8/30/11: To Lovers Everywhere, With Love, from Billy Collins

8/28/11: Strangers in a Strange Land

Sometimes it takes Californians to show us Oregonians the way. I've lived in Oregon all my life, and in Portland for the last 30 years, but my darling friend, Audrey, introduced me to the Portland Parks & Rec outdoor concerts and movies in the park calendar this year. I've done several now and enjoyed every one immensely.

This weekend Audrey introduced me to a hike, Cape Falcon, that she's been on several times and I've not been on once. Audrey is an outdoor girl through and through, so the fact that she knew a hike I didn't might not be surprising except that Audrey is from San Diego. Wherever she travels ... Oregon ... Peru ... Colorado ... Montana ... she dives right in to the local attractions, nature style.

When Audrey visited Maui this summer, she avoided the resorts and camped out under the stars, bringing her own tent and camping gear. Even though it was her first trip to Maui, she saw things I never have in my dozen or so trips to my favorite place on Earth. While there, Audrey also did an impromptu hop to the Big Island simply because it called to her.

Cape Falcon was a gorgeous hike. A half mile in you lose the road noise and soon begin to hear a rushing stream, then the surf. At times the overgrowth is lush and fearsome, forming a tunnel around you, at other times you are in sunshine. And at the end of the trail, you are treated to a vista that makes it all worthwhile.

And I might have missed it, were it not for a Californian.

8/23/11: Back in the Blog

I haven't written my blog in more than a month. In my life there are stretches of time when I forget who I am, or just veer off in another direction for a while. Lately I've been feeling like I didn't want to write for myself anymore, that I was tired of hearing my own voice. And, the old excuse is true: I have been busy. Busy writing for others, and busy raising two boys and busy keeping my head above water financially and busy dating the wrong men, or sometimes the right men for whom I was the wrong woman.

What got me back to center was a book. Not one of the scores of self-help, inspirational, butt-kicking, dream manifesting, guru-led, life-changing books I've read over the last several years, but just a good summer read. You know, for fun. It wasn't particularly well-written or poignant, and I doubt I'll even remember it by this time next year. But it's the first book I've read for pleasure in a very long time. Read, not because I was trying to fix something or understand something, or make some major change in my life, or become a better mother, lover, budgeter, world citizen, entrepreneur, or money maker, but just because it was the book my book club had selected for September. And I'd not read it yet. And, even though I've only gone to my book club four times in the three years since I moved out of the neighborhood where I started it 15 years ago, I decided it was time. Time for me to do the book club again. Time for me to read for pleasure again. Time for me to realize that my life is not actually in pieces, and that I'm not in a prison of my own making, and that the old Yvonne is right here where I left her.

The book is called While I'm Falling. And I'm not anymore.

7/14/11: Girlfriends Keep You Sane

I am so lucky to have a circle of amazing women in my life. We talk, we eat, we laugh, we drink, we dance, and we cry. We go to concerts, to movies, to wine bars, to breakfast, to dinner, to lunch, to coffee, to tea, to happy hour, to dessert, to workshops, to church. We shop, we cook, we volunteer, we text, we pray, we meditate, we sing, we borrow each other's clothes and we help each other move. We remember one another's birthdays, and the age and names of one another's children, pets, exes, bosses and significant others. We share resources, recipes, coupons, CDs, tips, advice, DVDs, tickets, air miles, doctors, home remedies and books.

And yes, we talk about men, from husbands to hopefuls, from boyfriends to glad-to-be-gones. But our conversation is only 10% about men, and 90% about the rest of our lives. Raising children, classes we are taking or want to, jobs, or lack thereof, dreams and goals. We talk one another down from ledges, take turns as designated driver, edit one another's prose, and lean on one another for support and sanity in what often seems like an insane world. "You won't believe what just happened!" can be the beginning of an afternoon of shared stories and laughter.

To all my girlfriends: Thank you! I would never make it through this crazy, wonderful world without you.

7/13/11: Squirrel Fricassee

A squirrel got fricasseed on the power line between my neighbor's house and mine the other day and his body stayed there, captured in the moment of death: front paws on the wire, back paws dangling in the air, as if he was in a chin-up competition and wasn't sure he had another one in him.

What kept him hanging there is for grisly imaginations: most likely his paws were welded to the wire by the heat and electricity of 1000 volts coursing through his furry gray body. He looked fine: a little stiff, but not charred or bubbly. When the wind blew, his tail waved like a truce flag. "I give up," he seemed to be saying, but no one was listening.

The real question is how it happened. Squirrels run along power lines like most of us drink coffee, and rarely do you see one of them suffer from the experience. To get fried the squirrel has to ground himself: part of his body on the wire, part elsewhere.

