, I love them and wish them well and want to offer support for their mission to continue Maddie's legacy of love.

A Mean Moon and a Bullet-list

2009-11-07T22:11:00.000-08:00

Or something.

In addition to losing half of my hearing (Buh Bye stereo sound - you were nice! And I never told you how very much I loved you.) the last 27 days have been filled with:

My loved ones having "the" flu. Or maybe a flu. Or flues?

Prednisone withdrawal (mega-dosed to theoretically provide treatment for the sudden hearing loss) that is teaching me to stfu about junkies because I would lick a toad if it made my joints work better and stopped this melancholy. Thank goodness I discovered Matthew Good's Hospital Music just in time to get low-down and depressed. The Boy Come Home almost killed me. So lovely. "Strange to think we could have been so brought up by ourselves". Yep. I did just quote a song lyric. It's pretty serious no? Really lovely and sad. Not a good combination for a woman on the verge.

MRI to verify that no I don't have a brain tumor and yes I have health insurance and yet, I now owe $2,000.00 to Epic Imaging - AFTER my deductible and insurance payment for the thrill of it all. I know I got off cheap. It's the $1,800.00 tooth that has really capped (haha more like crowned) the week.

Root Canal. Enough said.

Driver's side door spontaneously falling off of my loyal truck Fidel. And it's really wet here. I need a door I think. So, I smashed it back on and now I get to take my debilitated joints, my melancholy vibe, and my throbbing face and fling them across the passenger seat to drive anywhere. Good times.

Post by SJ that has me thinking hard and my brain and heart hurt.

I ntratympanic Steroid Injections .

Today, after a very long day that saw most of my green and pleasant city washed away by wild deluge, I came home craving nothing more than my delicious, cozy, tiny bed...bliss. My needs are so simple. Sadly, my roof has decided to fail completely and directly over my bed which is now so profoundly sodden that it may never be cozy again.

I am not feeling well.
I have been sobbing so hysterically.
Awesome. I am a whiner.

Frida had it harder.
Lots of people do.
Dollface it sucks to be a grown up sometimes.

Oh Poor Me...

2009-10-15T21:42:00.000-07:00

Hello Dear Reader Red Tara. Long time no typing. I did go to Reno for the big pizza and wine fest and retirement shindig. See proof above. The pictures are a bit wonky because I was jumping on the beds of our Circus Circus West Tower 7th floor 2 queens room with my three nieces. We were all wearing our princess dresses, cowboy boots, and tiaras. You should have been there!

Boy howdy...circus circus...I could write forever about why I am not a casino kind of girl. Cheap rooms and limited space at PTJ's are my excuses for the location. Serious good times were had without a step into a "casino". Casinos, dear reader, are where poor people go to spend their very last quarters so that they can drink free, watery rum and cokes or 7-n-7's.

Reno deserves discussion. I judged it harshly based on a devotion to the Comedy Central show Reno 911. It is actually gorgeous and retro-funky. Many of the houses are constructed of beautiful red brick and shaped uniquely. My favorite looked just like a hobbit house with a little divided front door and a wild, curly black roof. Alas, no picture. I had to be physically restrained from jumping out of the truck to offer the hobbits all my gold rings for their beautiful wee little house in Reno, Nevada. Happily, my people recognize that I am not a hobbit and that Nevada and I are just getting to know each other. We shall have to see.

Nevertheless, Reno is amazing. You are practically swimming in Lake Tahoe or skiing -whatever blows your skirt up and weather depending. It suns and rains and snows and blows and blazes all in the span of an hour. The astounding mountain ranges that surround you actually take your mind off the Donner Party those same mountains so successfully trapped. For this distraction by their sublime beauty I am eternally grateful as I tend to obsess unpleasantly about those poor starving souls when in the neighborhood of the Sierra Nevadas. And, as we are speaking of starving, significantly, Reno has two In-N-Out Burger joints. There are zero In-N-Out burger joints in Oregon. Have you ever been? I do not eat fast food. I do eat double doubles animal style.

Anyway, today I was just going to whine a bit about poor me waking up Monday morning stone deaf in my right ear. Perhaps I would type a bit about how this might be the way I am forever and what that means to a woman who loves music. Even the sound of my son's beautiful voice is different. And I am panic-stricken and such. Meh.

Before driving by blogger, I stopped in to check on Maddie's mama and daddy. 514 days. It broke my heart all over again. So, nothing profound here. Except my otolaryngologistically determined Profound deaf-ness. And being half-deaf, well it sucks, but not as much as being all deaf. No where near as much as Maddie and her loved ones having only 514 days.

So, upon reflection, I feel a bit silly whining about being somewhere around 17,094 days old with a profoundly deaf right ear. So what. I'll cry about it later. In the privacy of my closet. Or, perhaps publicly if anyone else asks me what they can do, because that is so sweet and how the feck do you not cry when you have to tell some sweet person who wants to help you that there is nothing they can do. Heather and Mike must be out of their minds with that particular grief too.

I have noticed one interesting symptom that I will share with you in the fine tradition of digression that I must observe. I have developed what I refer to as Natasha syndrome. So named because in the episode Attack of the 5 Foot Ten Woman (hey I'm 5 Foot Ten too!) of Sex and the City where Carrie is feeling inferior to Big's new hot big wife, she regains the upper hand reading a thank you note written by Natasha wherein she of the Five Feet Ten uses"their" when she should use"there". Carrie reads this note with the incorrect spelling over the phone to Samantha or Miranda or the wasp one and says "she's a big idiot" or some such.

Yeah, I'm lame. I watched the entire series in one cosmo-fueled funk spent in my jammies with the dogs looking on sympathetically. I am Natasha and their is nothing sadder than half-deaf peoples who have lost there ability to use their and there appropriately. It makes plain my disability. I suppose I should mention, though it pains me to do so, that my doctors do not agree that this symptom can be attributed to my new deafness. Another reason I look upon most physicians as quacks -they tend to disagree with me on so many fundamental and obvious things. But, as part of my healing therapy, I fully embrace my diagnosis of Natasha syndrome. Their. I have confessed my shame.

But fear not intrepid one, I promise I have love stories to tell about so many things.

A quick list in case I forget:

1. My Beloved Son in college.

He will not thank me about the picture here. First day of school pictures are a tradition. I should probably ask..but hey, I've done it before. And just you hold up little Miss tidy driveway, back off about the recycling bins! It was garbage day!!!I seem to remember a 40 foot pile of bark dust that lived in front of your house for like TWO years! Plus, my neighborhood is gentrifying at an astonishing rate. I have to do my part to defend the urban farm vibe.

Wait, I am too sensitive. You don't judge me. This is why we are pals of the first order. Nevermind.

As my devoted imaginary friends across the globe who have traveled the distance with me from ingenue to world weary homeowner of now going on 22 years will observe...the stairs, they are still a problem. What I wouldn't barter for some fancy new stairs, a screen door without tears, and an un-leaky roof! Scandalous!

