scout.

On gratitude.

At some point in my life, I was just a young, fresh-faced, short-haired, joyful little college student. I swear, I have pictures to prove it.  During this time, on an average sort of day,  I stopped at a smoothie place (Jamba Juice? Blenders? Other California-esque juicery?) after picking up a pittance of groceries to stock my tiny apartment kitchen. I got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot, only to be hit by a speeding truck that didn't believe in red lights. I remember nothing of those few seconds that shot me across four lanes of traffic and crumpled my car like a piece of junk mail, except the following: 1. After the airbag deployed, the radio turned itself on, and started blasting opera from the classical station. 2. I was unharmed. 3. I had never seen so much surface area covered by freshly blended smoothie, EVER. Every square inch of the dashboard, carpet, all of my clothing, and the lenses of my glasses were covered with orangey-pink blended fruit. And would you believe, when all was said and done, that I could not stop thinking about the four-dollar smoothie that I would never get to drink? Because I was wearing it. Some sweet, clean-cut grad student came running into traffic to make sure I was okay, to tell me he liked opera, and ask if he could walk me home. While I was covered in FRUIT.  I was completely at a loss as to what to tell him. Yes? No? Do you have a paper bag handy for me to crawl into? 'Musetta's Waltz' warbled from the speakers of the mangled wreck, and that's when I started laughing. 

*                                            

  I recently found myself dealing with some potentially serious health concerns that I won't go into here. Suffice it to say, it was the kind of frightening that makes you never want to hear the words doctor, or test, or medical bill, or think about months September and October ever again. As it turns out, I am healthy as an ox, or perhaps some smaller, less burly animal (a goat maybe?), but what I remember about the whole thing most, is socks. Yes, socks. At every visit, for every procedure, every appointment, I SWORE I would remember that I would be wearing naught but an uber-flattering hospital gown and whatever happened to be on my feet. And every time I looked down, I would see that I had forgotten. Argyle. Polka dots. Rainbow stripes. Holes akimbo. You have some ridiculous old socks? I WAS PROBABLY WEARING THEM. And so I wandered around the hospital, in the stockings of a crazed toddler,  unable to focus on the fear, because I could not stop thinking about how damned ridiculous my feet looked. And for that, I was immensely grateful.

I would like to rejoice for just about everything this year that wasn't calamitous. There has been more upheaval and uncertainty than I can even wrap my brain around. But would you believe I cannot stop smiling? If I've learned anything at all, it's that life is as hilarious as it is trying.  If I had one wish for the coming year, or for you, dear readers, it's that every time you think you're a goner, you will find yourself covered in smoothie, wearing argyle socks, and laughing. 

Happy Thanksgiving.

All love,
*Andrea  

  

But we are both still wary of mustaches.

At heart, she is an even smaller dog, trapped inside a small dog's body.

  
I've written at some length about Bradley (the first small dog) and our ongoing plight to help him overcome a multitude of fears stemming from a terrible past, but it occurred to me the other day, as June lost her shit over an inanimate object yet again, that I've never talked about small dog number 2 and her somewhat bizarre phobias. At first we thought it was just big dogs. Okay, I thought. Easy-peasy. Nothing that a little basic classical conditioning couldn't fix. (Thanks, Pavlov!) Eventually, we started realizing that men also set her into 'bark and hide' mode (cower is a good word for it), in particular, bearded men. So we made her read the Portland street style blog and let her know that she was SO in the wrong city for that kind of fear, but to no avail. And then one day, she cowered at a man carrying a chair. And then one with an umbrella. And then one morning Aaron had to dress up in a black suit and tie to go to a business meeting and wore his glasses at the request of his wife (who thinks he looks extra special cute in them)... girl took one look at him, and GREAT HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY BEDROOM, PLEASE DON'T KILL ME, AAHH!!! Or something to that effect. Because I don't speak dog.  It took us twenty minutes to coax her out from under the bed so she could smell him and get a few belly rubs, at which point, she went back to being her usual silly, happy self. 

It became pretty clear that her problem wasn't with men in general, or even beards in general, but accessories. ACCESSORIES people. Do you have any idea how many accessories one encounters on a daily basis? It is incomprehensible. So far we have worked through (and she is fine with) beards, hats, umbrellas, bikes, skateboards, wheelchairs, bags, and thanks to one incredibly sweet man who put his walking stick down on the ground so she could smell it and gave her a treat (after which she proceeded to wag her whole body and lick his face until he probably regretted the action), canes. It's very easy to get frustrated though, and I have to remind myself  that she really has no idea what the hell any of this stuff is. If you spent your entire life locked in a cage, cut off from the outside world and others of your own kind, churning out puppies by the dozens, you'd think that skateboard was a harbinger of death too. So we press onward. And after 8 months, I think we're finally reaching the end of the 'list of unknown accoutrements.'  God forbid anyone should walk in front of us carrying a grand piano or something. But since we don't live in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, I'm going to call this a win.

