understanding (n.)

There's something about sitting in a little Patesserie in North Portland, right near the section that opens to the outside with the gentle breeze, watching the prolific number of bicyclists brave rush hour traffic as only us Portlanders can do, drinking a Rosemary Mocha, eating a lemon tart, discussing these books and connecting with these women  (whom I adore)  ....

...these fill me up like few things do.

Very few.

Is it the fact that I'm working only 20 hours at a week at The Very Large Hospital completing extremely menial tasks (and am therefore, mostly, wholly unchallenged)?

Is it that I'm now living on my own again?  (I doubt it - I'm really very talented at this.)

Is it that I really only get to have adult, thought provoking conversations for 45 minutes every night when Shoes calls?  Note:  I have thought provoking conversations with all of my friends; but we're really not single 20 somethings anymore, with the time to just drop by each other's homes and visit.  I, howeve, do have this time.  At least this summer.

I digress.

Book club:  The Children of Men, PD James.  It received thumbs up all around.  Blurb from the cover:  "The human race has become infertile, and the last generation to be born is now adult.  Civilization itself is crumbling as suicide and despare become commonplace.  Oxford historian Theodore Faron, apathetic toward a future without a future, spends most of his time reminiscing.  Then he is approached by Julian, a bright, attractive woman who wants him to help get her an audience with his cousin, the powerful Warden of England.  She and her band of unlikely revolutionaries may just awaken his desire to live ... and they may also hold the key to survival for the human race."

Sounds pretty dark, right?  I suppose that's accurate.  While Julian and her "band of unlikely revolutionaries" have hope and passion, it appears as though the rest of the human race has lost both.  No ambition.  Nothing to look forward to.    The disscusion of our book group centered around apathy, the patterns of power and failure that humans seem to follow, and what constitutes true love.
While the blurb may make it difficult for one to believe that this book may be about romantic love, it is one of the major themes we drew out of it.  What constitutes love?  How do we choose partners?  How do relationships end?  What is family?   How do we decide to have children?

As women in our early 30s, we think about these things.  As professional, graduate students with bucket-fulls of student loans, we think about these things.

I just love these women.  Perhaps because I am narcissistic and selfish and grab at meaning in my own personal life out of the experiences of others.  Perhaps. 

Perhaps I just love the thinking and the analyzing and the freedom to draw whatever conclusions I wish from our conversations.

Book for August:  The Bonesetter's Daughter, Amy Tan.  Queue's updated.

Wishing you all a chance to get to your local North Bakery, get lost in a book and sip some tea ....

Shoes had been offering to take me to the driving range since we started dating; but, in the midst of our long distance mayhem, it was one activity that fell to the wayside.

Until a couple of weeks ago.

Shoes is an excellent golfer.  I mean, tournament winning excellent (and he would be upset to read that; however, since he doesn't read this blog ... ;)).  Right before the 4th of July, we went to the East Moreland Golf Course here in Portland so he could teach the basic of the basics.

And basically, I stunk.  So badly.  As in, I kept hitting the ball low and to the right.  And almost hitting people.  That's when I asked Shoes to trade me places.  I thought he would be more apt to forgive me for a ball injury.  Luckily, it never happened.  It awoke the terrible perfectionist in me, however, and I wanted to try again and again and again ... I think Shoes bought 3 big bucket of balls that day without questioning.  And without complaint.

Over the 4th, we went to the golf course with his dad, which consisted of me picking up my ball and walking (and continually asking why the snack cart lady had the 4th off).

On Shoes' last visit, we went back to the driving range, and it finally felt like something started to click.  Nothing spectacular - my goals are very reasonable - but I started to hit the balls in a beautiful straight line past the 75 yard mark (nothing spectacular!).  Shoes gathered a bunch of his old clubs for me, got me one of their old golf bags, loaded me up with golf balls and tees and smiled gently at all my effort.  This one?  I just adore him.

I think this is good.  I think I need a hobby like this.  My days are filled with hospital politics (gulp), my classes had titles such as "End of Life and Palliative Care" and Social Policy (I'm going to a suicide prevention training on 9/10 that I think will be excellent ..).  These are good, altruistic, fascinating things for me.  Really.

And they're also so very heavy.  And I'm a very serious person who's just now, at 32, coming to grips with the fact that I am way too serious.

So.

I took a golf lesson last week.  Remember the movie "Office Space?"  I don't remember the character's name, but there's a guy on there who is a perpetual mumbler.  The golf instructor?  That guy.  Could barely understand a word he was saying.  But he was patient.  And what he said made sense, only, it completely makes no sense when I try to follow his instructions.

But that's ok.  I'm ready to stink for a loooooong time.

Another golf story?

Shoes is playing in a Vineyard town game with a bunch of the guys from the County.  A former supervisor (of mine) from when I used to work in juvenile detention thought it would be the funniest thing to put a guy I dated for about 6 weeks on Shoes' foursome. 

This?

This is why I NEED Shoes to move here so we never, never have to return to the Vineyard Town as a couple.  I told him I would pay for him to move here to be my personal golf pro, but he declined (probably because I offered to pay him in snuggles and affirmations).  Shoes says, "Give me 700 days and I'll move there."

Oy.  These days ...

So.  I'll keep golfing and Shoes will keep helping me and at some point, I'll learn how to really follow through to get that *&;^% ball where I want it to go.

I could not even begin to tell you how bone tiring busy it's been.  Or how extremely fulfilling.