Maybe he was being chased by another squirrel and lost his footing. Maybe a crow pecked at him and he tried to run away without watching where he was going. Or maybe it was a case of squirrel suicide. Perhaps he grew tired of the squirrel rat race: bury nuts, find them again, bury nuts, find them again. Or it could have been loneliness. There is no word for "group of squirrels" because they are independent creatures: each one is the Clint Eastwood of the rodent family.

Whatever the reason for his demise, having a dangling squirrel overhead was a little disconcerting. Every time my boys and I went for ice cream or returned from the library or grocery store, we had to drive under the power line where Mr. Squirrel had breathed his last acorn-tainted breath. What if he dropped on the hood of my Mini Cooper just as I was driving underneath? What if my sunroof was open?

Every time we zipped into the driveway I tried to distract the boys, get them in the house before they looked up, but I was rarely successful. I began to have visions of the squirrel's decomposing body remaining there for months, even years, perhaps turning into a tiny squirrel skeleton with the passing of time. It would become a landmark: "Drive past the house with the squirrel skeleton on the power line, go a half a block and turn left ..."

Then I remembered that my feng shui consultant, Anezka, had said it was inauspicious if the approach to your house had weeds or a cracked sidewalk. I'm pretty sure a decomposing rodent dangling 25 feet overhead wouldn't be very auspicious either. But I wasn't going up after him.

Several days after the squirrel passed, he finally dropped from the power line and landed on the parking strip, his stiff little legs stretched out in front of him. He would have looked like a child's stuffed toy ready for a good tuck-in if it weren't for the flies feasting on his carcass.

Now I could reach him but I didn't want to. Besides, he was more in my neighbor's part of the parking strip than mine. But I didn't hold out much hope that our neighbor, who once tried to make a pass at me and another neighbor while stumbling around drunk in his driveway, would handle the situation very well.

Sam suggested that maybe someone should bury him, just as we'd buried our pet baby squirrel, Boomerang, months earlier. "Or put him in the garbage," I said, not thinking.

"That would be mean!" Sam said. "It's a squirrel. He needs to be buried. He needs a funeral."

I don't know that that's ever going to happen. All I know for sure is that the calla lilies that grow in my part of the parking strip are in no danger of being picked this year.

7/12/11: Park Memories

Last weekend I took my boys to Cathedral Park, under the St. John's Bridge in North Portland. We picnicked, and listened to some truly awful techno funk bands. We walked the pier, sat in the sun, and appreciated the breeze coming off the Willamette. One thing Portland does well is its parks, and I want to make sure my boys get to know and love them as I do.

As the daughter of a former Park Ranger, I appreciate the beauty and upkeep of our parks. I can remember visiting parks with our dad while he made his rounds. Once we found a tree frog. That same night we met Dobie, a regular "resident" of the park, complete with her tent, pots and pans, and, unfortunately, campfire. Dobie was dirty and wore oversized men's clothes, and a lot of them. She wanted to see the frog we'd caught and I refused to open my hands to show it to her because of the fire. Our dad insisted, and the worst thing happened.

I hated Dobie for that, even though she felt pretty bad. If it wasn't for that incident, though, I might have forgotten Dobie, and I wouldn't have been able to reconstruct, from the vantage point of an adult, what was really going on there. Dobie was a park vagrant, and it was probably my dad's job to kick her out of the park. But he didn't. He was polite to her, and insisted on his children being polite to her as well. He treated her like a human being, which of course she was.

I'm proud of my dad for being the kind of man he was. And I owe my gratitude to a little tree frog, and a woman in baggy clothes, for reminding me of that.

7/8/11: A Late Christmas Gift

A teen I was youth advisor for asked me to pray for her boyfriend tonight. She said she couldn't tell me what was wrong, but he needed our prayers and he was the "love of her life." Because she's only 16, it's easy to dismiss such a broad statement from my ancient ivory tower. But it seems like yesterday I was 16, and it will be tomorrow(ish) when my own sons turn 16, so I get it. I'm honored, actually, that she turned to me.

Several months ago at Christmas time this same teen invited me to attend a holiday choral concert at her high school. She was in the choir, and wanted a good turnout. She asked anyone who came on her behalf to wear Santa hats so she'd know where "her" people were when she looked out into the crowd.

