I slept well last night for the first time in 8 years.

There's hope that my country isn't going to ruin the world.

It's a cool feeling.

Erik is fantastically enthusiastic about soccer. He loves to watch it. He loves to read it. He loves to play it.

In an effort to understand this particular interest, I have attended some of Erik’s soccer games.

I can’t understand any of it.

There’s running about and then there’s some running into other people and the ball goes everywhere and the goalie looks like he’s about to throw himself off a bridge every time he let’s a ball go past into the net thing. Players on the same team shout at each other constantly and tell each other what to do without saying their pleases or thank yous.

I myself have learned to shout Where’s Our Midfield? and Kill THE ASIANS. KILL THEM! (Which is as very effective as a scare tactic, especially if the opposing team is not Asian)

I’ve also learned that the game isn’t about playing with other people. The game is about playing to the space around the other people. (Every soccer player will tell you this and yet, it seems, they still get into fights on the field.)

This idea of Play to the space has become a new mantra.

Here is an example:
There is a kitten who crawls up my pant leg about five times an hour.

This hurts and I am pretty sure it’s not going to feel better as the cat gets bigger.

Details to negate:
*Cat is cute.
*I like the cute cat.

Concentrate on:
*Cat is hurting me.
*Get cat off leg.

Solution:
Shake leg.
Let cat sit stunned in the middle of the floor.

Repeat.

At present we are in Montana. It's a long story as to why we are in Montana and not living in a house we have rented, but suffice to say, we are having a nice time anyhow.

The place we are staying at is a 4500 sqf home on an acre of land. We have a host of sinking plastic ducks in the pond.

On occasion, people stop by the house and ask if we are the new owners.

Indeed that would be nice, but we are not.

We don't have any furniture. We don't have phone service. It's like I'm at The Shed but with custom painted mirrors and odd cabinetry.

Everyone who stops by says, Well, you are very lucky to be here.

I want to tell them that we have stayed in a caboose that was nestled among the most expensive grape vines in the country. That it overlooked the valley and that we had a pool and a seven bedroom house at our disposal. I want to tell them that we have secured a charming house on top of a rock that has a view of the lake.

I want to tell them that after wandering around as individuals, Erik and I found each other and have formed an unexpected union – a pack of four.

If they only knew.

So I smile and I nod my head and say, We think so, too.

In Missoula, everything gets done. I write. Erik works.

The August light graces us.

When my friend asked me to contribute a story to her and Melissa Lion's Back Fence PDX series, I actually felt like I had time to do so.

It's a work of fiction. For Reals.

Here it is. There is some great work on the site and I suggest you go there again and again.

i've been waiting for the cat to poop.

she did!

A while ago Erik and I went looking around the property of our new home. It’s a fascinating place with shrubs and lawns and rocks and gardens. As we pulled up we saw a slim tabby cat dash across the lawn.

The owners had told us about the feral cats they had found lounging among the rocks. One day they rounded them all up and took them to the pound.

Obviously not all of them were extricated off the rock.

A few minutes after we arrived bawling mews called out. Erik and I went to investigate and found a little kitten no longer than my hand wriggling it’s way up a slope by the iris garden.

We let it be, knowing that its mother would come around for it.

Though difficult to ignore, the kitten continued on for a good 10 minutes. It was only until the crows came around that we decided we couldn’t leave it be.

Erik named the cat Arneis, which means little rascal in Italian. Officer has named her a pain in his ass. I have fallen in love.

She’s a tough little girl who is always hungry and all claws. Her ears have yet to stand up straight and she still requires the wiping and cleaning that stimulates the bowels and bladder. She purrs and licks and nudges her head under my chin like she belongs there.

The apartment smells like goat milk. My clothes have milk splatters and spills. Now we’re a pack of four traveling around the country for no particular reason except we can’t seem to stay put.

Today I discovered that a mile in my mind really isn't a mile. We're in Missoula, Montana at the moment and while Erik is working on his project, I am fleeing on the treadmill. I've discovered something that makes me wonder if I have some sort of mental disorder.

When I flee out of doors it seems I am fleeing for miles and miles.

When I flee on a treadmill, it tells me exactly how not-very-far I've gone in quite-some-time.

What I thought was a mile is actually a quarter mile.

What I thought was a heft clip is actually a hefty walk.

As I was walking the not-quite-mile to meet Erik for lunch I looked up.

Montana is known as Big Sky.

I hate to break it to Montana, I do, but I think they suffer from the same delusion that I do.

It's not so big. It's actually kind of average sized. I keep looking up to see if it gets bigger.

It doesn't.

Someone must have had one too many when they coined the term.

Which might be the problem when I go running.