But this young man...he makes every day a special day by just him being him (holla Mr. Rogers!). Sometimes the quickest glimpse of him makes it hard for me to breathe and then I can't see very well because I weep liberally at his pure exquisiteness. I have never gotten over the profound joy of his arriving. He is here! And, HE IS IN COLLEGE! Oh! and I love Posy even more for this post. Oh heavens! the LOVE! Thank goodness he is a patient and fine old soul.

2. An amazing 4 days away alone with my glorious Mother in Rockaway and all over the flat-out crazy beautiful Oregon Coast where we hiked through bogs, under and over huge root balls of fallen giants, up tall mountains, and deep into primordial forest to visit the largely unvisited oldest/largest western red cedar pictured below with said glorious mama (don't tell her I put her picture in my blog. She is very modest. But I mean really, the woman is a Goddess).

Aren't they beautiful...I told you true red tara. And all the while we were in sunshine and green it drubbed down rain upon my little Portland town. How curious was that?

3. My obnoxious father's big hootenanny half way between his San Diego house and my Portland house at babiest brother Patrick's in Reno. A ball was had by all. When said obnoxious father wasn't busy making out with strange chicks he'd just met at his party (That's how we roll), he was head pizza chef. Here he is passing on the family pizza making legacy to the youngest of the many princesses present(most of us were still in formal dress). Kneading the dough is tough work for princesses.

Daddy is in charge of thick crust "Gutbustium" style, whilst his ex-wife, my mama with the good sense makes wicked nummmy New York style. The pizza of my youth - and I can make them both!

Ah! and here be the 2 and only brothers of mine checking out John-John's recent engine swap. We traveled south to the soiree in his beloved VW Hank- not to be confused with his Loretta who is a fire engine red hottie like his wife sfj. I was proud to claim passage on Hank's inaugural road trip. J-J had just completed a multi-year long vanagon engine to subaru engine conversion BY HIMSELF!!! I think he had some huge posse of geeks on a message board or whatever it is the cool kids communicate over these days serving as advisors. That boy (I suppose he is a man to almost everyone else having just turned 45 yesterday. But not to his big sister!) gots the skilz. Babiest brother ptj (seen here climbing into the engine compartment in hysterical joy) is beyond impressed...expect conversion of his vanagon someday soon. The boys so loved my old school VW Bus (white over turquoise named OttO) that they have garages full of VW Vans. I can take credit for everything being the eldest.

4. Summer left me all loved up with bee stung lips and a smile and I am so grateful for it.

Ah Honeysuckle!

I Miss My Thumb - A Sucker's Lament

2009-10-01T23:25:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl I was a relentless thumbsucker. I like to blame my beloved Mother who nursed me mere months when compared to nursing babiest brother 'til just prior to grad school. Well Mama, it seemed that way to me!

Then I grew up, had a son, and experienced the knife in the heart that is the self-weaning (at 14 months!) babe. My best beloved, my wee boy had given up all but his last night time feeding and one day, as I coaxed him to latch on, he looked up at me and very patiently said, "No Mama." Like a little, ever so patient god. Crappage. As you can see dear reader Red Tara, I have yet to let it go...much like that now grown baby boy.

We have discussed my hanging on problem before. So, here I will impart my tried and true methods of self-comfort for those times when life pokes you in the eye and says "boogerface" or "gobshite". These simple, good things have replaced my much maligned thumb (my parents insist it was the reason for my expensive orthodontia-I say that was dodgey genes) with their magical powers to infuse my soul with the calm. They are relatively free of vice and whilst somewhat addictive, not controlled substances by any stretch of your highly elastic imagination.

This month has been especially hellacious for me and for many people I love. I hit the wall a week or so ago and have been in a fugue state for many days- hence, I have no memory of how I have passed the time. From the red and puffy eyes, I assume crying was involved.

What finally brought me to my senses was a day of laundry (the disorganized person's quick fix), reading, sugar n' cream cotton yarn in the "Playtime" combo, and Ina's Lemon Cake recipe...throw in a few gallons of Stumptown coffee and I am almost restored to my former glory.

I really enjoyed the book So Late, So Soon by D'Arcy Fallon. I read it all in one quick bash. All my life I have had wicked bad dreams about musty beach houses and fanatical Christians. I think we can attribute this to, in no small part, my 2 years of OMSI sleep away Marine Biology camp in North Bend where every other group passing the rainy summer days was made up of "Christian Youth". We OMSI types were the unwashed, hippie element their parents had warned them about. They were vocal in their superiority, fear, and loathing of us. I heard no less than 3 adult counselors tell groups of roving christian young'uns to "Stay away from those kids. They're from OMSI!"

My parents neglected to read the fine details of the camp (this happened frequently in my youth and when I bring up the inevitable, ensuing traumatic experience-because I have a hard time "letting go" not having been a raging stoner or free love advocate- I am constantly reminded by both of them, "Hey! It was the 70's!Let it go!") and thus I was a very innocent 9 and 10 year old hanging out in the back of the bus with real live, non-innocent early 1970's teenagers! I've never recovered. I couldn't smoke a joint until I had graduated from college-and people, I lived in Eugene Oregon! In the 70! I graduated from the U of O in the 80's! I went to Grateful Dead shows, the Oregon Country fair, and a theater cast party with Ken Kesey-well, not with Ken Kesey, but he was there!!!

As the youngest in the group at Camp Arago, I was in charge of feigning illness or hysterical homesickness anytime one of the counselors started investigating the wild giggling in our cabin a little too closely. I was often laughed right out of the drippy, mildewy cabin for suggesting that we actually go down to the slough and investigate the collison of the fresh/saltwater ecosystems that were, at that very moment, colliding! Or that we hang out at low tide and count sea anemones.

I feel lucky to have survived. It was a trial and a feat I do not completely understand, for I had no easily accessible comfort. My thumb had long since lost its magic. I had finished my 45th reading of my beloved Misty of Chincoteague.

The commissary served fruit for dessert. Every. Freakin'. Night. I had yet to discover the comforts of tea and coffee and drink. And, saddest of all, I had no yarn, no needles! When you are a maker, e-h.s. (empty-hand syndrome) is a dread state.

In retrospect the only thing that actually saved my poor little soul was a scheduled laundry trip to the Pony Village Shopping Mall.I knew it lay just ahead of me, so near. Just two more days. Now just one more.

There, I was able to restore some brief but blissful freshness to my clothes, which smelled just as D'Arcy Fallon describes the just washed cotton sheets fresh from the dryers at her Northern Californian Christian commune - Moldy and Damp. I could buy some pens and a sketch book with which to draw. And it was there, at the majestic Pony Village Mall, that I discovered MASCARA, specifically Brown Tussy mascara. OMG! Make up! The thrill of it took my mind off of the disturbing sight of my fellow splotch-afflicted campers french kissing indiscriminately, every where I looked.