Garden Fail.

We have reached that point in the season where the weather is doing nothing but making an already untidy yard look more untidy, rendering us generally stir-crazy, and also reminding everyone just how much we suck at owning a home. Thanks Weather! Gone are the reds and yellows of maples and apple-trees, the quiet disarray of delicate, dry foilage strewn about the lawn. In their stead you will largely find guilt. Guilt and mud and decomposing leaves. I have not even planted the dahlia bulbs currently sprouting in my basement. In fact, I'm not even sure when you're supposed to plant the dahlia bulbs that probably should not be attempting to bloom in your basement. Now? Two weeks ago? Never? 'Oh that? That's not my yard. That's my mulch-pit,' I will say to the neighbors, as my future self sips a martini on the porch at 10am, in my pajamas, sunglasses, and silk dressing gown. Because that's what's going to happen if it does not quit raining for longer than 15 minutes every two weeks. I will have to stop caring and turn into Joan Collins in order to maintain a modicum of self worth. On the bright side, my basement will look lovely at mid-summer.

All love,
*Andrea 

Is this thing on?

Oh hi! Hello there. I am not dead, as it turns out! I couldn't wait any longer to extend a big welcome to anyone who made there way over here from the lastest issue of Artful Blogging (which hit the stands a week or so ago), to let any regular readers know that, hey! I'm  in the current Winter issue of Artful Blogging! See? Two birds with one stone. And since that metaphor sucks, we'll pretend I didn't use it. Moving on! I hope this doesn't completely screw up your bloglines or make everyone stabby, but I'm going to be hitting you with a barrage of backlogged posts in the next few days. I've been really struggling to figure out a way to fit my blog back into a new, beyond chaotic schedule, that leaves exactly, oh, I don't know, NONE minutes at the end of the day for writing and general computer time, but I think I may have found a solution. It might take a little while to work out the kinks, but I am hoping that the new format will make it much easier for me to keep up with life's current pace. So without further ado, it's time to play catch-up.

All love,
*Andrea 

A list of things I have given up trying to explain to people.

Navy rhymes with lazy. Sort of.

I don't own any black clothes. No really. I don't. Yes, that is actually possible. Let me tell you about this little color called gray. It is almost black, but, goes with brown and navy and all kinds of other fun-tastic hues. Why? Because getting dressed every day is hard work. I am lazy. So lazy that part of me wishes it were still as simple as putting on my old school uniform again and heading out the door. So I decided to stop buying black, and then discovered I no longer had to coordinate every damn thing I wore. Everything in my closet matched! Packing was suddenly easy! There was no need to bring both the black shoes and the brown shoes, WHEN YOU DON'T OWN BLACK SHOES. Incredible.

My dog's name. No really. His name is Bradley. I'm not joking. Why are you laughing? Okay, you're right. It's kind of funny. But if there was ever a dog destined to be a Bradley, it would be this one. Now somebody go fetch him a sweater and a pipe; it's time for his evening scotch.

Why adults should read children's books.  Especially adults without children. Serious, bill-paying, job-holding, vegetable-eating adults. You have probably heard all the usual arguments, which is fine, because I'm not really interested in them. My favorite quote from Madeleine L'Engle goes something like, "You have to write whichever book it is that wants to be written. And then, if it's going to be too difficult for grownups, you write it for children."  The greatest misconception of children's literature is that it is easier to write and read and understand than that which is written for adults. The truth is exactly the opposite. There are only two genres that I know of that strive to communicate the largest of themes using the fewest possible words with a limited vocabulary: children's books, and poetry. Every time I see the smug, Kerouac-toting, hipster barista who's taken a shine to arguing the validity of my chosen profession and the genre as a whole with me, all BEFORE I've had my morning coffee, I want to a.) throw him against the wall, and b.) make him read everything Kate DiCamillo has ever written. Particularly her newest: The Magician's Elephant.  And then this  post, which really says it best. And then I will request that he and his beloved, eccentric, clove-smoking authors make the ideas of why we are here and what we owe each other accessible to, say, a six or seven year old. I will wish them luck, of course. And only then will I be able to enjoy my morning coffee in peace. 