I took Officer to the vet the other day. It was time for his shots and a check up. The vet gave him a shot of prednisone and a prescription for a pill form of the same drug.

The dog has a few new habits on this Steroid:

Standing up suddenly and looking about as if there's something to fight.

Prancing through the house with his hackles raised.

Playing willingly.

Sleeping through the night.

Cuddling.

Peeing like a Clydesdale.

Eating like a Clydesdale.

Pooping like a Clydesdale.


I guess this means we need to buy more food and dog bags.

We found a place to live.

Now we need to find a way to get our things from point A. to point B.

Then we have to actually live in point B.

Which won't happen until October.

Life is fun.

We're moving.

Where is negotiable.

A few months ago an ex boyfriend found me online and contacted me through this blog. Then an ex friend did the same. The ex boyfriend wanted closure (after 15 years). The ex friend was in a 12-step process and was making amends for being a twenty-two year old girl with a self-destructive side. The list of exes goes on – But you get the gist.

While my contact information is available, I am less than enthusiastic to be contacted by people I never cared to hear from or about again.

The problem is there are a few people I want to hear from… like my father. I dropped my cell phone and lost a computer file and don’t have any contact with a few people I love dearly. So, if your name is Albert, Tricia, Gretchen, Dave, Rhoda, or Stefani, Jennifer D. or her father, I’d like to hear from you.

Otherwise here’s an open letter to the past:

Hi!

I am glad that you are out and about in the world and have taken the time to Google me (or Erik). I am honored that you want to see what I/we have been up to. Either your really pissed you off or you're feeling a little sentimental.

Either way, thanks for dropping by! Here is all the information that you need to feel satisfied that we’ve caught up.


A. To my Ex (es) I’m getting married and it isn’t to you!
Thank your lucky stars that it isn’t you because I am just as exacting and demanding as I ever was. The difference is the man that I am with is awe-inspiringly perfect. He makes great coffee, he cleans, he opens my car door and he’s a trained chef. What has changed is that if he doesn’t do any of those things, I forgive him for it. Just being around him makes me happy.

Sorry that I wasn't like that in our relationship. Then again, I’m not really. Don’t take this personally, but I don’t want to be married to any of you. You know that sentence that you all used to say, “I don’t think I’ll ever be good enough for you”? That’s true.


B. I have problems and parts of my life suck.
Roaming around in the desert and fixing up a house and not having a job has taken its toll on aspects of my life. If you wanted to find me because you wanted to make sure that I was suffering in some way, feel satisfied.

C. I gained A LOT of weight.
Yup, I got chunky. Slowly, it is coming off, but I doubt I’ll be the size 0 I was. Remember that Reverend Horton Heat song, “I hope you got fat”? Well, bravo, you win.

D. I’ve succeeded.
They aren’t successes worthy of a newspaper article but they are pretty big for me. For instance, I’ve been published. I just got an assignment to write the feature article for a small magazine. I’ve learned how to wait a table without smashing a plate into someone’s head (by accident or otherwise).

E. I’ve changed.
i.e. I drive mostly willingly. I like to change the oil in 1987 Toyota Camry Wagons. I’ve learned how to dislodge my vehicle from sagebrush.

When something goes awry in another person’s life, I don’t jump into over-functioning action. I see weakness and leave it alone. I don’t try to fix other people’s problems just because I can.

Also, I don’t say the same biting things that I used to. I do attempt to listen more often then I did. I’m learning patience with the help of a patient man. My writing is more focused. I’m a nonsmoker. My tastes have refined.

F. I haven’t changed.
You can feel a certain amount of satisfaction that I will never fully get rid of my expressive prejudice and my anger toward dumb ass moves. You can be assured that the people that I love and adore must put up with my sharp corners. The difference is that the people I love and adore love and adore me in spite or for those corners.

If you’re finding me to see how I held up after what happened in 2002 – I held up. I wanted to kill myself but I got a dog and I lived for the dog. He saved me for the five years that I was in danger of ending my own life. At some point after wandering around outside of Seattle, I turned a corner. Then I met Erik and Erik showed me how to enjoy, truly revel, in life again. My cells changed. They wanted to live. I’m no longer clinging onto life by the hair of one French bulldog named Officer. Life is grand, thanks for your concern.

G is for Go and Goodbye.
Whether you dumped me or I dumped you or we simply never returned each other’s call, it doesn’t matter. Go. Go on with your life. There are a number of songs that you can download that will get you through sentimentality. Read A Moveable Feast and reconcile the romantic ideals or vitriol that caused you to look me up. I’m off on my adventures and doing some really cool things with my sole/soul mate. Leave us to it.