I spent the rest of that summer at camp practicing my mascara technique, drawing pictures of holothurians, and hiding from the uncool boys who were confused and hormonal enough to mistake a prepubescent girl for a potential summer lover. I remained chaste. With MASSIVE lashes...truly endless. Poor boys. It must have been such a painful, unrequited kind of desire what with my groovy, raccoon-like mascaraed eyes and all.

However, now as a truly growed-up woman, mascara, like my beloved thumb, has lost most of it's magical powers to soothe. So, in any existential crise, I now rely on the baking of things (with butter), obsessive, indiscriminate reading (which I refer to as literary prozac), and knitting bias cloths out of cotton yarn. Bliss. And, also, more productive most days than sleeping, which has always been my go-to, get outta your head method of self-care.

First, you must bake something wonderful like Ina's Triple Lemon Drizzle Cake.

Here's the drizzle part that you drench the cake with before it cools: Sugary, lemony, and warm...sometimes I drizzle a little in my tea too. See the little lemon peels?No? Ah well, once I learn to use my new camera all will become clear-er.

Then, while the cake cools you whip out your trusty number 7's

Hey RT I want these for Christmas!!!

and some cotton yarn ( I prefer the natural color for face cloths, but sometimes a girl needs a serious jolt of color), and follow this age-old pattern known by many names such as the Eyelet Wash Cloth, Bias Knit Cloth, and Granny's Favorite Dishcloth:

Cast on 4
Knit 4
Knit 2 Yarn Over Knit to end
Repeat until you have the width of the cloth you desire (between 40 and 48ish)
Decrease - Knit 1 Knit 2 Together Yarn Over Knit 2 Together Knit to end
Keep going until you are down to four stitches on your needle
Bind off

If you want to make a loop for hanging, crochet a short chain with the yarn tail.

There is a lovely recipe for this pattern here.

You wind up with a beautiful square that has an eyelet border.

Which you can then employ to cover your delicious lemon cake whilst it cools.

Then you should make a big, hot pot of tea or a giant mug of coffee and you will have comfort at hand.

Throw in a good read, a warm dog draped across your feet, some sweet music and you have comfort. Almost as good as the memory of that old thumb....

Now that I am back in the saddle, it's on to fall yard clean-up, fixing the slippery stairs, and planting thousands of bulbs! But first, a weekend in Reno (the biggest little city in the world) with family to celebrate my obnoxious father's retirement and move to Ouray. Cheers!

P.S. I feel it is only fitting to close with the obvious comfort-ne joy! of being right (as in correct or just). Evidently Senator Wyden, on Tuesday (obviously after reading my blog), came out in support of a public option. I am now ready to re-evaluate our relationship. I feel the love people. I feel the love.

A Good Thing - Sisters keep doing it for themselves and their fellows

2009-09-28T12:10:00.000-07:00

Recently I sent you, my dear reader Red Tara, and my family an email blast in praise of Speaker Nancy Pelos i's insistance that a public option was mandatory. Alas, like most of my deep thoughts it dropped like a stone into the well that is your collective psyche and made not a ripple. But there is, surely, no way you can ignore the transcendent beauty and courage of the subject of this morning's rant, I mean email, which reads,

"...how about this one...burned at the stake for having a vagina and being slightly crazy just like Joan of Arc, the divine Ms. Martha Stewart, patron Saint of home keeping and quality crafting, today hosted that pariah of American culture, who wants us all to wind up Cuban communists, Michael Moore (bless his soul-he won an academy award remember???LOVE you Michael!)."

Watch it here.

Martha asked the big questions and let that dangerous, seditious Michael talk all about the economy, health care reality and reform, and his new film Capitalism, a love story (I bet Mr. Geithner has screened it). She even permitted him to interact with audience members. One of them was British and that gave Michael an opening to compare and contrast health security in civilized vs. un-civilized nations (like England vs. America). On housefrau TV time!

Martha, like Joan and so many other sisters before her, has experience enough to know there is reason to be afraid. Yet she remains unbowed and willing to offend. I love that in a woman! I believe it has always been an essential and ever so elusive character trait. One that tends to be screamed, beaten, shot, burned, or hung out of us with a sad regularity.

Thank goodness I'd clicked over from my new telenovela, which I can not figure out except that there is a hot futbol player enamorado con this angelic madre who make tortillas in a mercado with her mother and sister and has a young son who is in love with a gangster's daughter......I think it's Venezulan, my favorite.

The tangent problem rears its ugly head again.

Martha is a big old capitalist who understands that she is her brother and her sister's keeper....where's that Blow-hard Bloomberg or Mr. Gates or even Opie Wimpy who is spending waaaay too much time on her show with junkies like Mackenzie Phillips? Nowhere near this discussion so far.

Martha has hosted some of my favorite craft artists like Emily from Inside a Black Apple. She apparently has multiple boyfriends. Always an intelligent strategy. Works out every day so she can kick butt. Likes a stiff drink. Eats butter. Martha is a woman of a "certain age" - that age being 68--who is still large and in-charge and getting some and working it.

Exhibit A, her ad for the Dairyfarmers:

I am proud to send Martha and Nancy (who had been a fixture of my shit list) and all my sisters who make noise when they would be safer keeping quiet a shout out!!!Way to go ladies...drag those boys into a new millennium.

What's up with the lap dog? Or why Ron Wyden owes Oregon a lap dance.

2009-09-24T00:50:00.000-07:00

Source Portland Jobs With Justice

I may have mentioned that I no longer speak to, endorse, support financially, or would dine with Sen. Ron Wyden. At one time I would have given the man a kidney. Alas, no more. Blue dog, lap dog, old dog whatever...he needs to stand down. Now. As I have mentioned in my many letters to him, he is woefully out of touch with the interests and desires of his constituents. Unless of course, he has decided to come clean about the fact that his constituents are health insurance companies and big pharmaceutical corporations. Wtf Ron?

When Sen. Wyden's office stopped answering their phones (the day he signed with a bunch of republiwhatevers for a "slow down" on health reform) I spoke to someone in Sen. Jeff Merkley's office. I asked them wtf was up with Ron? They were as mystified as the rest of us. I asked the staffer to run down the hall or up the stairs or whatever and check to see if a pod had been placed under Ron's desk. We had a brief laugh and then much weeping ensued.

"Sage politicos" who wonk out regularly tell me that this is nothing new. How naive of me to think a good democrat is a democrat who gives a rat's ass about people. The pansification of my party is a fact. I am having a very difficult time getting over this particular grief. Heaven help us when all the good liberals start pocketing blood money from the evil empire. As that NRA bad boy told us, "Soylent Green is People!"