Her school was in another town, a 40-minute drive away, and as the weather turned colder and the time got nearer, I began to regret saying we'd come. I knew my boys would grouse about sitting still that long, wearing the hats, and I knew it would be a hassle driving, they'd be getting back after their bed time, and would probably give me grief the whole time we were there. I had a thousand reasons not to go and only one reason to go: I didn't want to let her down. So we wore the hats and we went. She came up to us at a break and gave us each a hug. She said she was glad we'd come. She then told me that her choir teacher had promised her a solo and had reneged. "One thing you need to know about me is you don't tell me you're going to do something and then not do it."

That made me really glad we'd come.

Not long after the concert this girl left our youth group, moving out of the area, and only recently reconnected with me through Facebook. But I think she reached out to me tonight because she'd learned she could count on me. And the feeling that gives me is a late, but very much appreciated, Christmas gift.

7/4/11: Freedom, Actually

I had a dinner-and-movie date last night that ended at Claim Jumper for dessert. My date introduced me to a chocolate coma by way of the restaurant's 12-layer chocolate cake. One slice weighs 3 pounds and has approximately 4,000 calories. Give or take. We split it and he took the rest home. Which I insisted on even before I saw the Styrofoam takeaway box ... don't get me started.

The date went well except ... at the theater there was a preview of a movie about a father/son team who were illegal immigrants from Mexico. The father worked hard, purchased a truck, and though unlicensed, used the truck to establish a gardening and landscaping business. The father employed other laborers, and the truck was their lifeline, a way to create a better life for him, his son, and the other workers. Then the truck was stolen. Because the father was unlicensed and working in the country illegally they couldn't go to the police, and tried to steal the truck back, landing the father in trouble with the law. We were given snippets of conversations between father and son: the son worried for his father, the father worried too, but willing to sacrifice everything to make his son's life better.

I turned to my date, "I don't want to see that."

"Me neither," he said. "Too political."

I said: "No! Too sad."

My date is conservative. I am liberal. But no matter which side of the fence you come down on, today is a day where we should thank our lucky stars we live in a country that allows us to make a living, provide for our families, and create a better life without fear of being arrested for it.

There are so many freedoms we take for granted: freedoms from, and freedoms to. Freedom from oppression, freedom from persecution. Freedom to decide where we live, where we travel, what we do for a living. Freedom to raise a family, attend a church of our choosing, and share a 12-layer chocolate cake with someone with whom you have vastly differing political opinions. And at the end of the night, no one got shot.

6/30/11: When Babies Have Babies

I found out through Facebook. My niece, who lives in Tucson, had posted "Getting ready to go to the doctor's" on her Facebook account yesterday. When I read that, I'd hoped she wasn't ill. Then I got busy with life and forgot about the posting. That is, I forgot until today when she changed her profile photo to an ultrasound image. She is expecting her first child in January, the same month she will turn 20.

The last time I saw K____ she was 16 and showing me how quickly she could text. I thought time would stand still, that she'd stay that age forever. She had a boyfriend then, and I assumed she was sexually active, but I also knew how smart she was and the plans she had for her future, and I didn't expect ... well, I didn't expect this.

Maybe I should have. K____ is the third of my nieces, one from each of my three brothers, who became pregnant at this age. Why does it seem like the gap between playing with dolls and changing real diapers is getting narrower? Why the rush to procreate, to narrow your focus to parenthood and whatever part-time job you can hold down? What about a career? What about seeing the world? What about getting married first?

I don't know yet whether K____ will marry her boyfriend, and I don't know what to hope for in that regard. I've never met him; he's not the same one I met in Tucson a few years ago. If they do get married at this age, the odds don't favor them staying together. My other two nieces did not marry the fathers of their children, who are now all but out of the picture.

When a 19- or 20-year old girl is facing parenthood alone, she looks for help from the same place help has always come. Both girls' parents pitch hit as free nannies, babysitters, landlords. They contribute money, time, resources, love. They pick up the slack, they make it alright. They take care of their babies.

6/28/11: Birth Marks

Max, my oldest son, turned 13 yesterday, flinging me headlong into the Land of Teenagers, where I am doomed to live until 2020 when his brother, Samuel, celebrates his 20th birthday.

Sam, 20? Max, 13? I'm a minute and a half from the whole dating, driving, drinking scene, when I swear the diapers, drooling, Da-da scene was just last week.

As part of Max's entry into teenhood he's asked to have a large mole removed from his cheek. When the mole, which showed up when he was three weeks old, later began to darken and grow, I took Max to two dermatologists and, recently, two plastic surgeons. No one recommends doing anything about it until he's an adult because it will require surgical removal, which will leave a scar. Better a scar on a fully grown face, they reason, rather than on a young face, which will grow and stretch over time.