I feel safer in a car than a plane. I know it's completely irrational, but there you have it. My parent's let me watch Miracle Landing with them when I was nine, which was simultaneously riveting and terrifying. Now that I think about it, it may have been my first experience with television shock-drama. Since then, I have fought the urge to bawl uncontrollably during air-travel. Thank you, made-for-television movies!

Blush. Let me guess. You have melanin. How nice that must be for you. I hear it's very convenient to have naturally rosy cheeks, but unfortunately, there are some of us who were not blessed with the gift of pigment. I know the vampire look is very popular right now and all, but let me tell you, some people would rather not walk around looking sallow. Of course, I am not advocating cheek-bones a la Joan Collins. But if I were forced to choose only two items from my medicine cabinet with which to live for the rest of my life, one would be a brush (seriously, have you seen my hair?), and the second would be rouge. Honestly. I might be porcelain, but I am not dead, thank-you-very-much.

We do not have cable.  Stop looking at me like that.  I am perfectly sane. In fact, I would venture to guess that am a happier person now because I do not have cable television. And thanks to Hulu, I can still watch whatever shows happen to be awesome, FOR FREE. And what does our household do instead of watching television, you ask? Are you serious? Lordalmighty. 

So what about you? What have you given up trying to explain? Graphic novels? Chai? Gladiator sandals? No topic is too small to defend. 

All love,

*Andrea

Aiming to have the suitcases unpacked by September.

If you were to measure summer in number of excursions great and small, then we would be the champions of summer. We would win gold medals. We would receive lucrative contracts from cereal companies. I know that was the plan and all, but I forgot about all the gearing-up time it takes, and then the gearing-down, and how the washing-machine goes non-stop in between, and that dogs often get carsick, and smell particularly dog-like when lodged in a small vehicle. The next thing you know it's the end of August and you're finding shoes in your trunk. We have traveled from here to Canada to the coast and the river and back again in the last month alone, much of it spontaneous. The lazy days of summer are not particularly lazy. I say this every year. But that doesn't mean they are any less spectacular. Being able to travel with my husband in this way, to visit friends and family after a few years absence is a miracle. 

But as it turns out, I am no longer a road warrior. The morning of my birthday I woke up sick.  Really sick.  I did not pack appropriately. It was (and is commonly) 30 degrees cooler in Newport than any other place along the Oregon Coast. I would have known this if I had bothered to GOOGLE ANYTHING, but, you know. the flu does things to the brain. I tried not to shake my fists at the universe and enjoy what little time we had. Aaron knew this somehow, and oysters and champagne on the beach turned into oysters and champagne in bed. Walks on the beach in the whipping wind were followed by hot baths. He let me wear his hoodie. And borrow his socks. The place was pure magic, but I was a mess. 

It was still dark when I sat staring at the digital clock on the motel nightstand that final morning. 4:30 am.  Even the canine crew showed no signs of stirring. I could either  toss and turn and wake the whole room up, or take my hacking elsewhere. So I layered up and grabbed the camera on the way out the door. I know at some point the sun rose. And I know the tide came back in. Clam hunters in muddy waders made their way up twisting pathways to their trucks. I may have been the only non-fisher person, not to mention woman, up at that hour, wandering around the docks, inspecting crab-pots.  I sat by the ocean for who knows how long. And I don't remember feeling sick, not even for one second. I took a hundred photos. You can find a few of them here.

This story has no moral really, except to say that things don't always go as planned. I could rename my whole blog just that. Entire trajectories can be thrown off by something as big as a job loss or something as simple as the flu. And I'm okay with that. Because as it turns out, things can be better.

All love, 
*Andrea

Where is my time machine?

25:52 Paper kites.

Wow. You all really know how to welcome a girl back.  I'm sort of awestruck. Your support and encouragement... I hope you know how much it means to me. To us. But before I get a all choked up, I should press on because I seem to have run out of time today, and nothing short of a bullet style entry will be sufficient to recap the current craziness. 

Things I Have Done In This Blur of Months, Henceforth To Be Known as June-ly:

-  Worked. Double time. With a manager who goes on extended vacation this time of year-- which also happens to be the time of year most feared by persons in my profession,  all I can say is, Holy Crap, you guys.  When does school start again?

-  Ate my body weight in popsicles.

-  Drafted a new pattern based on a shirt I already own, cut out the pieces,  proceeded to freak out about it, and abandoned it on the dining room table. Which is not uncommon for me.  If I had a nickel for every project I started, but lost faith in because of my sewing abilities, I would be a freaking bajillionaire.