Who do I vote for now? Politicians with the strength of character to make things happen (which is why I voted for Hillary-she has the ovaries to take on the tough challlenges) have left the building. Apparently, the idiots, "consensus-builders" and criminals stayed behind to run the show in Washington. My kingdom for an FDR or an LBJ right now. I'd even endorse Elizabeth Tudor. At this point a monarch might be an improvement.

I am completely disenfranchised.

Thanks to the SF Chronicle you too can use this handy tool to see how sticky your lap dogs fingers are.

Here's how Oregon breaks down:

State Party Chamber Member of Congress TotalDescending
Oregon Democrat Senate Sen. Ron Wyden $261,550
Oregon Democrat House Rep. Earl Blumenauer $44,500
Oregon Republican House Rep. Greg Walden $42,150
Oregon Democrat House Rep. Kurt Schrader $27,651
Oregon Democrat Senate Sen. Jeff Merkley $19,000
Oregon Democrat House Rep. David Wu $7,000
Oregon Democrat House Rep. Peter DeFazio $3,000

Seriously Senator Wyden? $261,550.00 in 2009 with a whole fiscal quarter left to report?

And Earl check yourself! More than the republicat! Dude, so not good.

"Dear k", you may ask, "Why do you torture yourself over health care reform and the fact that all politicians are corrupt? You are so boring. Is it because you don't have insurance?"

No, dear reader. After several years without, I now have a policy. But my son does not. And one in four people I meet do not. We are all (but the lucky few) underinsured. And it is a financial stress and prominent nightmare for almost all Americans.

Take a moment to imagine what health security would feel like.

Doesn't that feel amazing?

What space would be freed in your psyche? In your wallet?

"Fascism wants Baptism coast to coast," according to Ken Kesey.

Death panels! Rationing!Unplugging Granny!Waiting forever for tests! No boob jobs on demand! Teeth like the English! (that one is just plain mean, most of my imaginary friends are English, and I think dentists contributed more to humankind when they also cut hair). How barbaric!

These fallacies have been brought to you by the same people who invented the fun summer pastime "Tea Bagging".

For the love of dog, if you can't google the name you pick for your latest great idea for political action you shouldn't be allowed to carry weapons and assemble. Do you hear me Dick?

I was so impressed when Heather Spohr, Maddie's mother, wrote about her insurance experiences and COBRA. She felt it was more important to tell the truth than to worry she might offend someone. That is an impressive ethic for a mommy blogger. And I don't mean to dismiss other mommy bloggers in any way. I am aware of the fact that many blogs are carefully edited to offend the fewest number of visitors. My strengths lie elsewhere.

This is not a political blog any more than it is a cooking blog, a yarn blog, or a blog all about how much I wish Maddie was still alive and I do so wish that. It's just that these things make up my day and fill my head and I believe they should be considered. I need to mark the point at which my political party broke my heart - right here and right now over health security for all.

Henceforth, dear reader, I am all about term limits and campaign finance reform and a socialist party wouldn't hurt us one little bit. I am great at sharing and I bet you are too. But I'll try to spare you that crap and write a little about my trip to the beach with my gorgeous Mum or my obsession with bias knit wash cloths.

9/24/09 Updated to add: Whoa! Anyone else notice the hits from Washington, District of Columbia in my little feedjit widget? And, the President sent me an email on an address I NEVER use for correspondence with the government. He hasn't written in such a long time. Wow! How cool is that? Or maybe it's scary? No, definitely cool.

His Wild Card says Universal, Single-payer, NOW!

2009-08-26T21:58:00.000-07:00

My father died last year. And then he didn't die. He is such a tough bastard, it was hard to imagine anything could ever kill him. I'd certainly spent many an impassioned moment trying to will him into oblivion. And he spent decades "scandalizing my name". When possible, I returned the favor.

Last year, a knee replacement turned into a hospital-acquired infection that took on every part of his body. I am serious about that -every part from stem to stern...head to toes. There were multiple surgeries-I lost count at 9, lots of times he was "almost dead", 3 sets of new knees, spinal abscesses debrided and discs collapsed, months of rehab, IV antibiotic therapy we had to manage at home, cath bags I got to carry everywhere and change, wheel chairs, physical and occupational therapy. You know, the shit no one tells you you will be doing all day once your kids leave for college.

My father is a very busy, opinionated, intelligent, hard-working man. He climbs mountains, cross country skis, does search and rescue stuff with Marines. He does not have much talent for sitting still or being unwell. My brothers and I each spent weeks as his carers. This was all the more challenging because he chooses to live a thousand miles from any of us. It was a humbling experience for everyone. It taught me that no matter how many issues I thought I had with the man, he is my Daddy, he has a ferocious will to live, and I love him. All the "baggage", all the dumb-ass stuff he has done and will (hallelujah!) do became meaningless in the face of his being permanently gone.

Forgive me. I know it is getting a bit sentimental. I have a point. Just bear with me dear reader. I know this is sort of "illness as blessing" cliche claptrap. You have heard it before. But honestly, it truly was, in so many ways, a gift to me to be so intimately reconnected with him, to care for him, to advocate for him when he could not do so for himself. A very painful and exhausting and life-changing gift. That staph infection was able to kill his toe nail fungus, but it could not whip him. It tried hard. He is a seriously tough mofo. He is back to hiking, climbing things, watching for fires on remote mountains for fun on his weekends, and working full time as a civil engineer. Feck you staph infection you rat bastard!

I bring this up for 2 reasons. First, my obnoxious father would be dead if he did not have the finest health insurance and the ability to write $20, 000.00 checks every time that finest health insurer wouldn't pony up the money required for LIFESAVING treatment. Either one without the other and he'd be my "late and obnoxious" father. He was in the ICU, looking and acting like a dead man, and the Blues were micromanaging every freakin' step his highly skilled team of physicians tried to take...many of these steps the Blues felt were beyond the terms of his very comprehensive policy. We, his team, did not. But what do we know? The piece de resistance (shout out to the French because you will be hosting said obnoxious, wine-seeking father next spring!) - his INSURERS- were expecting him to negotiate the finer points of saving his own life whilst being completely unable to communicate. Or maintain a blood pressure. Essentially, they had amortized my father and found that it was time to write him off entirely. Crap. Just when I'd found out he was such a terrific deal! WTF?

Here I want to give a BIG SHOUT OUT to Advance Directives. I am telling you loud and proud...get one and put it in the proper hands. Let those highly educated offspring write checks on your behalf with your power of attorney. Let them speak with authority and act as you wish them to. It can save your life or ease your leaving - whichever you choose - not some "death panel" despite what fools scream at town hall meetings. I've seen it happen. I applied said advanced directives myself (lots- o- times baby!It was a breeze after the first go) to a very scary situmacado and it worked a charm! Then he survived and I had to give 'em back. Happily, I still have that "unplug the bugger" card to play!