That's their reasoning. Max has other reasons for removing it now. Girl reasons. He surprised me last year by attending every boy/girl social the school hosted, and by the second one, even asking girls to dance. He surprised me further when I learned that the majority of his texting between he and his friend Micky are about who they each "like."

Because the most recent plastic surgeon (a Board-certified, highly prominent doctor) really, really recommends against doing it now, I'm researching some benign home remedy alternatives. Right now we're trying the tea tree oil and round Bandaid trick. Six weeks and the thing is supposed to drop off on its own, leaving clear healthy skin behind. We shall see.

If it works, I will miss it. It's part of the face I've loved for 13 years. I remember telling Max once that his mole (he never allowed anyone to call it a "beauty mark") was one of the things that made him special. Another time we called it his power button, saying it gave him super powers, and made him run faster. When, in 5th grade, he did a self-portrait plaque in clay, Max made sure to include the mole that had become his trademark.

Whether the tea tree oil works or not, whether Max is stuck with the mole until adulthood or is free of it by the next school year, I will still have that plaque, and a lot more birth marks besides.

6/22/11: CPAP: The New Tiramisu

Remember that scene in Sleepless in Seattle where Tom Hanks is asking Rob Reiner if there's anything new that's happened in the dating world since he's been out of it?

Rob Reiner's character: "Tiramisu."
Tom Hanks's character: "What is Tiramisu?"
"You'll find out."
"Well, what is it?"
"You'll see."
"Oh come on. Some woman's going to want me to do it to her and I'm not going to know what it is."
"You'll love it."

Well, I was out of the dating world for a while, and since my return, not one, not two, but three of my friends have mentioned that at a [ahem] "sleepover play date" they've rolled over in bed to see this.

I'm sorry. I don't really care how loud someone snores. Is wearing an apparatus that makes you look like the Elephant Man really necessary? A cure for sleep apnea? How bad can not breathing for a moment be, really? You'll start up again, probably. And if not, well, at some point, we all have to go. Besides, what about strangling yourself with the plastic cord?

Here's what one article said about the "CPAP" apparatus:

"Unfortunately, using 'sleep apnea' breathing apparatus does not come without its side effects and many patients complain of soreness on the bridge of the nose, dry eyes, headaches, dry mouth and skin dryness."

That's what they complain about? What about the loud shrieking from one's bed partner? The inability to roll over—or move? And get this: some machines actually amplify your breathing. Isn't noisy breathing what this thing's supposed to prevent in the first place?

At least half of the people who are diagnosed with sleep apnea have it because they are overweight. Maybe instead of strapping a vacuum cleaner hose to one's head, this segment of the CPAP target market can simply unstrap the feedbag a little more often.

As for the other half? I'll be Sleepless in Portland thinking about that one.

6/21/11: Here Comes the Sun!

I am a sun worshipper. It's true: if I had the option of going to church or spending an hour sunbathing, guess which would win?

There is a yogi who was supposed to come to a conference I attended who is a true sun worshipper. He actually has not eaten for years, taking all of his sustenance from the sun. He didn't show up to the conference. Not sure if he got caught in a weather pattern or McDonald's drive-thru.

Medically, something like 99.9% of us are deficient in Vitamin D, something the sun provides free of charge. Or you can buy it in a bottle (D3) at Trader Joe's for about $9.

But I'd rather get my sun the old-fashioned way, from Mr. Sol himself. It's the first day of summer. Bring it on, baby.

6/19/11: Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

We never got old enough together for me to ever call him "Dad," but I still remember everything about him. Like how he could stick his hands into a coffee can full of broken crayons, close his eyes and pull out the exact color I was looking for. How he taught me how to bait a hook, threading a wriggling worm through the barbed bit of wire without pricking myself. How handsome, and how stern he was. How he made a point of introducing us to his former Army mate (who was African American) because in our tiny town we didn't meet many people of color. How he rarely took a drink. How I would sometimes get my head caught between his thigh and the steering wheel when I fell asleep in the car (before seatbelt laws). How he would come home from a hunting trip smelling like campfire smoke and pine trees, carrying a dead coon or bobcat. He was straight and strong and a hard worker. I love you, Daddy, and I miss you. Happy Father's Day.

6/11/11: Mouths and Minds of Babes

My friend Stasia posted to her Facebook account a conversation she had today with her son, Tage. She asked him, "What's next?"

He said, "Let's ask the mandala. Mandalas are more than just a piece of paper you color, they are a part of your heart and can talk - in my world." He sat down to meditate. Tage was born to a very enlightened mother, but he is only four years old. A few minutes later here is what he said:

"It's life to life, life to life, life to life...never ending. There is always another adventure to discover. You will always be protected, down to your toes. Short or long, it doesn't matter. It isn't about care or love, it is about the harmony you feel inside. Always going on and on, just the faces change."