If you are part of our past you do not need to be revisited. If you’re looking for closure, find it within yourself. If you would like to be part of our future, then feel free to contact us.

I thought I had an allergy attack. Maybe a sinus infection. It started Tuesday afternoon as Erik and I drove to Chelan. Erik kept opening the window for the dog and I kept hunkering down trying to keep the cold off of my neck.

There was a pesky cough and some lethargy.

By nine that evening I was ready for bed.

During the night a truck, tires sweaty from speeding on hot asphalt, had run over me and I was a crumpled, sweaty, limp mess.

I wasn't sick but I avoided coffee and drank water. At lunch we had a pizza and a glass of wine. I wilted and went back to bed.

On Thursday, Erik and I toured some wineries. Among the wineries, we met with Milum and Katy of Tildio Winery and Scott Benson of Benson Vineyards. It was a magical day.

With a 103° fever, anything seems magical or mystifying.

That night Erik made me soup. It was a nice last meal.

The next day we packed up and left. We left my grandmother. Alone. With it. The virus. To kill her.

There are things in life that you will always feel guilty about. Giving my grandmother a cold is going to be one of them.

The other day I invented a new tool. It was the Stick of Tolerance and Compassion. Anytime someone nicked at my nerves I imagined taking out this stick and bapping them on the head– sometimes several times in quick succession.

Cut me off in traffic? Three baps.
Ignore my invite to dinner? One bap.
Act like a self-righteous fool? Twelve baps. Maybe one good solid Thwak.

It’s working. Now, instead of distain I actually myself brighten with every bap I imagine.

I finally looked at the book that I wrote and produced with my friend Philip Shaw. Philip is one of those creatives whose work is solid and appeals to an intelligent audience. The cereal box readers of the world might think his stuff is pretty but... the people who know how to use a semi colon are the ones that understand the fullness of his work.

We aggregated a book about the Pike Place Market together. It was supposed to be a pretty, fun, and instructive piece with tips and recipes and history.

What ended up being produced was an unintentional homage to the hodgepodge architecture to the Market. Sad but not as pathetic as I once thought. (Cheers, Philip. We did what we could and that was okay.)

As Erik said, What a difference a little time makes.

But this is what I have learned: shut up. be nice. let it go.

The Dalai Lama is in town. I’m not a fan of his holiness. What he says is not particularly spiritual. It isn’t even philosophically novel. My grandmother, three year olds and an atheist friend of mine all say the same and more interesting things but with better English and more conviction.

It has taken the Dalai Lama QUITE a while to be against the war in Iraq. His initial thoughts were: Let’s wait and see if it is a good thing. That causal attitude alone makes me a little suspicious of his wisdom and ability.

At some point, his holiness made the slow step and said, We must pray for no war.

The Dalai Lama preaches things not applicable to world’s troublemakers. PRAY? How many of us have prayed that we'll wake up with millions of dollars in our bank account, only to be let down? Pray. Funny.

His holiness preaches what works for him and those that follow him, not what works for those he wants to change. He wears robes of convenience.

If one reads texts that surround Tibetan Buddhism one finds, in practice, a bloody and self-involved religion. In The Super Human Life of Gesar Ling, enlightened men sit on the human skins of those that they have vanquished and it is okay to kill others if you are enlightened because you will send them toward enlightenment by doing so.

How familiar.

While The Super Human Life of Gesar Ling is not a religious text, it is indicative of the culture the religion has thrived in. It is a culture that views males as superior to females. There will never be a female Dalai Lama. Tibetan Buddhism reccognizes spiritual hierarchy and women are spiritually inferior to men.

My largest complaint about the Dalai Lama (other than his religion’s views on the holiness of women) same-sex unions. He’s against them. He's against oral sex. The only copulation accepted by Tibetan Buddhism is between a man and a woman and only with the goal of creating a child.

That said, I do appreciate Buddhist views, just not Tibetan Buddhist views. The view that human thought is not the center of consciousness (dogs dream, cats get embarrassed) is one I believe in. Occasionally, I have Buddhist moments.

On Saturday it was sunny and warm. All the insects woke up and many found themselves passing through our house. A honey bee was at our kitchen window trying to get out. The window was open and the bee was butting her little head against the glass with increasing anger and panic; her stinger ready to sink into whatever force was stopping her.

I started to sweep her toward the open section of the window. She would hit an invisible wall and move the opposite direction. At last we worked it out and she flew off in a huff.

Here’s the lesson from the Buddhist (it's a little Taoist too) moment: Stop looking at your goals and thinking you have to fight your way to them. Work hard and let others help you out with different viewpoints. Don’t harm yourself by stinging others.

I doubt, highly, that the kitchen window experience was a Buddhist moment for the bee.