So, to those of you out there who are happy with your health insurance I say, "Hi Dumb-ass, happy your meds have kicked in." and "So was my father." I am here to tell you (yes I know I say that a lot-I got it from my father), and thankfully so is he, that if he were not a rich, white dude, he would have been a highly insured dead man. I'm serious about this and everyone in their right mind is as well. Something has got to give. Even if our political "leaders" (who are the best money can buy!where oh where is that change I can believe in Mr. President?) are unwilling, the current system is unsustainable. And my child and theirs and even yours will know health security one day. Because we are Americans. We are not animals.

Just sayin'.

And secondly, tonight my father told me that of all his legions of children he always thinks of me as his wild card. "The other 3 are fairly predictable. Whatcha see is whatcha get," he says, "but not you". "Could be a couple of deuces. Could be a full house. You just never know."

How feckin' awesome is that?!

As his only biological daughter (which is a bio-hazard kind of deal and mentioned only to indicate that he has another daughter who is free of his genes and, therefore, a superior specimen), I can't adequately express how delightful that statement is to me. Just beautiful. One of the nicest things he has ever said to me. Thanks Daddy. And thank you for teaching me to swear when I was a toddler. That has provided me with years of entertainment just watching my lovely mother turn pink.

So, dear reader Red Tara I conclude -can you believe it- and I thank you for the link to http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays. I am so happy my Dad can say shit to me too.

Don't Touch That Thing or Pandora is Whoa! Interesting!

2009-08-13T00:37:00.000-07:00

So, I have a Pandora station for River Deep, Mountain High. I loves me my Ike & Tina. Well, let's be real here. I loves me my Tina. Ike was a disturbed man. And, in a lucid moment Phil made sure that Ike didn't perform on the song, nor was he allowed to visit the studio. He did, however, receive credit on the Dennis Hopper designed cover. Dennis was preparing to be Easy Rider High as we see here:

Alledgedly Pandora confabs with the music genome project to find songs with similar attributes.

So then, Pandora, how does this work? River Deep, Mountain High -beautifully, majestically, overly orchestrated by that crazy lady-killer Phil Spector brings us logically to Sylvia Hall's Don't Touch That Thing from the album Cult Cargo: Grand Bahama Goombay.

How?

Because it features a Bahamian woman singing? Whoa! Tina's from Nutbush, Tennessee.

The song repeats this unforgettable chorus:

Don’t touch that thing, your momma’s gonna know.
Don’t touch that thing, your momma’s gonna know.
How’s your momma gonna know? You’re belly’s gonna show.

Endlessly. I can not forget it. Once heard, this song owns you.

Not a violin in sight. No soaring "Do I love you? My oh my!"Interesting.

That "thing"you are not suppose to touch is a penis, dear reader. Honest.

A blog review, at the Washington Post ( here I use italics to indicate surprise. For news-conscious Americans, there are so few dependable sources. I count 4- the BBC, C-SPAN, the New York Times, and the Washington Post, but the Post has a problem, so maybe not the Post. After finding this review affiliated with their paper I can say we have 2 strikes, 2 outs, and no one on base. It's that close.), refers to the song this way:

"There are a few dozen compilations on the label that could serve as a perfect summer mixtape, so picking just one song is a tough task. But this slice of Funky Nassau from "Cult Cargo: Grand Bahama Goombay" was the first one that came to mind. This song just oozes sun, warmth and the carefree attitude that goes -- or at least should go -- with summer. It's got a meaningless sing-along chorus and a beat that never stops. "

Um, really? "Oozes sun, warmth, and a carefree attitude"? "Meaningless sing-along chorus"? Wait. For realz?

Let's pause. Now breathe. O.K.

Dudes are odd. Forgive me, but I am going to just call this one: the reviewer at the Post is a dude. I know dudes. I even made one myself. Lovely creatures in possession of "that thing" we are not suppose to touch. Yet so very odd.

Most woman would hear a cautionary tale on this track...about not touching penises...Duh. And then, they would wonder about Sylvia. Did she ever touch one? If so, did her Mama know. If not, well yee haw for self- or birth control correctly applied to the encounter! Not exactly a breezy summertime theme for a song. Unless getting knocked up is your idea of summertime.

"Don't Touch That Thing" celebrates (here the italics are ironic) the fear and chronic worry experienced by every fertile heterosexual female at some point in her life. Because, let's face it, that day comes along sister when you feel compelled to touch that thing (no really, it does happen) and yet, always, Sylvia's words of wisdom ring in your mind. Even if you've never heard her sing them to you. Which is a sad thought for me because she sings a unique and memorable, I fear unforgettable, song. Even if you are in the mood to be a mama. It gives you pause. The whole sex , life, and death thing. The implications should you lose control or consciously decide to touch that thing. It's deep.

It is not, however, River Deep, Mountain High.

You can read another review of the compilation here. All this to prove my point.

River Deep, Mountain High is unlike any other song. There is no comparison. It is singular. Bold and dramatic. An orgasmic frenzy of orchestrated bliss. And complete. And I love it.

Thanks for keeping me wondering, dancing, and ovulating Pandora! As we are such new friends, I am sure this is but the first of many mind-bending encounters. The tip of the iceberg as it were.

As those born in the wilds of the high Sierra and/or Cascadians are want to exclaim, "Yreka!"

2009-08-12T00:13:00.000-07:00

This post is all about Cherry Clafoutis and me.Well, not so much me as the cherry clafoutis. What could be more delicious dear reader?

Once again, my magic new-old pinny makes an appearance- its super pinny powers intact.

Our adventure begins with your intrepid cook hand-pitting cherries...a couple pounds of cherries...with a pairing knife and her thumbnail. Thumb, new-old pinny, kitchen counter, and face all stained red.

Almost as red as my big red kitchen. It was so worth it.

Behold one of the many kitchen altars and icons:

I have never buttered and sugared a baking pan before. I highly recommend it. The effect is almost psychadelic. I will explain directly. But first, let us continue with the recipe at hand.

Did you know that the 2009 Pantone color of the year is Mimosa?I am loving yellow right now.

First live action KitchenAid shot ever.
You can not make it out at all.
You are welcome.

Perhaps if you click on the picture below to enlarge it, you will feel the whippy thrill that is my beloved KitcheAid's best feature.

No? Oh well. It is meant to depict the whipping of the 3 (I used 4 because my eggs were not XL just L, cage free) eggs and 1/2 cup sugar for 3 minutes. Followed by the gentle blending of the rest of the ingredients, which included a heaping tablespoon of this:

because I did not have any brandy - pear, cherry, or otherwise. I splashed in some vanilla too. Maybe a couple of teaspoons. Six tablespoons flour. A pinch of salt. And a cup and a half of cream. Have Mercy! I think everything from heavy whipping cream to 2% milk would work for those of you with healthy arteries playing at home. Then the grated rind of one lemon. Ah my kingdom for a microplane like Martha's!