Whew and OMG.

My 11-year-old son, Samuel, brought me a drawing today, A Portal to Heaven, and said, "I wish there really was a portal to heaven."

I said, "There is. You just clear your mind of all your thoughts and concentrate on your heart."

Sam came back a few minutes later and said, "I tried it, but it didn't work." I told him to keep practicing, that it was called meditation. "You mean like a medium?" he asked. He knows all about mediums, witches, goblins, ghouls, vampires, and other scary and supernatural creatures. They're a passion of his.

"Sort of like a medium," I answered. "But mediums talk to other spirits. This is you talking to your own spirit."

Sam seemed satisfied with that answer, and I felt glad that, even though he wasn't born to the enlightened being Tage was, at least I now know enough to help him to begin to learn to meditate. I just hope he will stick with it so it can be his refuge and solace throughout his life.

I hope it down to my toes.

6/8/11: Counting Blessings

Enough with yesterday's funk. I have it soooooooooooooo good. Every time I think something bad has happened I realize that it was for my own good, which means it was actually something good that happened. "Nothing happens to us; everything happens for us." I know that deep down but on a daily basis I sometimes forget.

I have new, better writing (and real estate) opportunities before me, I'm on an even keel relationship-wise and today I found my rug! I really feel bad that I blamed the construction crew (see my May blog "The Case of the Disappearing Rug.") I was cleaning out my basement today and underneath a table in the far corner of the basement was my brand new rug, with a couple of loops chewed out of it. My dog! I can't believe the little stinker did that. Which means she also pulled the huge heavy new rug all the way to the back door, probably intending to drag it down to the basement as well. What's with her and the new rugs? I know she's getting plenty of exercise, because I'm getting plenty of exercise and I take her with me. Grrr.

But back to the blessings: sure the weather could be a LOT better, but today as I was sitting in my office in my beautifully clean house (I busted my buns this morning getting it gorgeous, which is how I found the rug), I had Michael Mandrell's angelic guitar music playing (he's a friend of mine: how great is that?!), and I looked out into my back yard at the greenery and blossoms and I was in a little slice of heaven.

Life is good. And summer is coming.

6/7/11: Rugs, Footballs and Talking Dogs

The video below has been labeled the ultimate dog tease. The owner keeps taunting the dog with delicious food, the dog gets excited, then the owner tells the dog what really happened to the food. The dog's not going to get any. Poor dog.

The good news for the dog is, it's just a funny made-up video with voice dubbing. The bad news for me is, lately I feel a lot like that dog. I've had several instances recently where the rug has been pulled out from under me. I was up for two writing contracts that I was 95% sure I had when, in the 11th hour plus two weeks, an internal candidate swept in on his or her proverbial dark horse. I had similar luck with a promising relationship. And to add insult to injury, someone actually did pull the rug right out from under me (see "Case of the Disappearing Rugs" in the May blog entries).

So what am I supposed to make of all of this? Is it just a "bad luck comes in bunches" thing? Karma from a past life as Lucy in a Charlie Brown episode? Or is the Universe trying to tell me that I'm vying for the wrong prizes? Prizes that are meant for (or already belong to) someone else?

Oh, well. I was never that fond of maple bacon anyway.

 6/6/11: Stylin' It

Corporate style guides tell a company's vendors: advertising firm, design firm and internal folks and consultants how to get it right: everything from logo colors and placement to nit-picky trademarks, company-specific jargon, industry bugaboos and the like. I've written dozens of style guides in my career and it seems like management and my clients are always surprised by the efficiency and usefulness of these little hummers. Style guides work best when they are shared by every single person who has anything to do with internal or external communication, and when they are a group effort. Often the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing until it's written down in a style guide. As important as a policies and procedures manual, a style guide is a key way for a company to make effective use of its branding. Consider the following email signature blocks:

Joe Blow, Marketing Director
ABC International
503.333.3333, ext. 612

vs.

Cynthia Blake
Human Resources Director
ABC INTERNATIONAL
1900 Sandy Way, Suite 600
Mesa, AZ 55555
(503) 333-3333, ext. 200

They don't even look like they came from the same company.

Everything from the signature block to correspondence to Web copy, advertisements, and collateral should have a similar look and feel: font usage, logo usage, colors, size, placement, words used, trademarks used, jargon used, acronyms used or spelled out. Consistency builds an organization's identity and gives the market a feeling of a cohesive organization. And style guides are a way to build consistency.

'Nuff said.