New apartment, big move, more hours at the Very Large Hospital, new job responsibilities, a trip to the zoo with Sarah and Malaika, a 4th of July in Eastern Washington with Shoes' family, a new hobby I'm addicted to,  a lovely summer evening bbq with my Goddaughter and family and registering for fall classes.

Well, here:

 
I think I was supposed to learn something last year.

It's my 3^&*( th birthday today.  (Oops, sorry, fingers must have slipped.  Weird.)  As I turn another year older, I'm finding myself contemplative and reflective, examining the milestones and the losses and how they've melded together in these past 12 months.

Just joking.

This year, the first of many, was NONE of those things.  Thank God!  I am DUE to have an it happened, I had fun, amazing things happened, year.  I really wanted to move away from the Vineyard Town, which happened.  I really, really wanted to get into grad school (150 admissions {est}/ 750 applications {est}), which happened.  I really, really, really wanted this little dating relationship with Shoes to last, and to survive  my moving away.  It did.  He's amazing.  There may be big changes in our future.  I'll keep you posted. 

This little life of my mine is becoming more relaxed, less stressed and less anxious (and everybody breathed a sigh of relief and said, "what took you so long?").

So my birthday?  This is what it's going to look like.  I'm going to spend all day moving into a new little apartment in a part of this city that does NOT see regular fights in my apartment complex's parking lot, where the police don't cruise by every 10 minutes and where there are no attack pit bulls next door.  Shoes will be driving down from the Vineyard Town after work, and instead of doing something planned, structured and expensive, I think I'll just want to hang out.  Add something clear to my lemonade.  Enjoy this rare Portland sunshine (which, of course, in true Portland fashion has just disappeared).  Be a normal couple.  Celebrate this absolutely SMASHING success of a year. 

It's about time.

My goddaughter turns 2 on Wednesday, but the Birthday Girl had her party on Saturday.  Lucky, lucky mommy and daddy had a party day without rain.

So many things I love about Rebekah.  I love how she "reads" books like this: 
"Afkeopena kier kodag mirno mmmmp.  THE END!!"




I love how she's entirely uncomfortable with loud noises or sudden noises (think train whistles) and will freeze, calm herself, nod and say, "Bekah ok?"

I love how she tells me to take naps.




I love how her internal clock clicks at 1:00 and she will tell other people, "Nap?"

I love her two year old hugs and her hesitation around new people.

All around, she is turning into a fantastic human being.  And I'm so glad she, her mommy and daddy live just an hour south.  I wish I had time to see them more.



Sigh.  Someday she will look at the camera when we take pictures together.

I have more than enough to keep me busy lately.  My position at the Very Large Hospital is dramatically transforming, and they hope to keep me on through the summer.  The sister I'm living with just had her military orders shortened - as in, she's leaving in a few days - and we're already in the process of moving (means we have to get almost everything done in the next four days). 

If I chose to, I have a few things to really worry about.

Instead, yesterday morning, I woke up thinking about how irritated I was with the Former Husband for taking those Krispy Kreme paper hats down to Nicaragua when he did a mission there at an orphanage in December 2003.  This was my first concious thought of the day.  I hadn't thought about that mission in years.  It was seven years ago.  Seven.  (I  love missions, as long as the culture of the indigenious people are respected to the highest.  No spreading American values - or, as in the case of Krispy Kreme - American consumerism.)  The kids loved them, but I thought it was so sad.  They don't need paper garbage with American logos on it.  (That said, I've been known to eat one, or two, or three Krispy Kremes ...)

I couldn't shake the bizarre thought of how irritated I was, and the irritation grew to anger.  And I knew it was illogical, which made things even worse.  I haven't talked to Former Husband in a year and a half.  Have absolutely no idea what he's up to and absolutely no reason to care that he took a box of Krispy Kreme paper hats to a bunch of orphans under the age of 10 seven years ago.  It irritated me then, but it was really, really irritating me yesterday.

And then I  realized that yesterday was the 3 year anniversary of the day I found out my former marriage was over.  A traumatic day.

So, I, who am relatively emotionally healthy, am still haunted by some unconcious processes on a very minor level.  And, although minor, it had an effect on my affect.  (Although, I'm not sure why it manifested itself in Krispy Kreme neurosis ...) 

And I think about what I, in the past, have thought, when working with clients, who are healing "at their own pace."  It's a good reminder.  This stuff?  Sometimes it just gets us in ways we don't understand.

That was yesterday. 

Today, however, I am not thinking about Former Husband.  No.  Today, I am headed an hour south for my Goddaughter's, Rebekah, birthday party - she will be a magnificant, fabulous two years old.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl!
 

... I'm learning so many new things at the Very Large Hospital where I work.  For the past six months, I've been doing a lot, a lot, of terribly boring, mundane, tedious financial tasks.  Billing for mouse intestines and mouse cryopreservation.  Tracking down outstanding invoices.  Creating rolling spreadsheets for budgets.

Meh.

I'm not that person.

But lately, lately, I've been working on getting the research volunteers set up with the 75 tasks they have to complete to become volunteers with the Very Large hospital.  This?  This is very much up my alley.

And today, a 20 year old came in with a form for us to sign and I just happened to notice she had a "u.washington.edu" email address.  I started laughing and said,

"I don't know if I can help you, dear.  We mostly idolize Cougars around my parts.  I don't know if I should be touching this form."

To which she immediately corrected, "I grew up in Eugene.  I am NOT a Husky."

I did not tell her Ducks are no better than Huskies.

I will tell you that I didn't care about this one smidge until Shoes came along.  Well.  A Cougar is better than a Mountaineer, which is what I was.

What the crack's a Mountaineer anyway?