Rested briefly.

Then poured joyfully into my buttered and sugared blue pyrex baking dish (that I did not lick, despite a horrible compulsion to do so) which I had filled with cherries (about 2 cups worth) and the mere sight of which had the power to send me back in time to Lisa Trumbo's Mom's kitchen where sandwiches were always either Miracle Whip on White or Butter and Sugar on White. If my health conscious Mother had known the illicit thrill I had with each bite knowing how horrified she would be!

But I digress...often.

Baked in a preheated oven at 375 degrees for 40 minutes.

Here it is ta da!

Wait!

I almost forgot the powdered sugar. That's caster sugar and/or icing sugar to my imaginary friends in the UK.

Viola! et Voila!

There's that lovely pinny again. Thanks Mama!

I dished up a plate of hot cherries and eggy, custardy goodness. Ah, so soothing, the creamy texture, the still slightly crisp, juicy cherries, the sweet sugar crustiness of it all.

Yreka!

I have discovered the perfect recipe for a cool fall- sleep in late, make brunch for someone you love, consume, no devour! with hot, creamy coffee- day. And sigh.

"Fall!?", you, dear reader, may say incredulously. "Certainly Bings are not available in the fall?"

To that I say, "Bah Humbug!" or better yet, as an honorary (read imaginary once again-because I picked horse 4-H instead) Girl Guide, "Be prepared."

I froze a passle o'bings for future use. The original recipe was for a Pear Clafoutis, so I will adapt seasonally once the cherries bag out.

As for today...

I ate 2 more plates. Now I have 3 new things:

1. My new/old Pinny from me mum.
2. A bad tummy ache from over-indulgence.
3. This delectable, new recipe thanks to Alicia and Ina.

So, dear reader, would you like the recipe? Yes you would? O.K. here you go:

Nobody here but us servantless American cooks...thanks to Julie Powell

2009-08-11T15:40:00.000-07:00

Yesterday my gorgeous Mother and I kept a date we had made with each other at least a month ago. We hopped off to see Julie & Julia. Delightful. Not only because it was a Monday and we were at a matinee together!

The numerous criticisms of the "Julie" part of the film were a bum rap. Who, I mean really think this through, who could compare or compete with Meryl Streep channeling Julia Child at her most delicious in Paris in love with Paul Child and with food? No one.

That said, I adore Amy Adams. If you have not seen Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day you have missed a scrumptiously effervescent performance. I can't think of another actor who could bring Delysia Lafosse so exquisitely to life. It looked effortless. A bubbly, pink confection of yum.

Also, I am here to tell you that those "cobb salad lunch" pals exist in all of our lives, as if you didn't know dear reader. Score-keeping and it's squirm-inducing paranoia have spurred on many a genius (and not too few average types too). Ms. Adams did her real-life alter-ego proud I am sure (Julie Powell says so in her new blog What Could Happen? ). In the film, I especially love the melt-down in the kitchen as she attempts to stuff a chicken with a cream cheese-based stuffing. Oh! And the lobster killing session accompanied by the Talking Heads Psycho Killer. Fabulous! Go see it now! And then read Julia Child's My Life in France .

After the film, we nipped over to Costco for a roasted chicken, dog food by the ton, and organic, fair trade coffee. There we also picked up the aforementioned book to share. Because, as previously mentioned, I am a spoiled child, I get to read it first. Once I've savored every word, I may just tackle the epic biography Appetite for Life. What a title! What a woman!

I appreciate Julie's Julie/Julia Project blog for so many reasons, chief among them being that she reminded me of a childhood spent enthralled with Julia Child. A great deal of my imaginary play centered on creating foods for my own television show inspired by Mother-approved public television viewing (the only tv allowed in our household except Friday night Star Trek and an early hour of Saturday morning cartoons- hello Sid and Marty Krofft!- before it was time to "Go outside and Play!"-the maternal mantra of my youth).

Mimicking Julia, I would instruct my audience in the fine art of making chocolate milk with red hots or dirt and rock pies, green grass salads with sorrel and dandelions scavenged from the yard, and once, ably assisted by my lovely sous-chef and brother John-John, a fantastic, blue soup concocted from the contents of my Father's medicine chest.

Julia Child, Graham Kerr, and later Bob Ross (say Thalo Blue with me in the softest, most reverant voice ever folks) and Nancy Zieman (I never feared zippers again Nancy!) helped form me into a maker of things. Bless them and bless PBS and viewers like you for bringing them to me.

Gotta fly! Baking with Julia is on Create right now and then I'm off to attempt Posie's Cherry Clafoutis as promised.

Scones & A New Pinny!

2009-08-04T15:18:00.000-07:00

Happy August!

I am making/baking/cooking something new each week. This has been going on for a while now with mixed results. Crock pot cooking? Not so much. New shelves in the kitchen? Oh yeah! Lemon drizzle cake, henceforth known as lemon explosion cake, necessitated oven cleaning. Silver flower ring with bezel set carnelian. Supa Kewl! So much to learn! Life is beautiful.

Today, whilst simultaneously drinking molasses-thick french pressed coffee and cream, lolling around in freshly washed white sheets, reading Barbara Pym, and watching Martha I decided to take on the English scones Martha's friend in Ireland makes. Kind of strange that an Irish baker makes English scones no? I am sorry I do not know the friend's name. She runs a cooking school. I'm sure Martha has covered that someplace in her Omnimedia empire. You should look it up and then go there. They have real Irish butter. You know how you get about real Irish butter.

I've never made scones, but I do love them. My beautiful Mother always has a strawberry scone (and Tillamook ice cream from the Dairywomen's stall) at the State Fair. So, to some people scones may mean drizzly days and cozy fireside teas, but to me scones scream, "STATE FAIR! COWS! BABY PIGLETS! HORSE SHOWS! QUILTS! THE STATES BEST GREEN BEANS! TRACTORS! COWBOYS AND COWGIRLS! RIDES! THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY of OREGON BOOTH!" (Oh! I am pissed at Senator Wyden. I am one pissed off liberal) Whoa. I am screaming....apologies. I love the state fair.

Having just survived the 2009 summer of scorching heatwave - endless days of 90+ temperatures with 3 or 4 100+ degree days thrown in to test our mettle- I am relishing the mid-80s. Seems almost frosty. Time to put on my new pinny and commence with the baking.

For those of you playing along at home (Red Tara, a.k.a. Red Taffy, my loyal reader!) you can find the recipe here.

As I baked , I was listening to my Vienna Teng Pandora radio station. Perfect. I have to thank the delightful Anna Maria Horner for writing about Pandora on her blog. I am the last person on the innertubes to know about it. It is a miracle! I have stations for every mood, every activity. Who knew technology could be so fabulous?

The recipe was perfectly straight forward. I should have channeled my inner Pioneer Woman and photographed the process. Alas, my eight year old digital camera makes photography a challenge best left out of the baking process. The cutting in of the butter with my pastry cutter was so satisfying. I think I may have used just a bit too much liquid as I had to add flour at the end to make the dough less sticky. I used an egg wash and turbinado sugar sprinkled on top and voila!

There were scones...perfectly sconey scones just begging for strawberries and devon cream! Oh you can almost see my new pinny in the mirror there. Hmmm...It was a present from my Mama and it gives me super-baker spidey skills! For Realz!

As for making/doing/cooking/baking new things...dig those new white shelves! It's all good. The failures make the successes so sweet. Next time I am going to make Alicia's Cherry Clafoutis. I have some gorgeous Bings.

Tea Time!

Riches and Gratitude-Remembering Maddie

2009-07-03T21:49:00.000-07:00

Photo of Madeline Alice Spohr by her Mother Heather Spohr originally posted at The Spohrs Are Multiplying

I had to do something scary today. I was driving to an appointment for further diagnostics of the mammogram I had Monday. The results could change my life. I've actually faced the experience before. The outcome then was complicated, but ultimately, I was fine. Today I was frightened. My mind ran away to worst case scenarios and bad statistics. I was a little frazzled. Could not seem to get it together. I felt utterly alone.

I was stopped at a red light with my window down (95 degrees and my old truck doesn't have a/c) and I could hear a muffled bounce of song in the silver suv next to me. Preoccupied as I was with my worries, I was accelerating away before I realized it was Beyonce's "All The Single Ladies".

Maddie loved that song. Heather wrote about it and posted a video of Maddie's own version on her blog The Spohr's Are Multiplying here.

Friend, I tell you, what a glorious child-such light. And today, big grown-up me, facing the spooky appointment, was rescued and reminded of how rich and lovely life is by the merest whisper of a song bringing to me the memory of Maddie singing and dancing. All that sweetness and joy! And in that moment I found calm.

There are worse things to face in this life than spooky diagnostics. Mike and Heather face the unimaginable daily. I just had to see some doctors. I often think about the fact that Maddie and her parents had just 17 months. Oh and how well they lived them! What an embarrassment of riches, this time I have had. And I am grateful.

Thank you Maddie.

Beautiful Child

2009-04-13T22:32:00.000-07:00

I am not a twitterer, nor do I read many "Mommy Blogs", but somehow I found the sad news about Madeline Alice Spohr. I can't describe the unrelenting sadness brought about by news of her death. It lingers with me days later as I worry for her family and think about the services held in her honor tomorrow.

I did not know her or her parents. I hope they won't mind me writing about them and their precious daughter (or borrowing a picture). Their names are Heather and Mike Spohr. They are beloved by their community, "real life" and Internet alike. Maddie's mother has been blogging about her family's life since her daughter's premature birth. Maddie must have possessed a tenacious spirit. She was born 11 weeks early and was not expected to survive, but she did survive to go home, to grow and make friends, to have swimming lessons, and watch softball games with her mama.

There is a beautifful entry on Heather's blog The Spohrs Are Multiplying. Heather takes her daughter to a softball game. The picture above of Maddie clapping is from this post. She writes,

"I went back to that park today, where I spent all those hours practicing, playing, and watching softball. My old high school had a game, and Maddie and I watched the girls play. I remembered the pressure, the agony I put my young body through, and the HOURS of practice. And I remembered the chants, the camaraderie, the thrill of victory. And then I looked at Maddie, watching the Big Girls play…and I realized I’ll be spending a lot more time at parks just like this one."

Oh my. Such are the dreams of parents. We expect the future because we must. How else can we possibly survive the exquisite, poignant reality of life. It ends, sometimes so soon.

I often worry that in some way I held a part of myself back from that overwhelming love for my child because I was afraid, because I knew how essential his life was to my own. Kind and wise people, like my own mother, tell me that is a natural response to parenthood. How can one meager heart be a vessel for such great love?

There is a vast network of parents of premature babies who share their love and challenges and hopes and sadness online. Their courage, strength, and love are beautiful. Many of Maddie's friends will join her parents tomorrow to say goodbye. There are links to support the family and to support the March of Dimes in Maddie's honor here and here.

Intellectually, I know too many babies die each day. Emotionally, I can't bear that truth. Like most people, when I think about such loss, I just want to hold my own child. I feel foolish for letting a day pass without appreciating the great joy of being his mother. I breathe a sigh of relief that I can put my arms around him. Even at 21 he indulges me sensing that I need the comfort.

As I thought about Maddie and her parents I was thinking about the words Mother and Parent - both as much verb as noun. We are changed by our children. We can become something great because we have the chance to mother, to parent. Where does that go if your child goes? And, is my grief for one child really grief for all life lost too soon? Tears for the great beauty of the young, the new, the precious, all that potential, all those dreams parents dream, all our time so brief.

I wish. I wish and I hope there is comfort for Maddie's people. There are no words that do justice, that properly say how sorry I am for the loss of their beautiful child. For the heartbreak of any parent what can be said that isn't a platitude? I am so very sorry. I will remember Madeline Alice Spohr.

You say pansy I say viola

2009-02-28T13:47:00.000-08:00

Busy, busy hands....at least that's what I hope. I crave time to make things. Apart from one jewelry commission, not much has really been accomplished on the "making" front - not even an adequate blog entry.

I love to crochet. I admire knitters. Their precision and ability to count astound me. My favorite knitting project is eyelet washcloths. All attempts at socks end in tears. Sweaters? Be still my heart!

For me, crochet is like meditation. My fingers ache to make loops. So, last week I picked up a great book from the library, Nicky Epstein's Crocheted Flowers.

I have been making flower motifs for a while. I love making felted roses and leaves. So, now I've added yummy violets, violas, pansies , heartsease.....whichever you call the sweet little blooms, they are fun to make. Can't you just see a little cluster of these trimming a linen blouse or the hem of a skirt?

I wanted to find the Muench yarn "Touch Me" recommended in the book. Off I went to my local Yarn Garden to discover that at $17.95 a skein, it was not intended for beginner's violas. Rowan cotton glace has a lovely sheen, great colors, and at $6.00 a pop, it's a better option for the first round of these sweeties. I also picked up some lovely bamboo yarns that I've used in Amigurumi projects with my niece Sierra. They too have a yummy look and feel.

While Muench "Touch Me" yarn is delicious and has an iridescent sheen perfect for these flowers, I think I'll refine the technique before springing for such luxury. So far I've just made these two. Ah, but one day soon, after the laundry, bill paying, house cleaning, long working hours, I will settle down and crochet. Just the word itself, crochet, feels like a sip of cool Bull Run water to a parched palate.

Answer to inquiry

2009-01-27T22:45:00.000-08:00

What I meant Grasshopper is that small, synchronous events can shift one's perspective dramatically. Things coalesce and BOOM. Something moves.

Why do Hawaiian's dig Spam? Is that really Spam sushi? I am confused. Explain please.

Today's small miracle is that in the vast land of the innertubes I had never visited Stuff White People Like. My favorite post so far is #117 Political Prisoners. I will be reading through the night.

Ode to Dietgirl

2009-01-26T13:04:00.000-08:00

I have a weird relationship with Mondays. Monday is a day I usually have to myself. No set work schedule. No expectations. Just heaps of laundry and puritanical guilt about everyone on the planet streaming off to work or school while I loll around unwashed with an unformed day on my hands. Often, after hours of aimless reading, I feel like I have wasted a day. Monday is the day I feel time slipping through my hands.

As a child I abhorred every Sunday. I resisted sleep each Saturday night knowing that Sunday and it's bleak perspective stood just on the other side of my dreams. I don't really understand why that was the case-except, of course, that I was a greedy child.

I had all the elements necessary for happiness at home: my Mother, little brothers to torment and amuse, animals, room to be outside collecting bumble bees, frogs spawn, and the occasional orphaned raccoon. Sunday was the last of my two days of blissful freedom. Next came school. I was ungrateful enough to judge Sunday harshly for its proximity to school days.

As an adult I am able to appreciate Sundays -especially since the school bus no longer creeps up on its heels. Now I struggle with Mondays. Often, I stay in bed for hours reading nonsense. Roll over and nap. Read some more...in an endless spiral of "look how you are wasting the day! Waste the day!" On and On. Gives me a stomach ache. Makes me sad and tired and dehydrated. That is, until this fantastic Monday. I rolled out of bed feeling almost as good as I felt last Tuesday when I woke up with the feeling I have on Christmas morning.

"How strange, " I mused. No inaugural festivities today. No Voodoo Doughnuts. Nada. I made a cup of coffee and turned on the television (just like a good american).

I've been on a pretty strict news fast. A survival strategy. So, morning shows are out. Not a great hardship. They are beyond stupid. Do not get me started on the View or Matt Lauer for that matter. I do often miss CSPAN (I love you CSPAN- thank you for letting me watch the British Government at work and our own at play).

If I wake up early and switch on the set I usually get Sesame Street ( I love Grover deeply) or if I am very fortunate it's Mr. Rogers. If you want to see the face of God or Goodness or Grace please jump to youtube and watch Mr. Rogers give testimony before the Senate in defense of PBS and Children's broadcasting. He made my days special days by just him being him.

For some reason, this morning the set booted to CBS (Letterman. Not Leno. Never Leno.) just in time to hear the news waitress tell me, "For Australian born Shauna Reid...".

Hawt Damn and Supa Cool!

I knew Shauna had been scheduled for American Morning TV for more than a week. Poor Soul. She deserves so much better. Something like CSPAN! She had been bumped for the MIRACLE on the HUDSON and a miracle it was. Amen and Awomen and Athat. She had been trying to keep her blog readers up to date on the many rescheduled air times. I'd given up hope of catching her appearance what with the news fast, my intensive sleep training, and unpredictable broadcast schedules.

Monkey! I am here to tell you Shauna Reid is responsible for redefining my Mondays.

I am stubborn, clinging to things long past their expiration date. Yes, even when those things stink. Hug 'em up tight. Can't seem to let go. But what if Mondays are not days made for self-flaggelation and guilt? What if they are all about little gifts and miracles and good stuff - like most of my days? Revolutionary! No shizz.....

Any how, my loyal reader Red Tara, you are now bored. Yet I must continue this story. It is one of self-discovery and joyful coincidence.

You see I have read Shauna's blog What's New Pussycat? for many moons. Shauna is the blogger who led me to Mig (see previous lovefest below) as she was a participant in his site Lost in Transit (now, alas, defunct), which was a collection of work from bloggers living as expats all around the world.

You often ask me how I find blogs. It's like that. Isn't that interesting? Kind of like a Vulcan Mind-Meld no?

Shauna is a fine writer. And, as you can see from my inability to properly use words and punctuation, I know fine writing. She is funny and honest and charming. Her blog introduced me to many of my favorites in addition to Metamorphosism. Blogs like the beloved I, Asshole (Shauna used to host SJ I believe).

Wow, this entry could be called lost in tangent.

Anyway, after many happy years reading WNP, one day Shauna surprised me by "coming out". No, not out of that particular closet you monkey. Shauna came out about another website The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl and a different, previously unknown by me, part of her story as someone who had lost more than half of herself.

Well, blow me down! It was breathtaking. The plucky Aussie who moved to Scotland, had travel adventures with her sister Rhi and/or Dr. G to places like Tongue and Reykjavik, and writes hysterically funny tales about her beloved mum who lives on WNP as the Mothership had a secret life. Well, secret to the innertubes. I could not believe it! It was breathtaking. I said that before didn't I?

Her frankness about her fears and concerns was so touching. I could totally "get" that she had some reluctance to merge the two worlds. But what a delight Dietgirl was to discover. And today she was a Goddess on american TV staring right back at the news waitress and saying that she weighed 175 down from 351. I was cheering and wohooing so loudly my dogs fled the room. Shauna's message, well really her example, is about not waiting for perfection before you let yourself live. Have fun now ppls.

Now, my dear one does that not sound like beautiful and appropriate advice for one who allows her quest for the perfect bead to hold her still?

Shauna is a whip-smart, funny, beautiful woman, a wonderful writer, a great inspiration and, along with Mimi Smartypants, one of my most beloved of bloggesses. (as an aside, I sometimes fear for ms. smartypants. Lately she seems to have a new edginess. I will write more about her later 'though it would creep her out to know a freak like me was paying attention.)

So class of one, today I discovered that Mondays are indeed miraculous and full of potential. Like a boulder or a basking Hippopotamus, I am not easily moved. I think it's because I am so slow and heavy. But once I am, all and sundry discover and will declare that I am easy. Takes so little.

Just to make it official (like the swearing in do-over- who fecks up like that Justice Roberts? I mean aren't lawyers' minds like steel traps for words and oaths and CONSTITUTIONS? Shrub appointed you Chief Justice-Ah yes, it is all becoming clear...), Shauna Reid is miraculous. And, you should check her out online and by purchasing The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl.

Because, whilst virtue is its own reward, financial support is so helpful and encouraging. Thank you Shauna.

k

You would if you loved me

2009-01-24T13:59:00.001-08:00

So, a long time blog crush for me has been Metamorphosism. This year Mig hosts the 8th metamorphosism.com International Valentine's Day Limerick Contest. This contest is a spectacular celebration of the art of the limerick. So, please, if you are so inspired, make my day. You can learn all about it here:

Oh yeah, and I love you.

I was here...

2009-01-23T14:43:00.000-08:00

Hey Red Tara!

Tag you are it!