-  Spent a day eating ridiculously amazing fruit, and lounging at the river's edge with friends. 

-  Did a little victory dance in the aisles of Goodwill, when a never-used Polaroid SX-70 shone like a beacon out from under a dark bottom shelf.

-  Went on a mad-hunt to procure film for said camera. 

-  Spent an overwhelming amount of time buried in construction paper. Why I feel the need to out-do myself for each and every story-time craft is beyond me. Do I believe that preschoolers can gauge how much effort you put into these things? Probably. 

-  Read, maybe, 400 YA books. Okay, more like 30. But that's a lot of angst in under three weeks and, let me tell you. I am this close to losing my grip on reality. I've already plowed through every Sarah Dessen, Jenny Han, re-read the Twilight series, Libba Bray, a few other obscure and marvelous authors (good lord E. Lockhart is AMAZING), read all the Newberry contenders (and the winner), and threw in a couple of Harry Potter's (not YA) for good measure. Now I need to go and get really really drunk and talk about mortgages with a bunch of grown-ups, just to celebrate the fact that I AM NOT A TEENAGER ANYMORE.

-  Geeked out over the latest Harry Potter movie. 

-  Geeked out over the upcoming kid's books turned films slated for release the following year. I may, or may not, have started bawling at the 30 second preview for "Where the Wild Things Are,' and may, or may not, have embarrassed the grown man sitting next to me in the theater, who knows me well enough to understand that I LOSE MY SHIT at anything that involves kind, vulnerable, and/or maligned non-human creatures. 

-  Worked on the final draft for a writing project due next week. (And I will share a bit more about this, that is, as soon as I stop worrying about it.)

-  Snorgled with the two most amazing dogs in the universe.

-  Took a walk every evening after dinner with the most amazing husband in the universe. It's my new favorite time of day.

Things I Did Not Do in June-ly:

-  Clean my house.

-  Do any laundry. I have no socks. Really. Not even one.

-  Pick up my camera much. (I am still woefully behind on 52 Weeks.) I plan to make up for that this weekend.

-  Spend much time on the internet.

-  Think about my upcoming birthday. Which is, as it turns out, tomorrow.

-  Pack for a short trip to the coast, even though we leave in under 24 hours.  (Did I mention that I haven't done any laundry? Maybe we can just wear clean sheets. Or newspaper. Or something.)

-  Sleep

*        *        *

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go dunk my head in some cold water before it explodes, and then try to make it to work on time. Oh, Summer. Your ability to slow things down and speed things up simultaneously is nothing short of miraculous. Happy Friday, friends.

All love,

*Andrea

Summer, a manifesto.

I have decided that this will be the summer of teen romance novels. This summer, my house will be a wreck, and I will choose whisky and lemonade over mopping and clean feet. I will keep a bag packed of beach-related things at all times, and suggest trips to the coast at random. And by suggest, I mean demand. This summer I have decided to enjoy the sweat that beads on my upper lip and the underwire of my bra. To embrace it as part of the heat and humidity that I have decided not to complain about. That will be the hardest part. As a pale person, I am hardwired to complain about the heat. This will be the summer I sit on the back stoop in my nightgown to enjoy a midnight popsicle. And I will enjoy it. Every second. This will be the first summer that I will do it right. I will channel my eight year old self, the last self who actually enjoyed months June through August, who lived for green chlorinated hair, morning swims, watermelon and root beer floats for dinner, impervious to the 120 degree heat of her childhood landscape.

And this will be the summer of love. I will tell you why. This will be the first summer in eight years for spending every day, arm in arm with my husband, sharing meals, walking the dogs, talking. Because this will always be remembered as the summer my husband lost his job. And while this will also be the summer of great stress, putting in longer hours, flailing in the sudden role of bread-winner, I know that in the end, I am only the winner of tiny loaves. Muffins really. Mini-muffins. There is no point in worrying about being the muffin-winner, when time stretches on ahead of you, full of  the one person you have always missed the most, despite sleeping in the same bed. I cannot help but smile, in the face of everything, when I see it for the gift it really is. This will be the summer of endless possibilities. And manifest destiny. This will be the summer where the big 3-0 looms ever closer, and I give up caring about what happened to my butt, or what it looks like in a bikini. This summer, there will always be fresh flowers on the nightstand, no matter how tight it gets. Because the hydrangea, who had a hunch, are kindly working on a few hundred blooms for us. This summer, I will wear gingham. I will whistle, despite poor whistling skills. I will daydream about avocado. I will give my dogs bellyrubs.

Dear Summer,

Bring it.

All love,

*Andrea

Dog Poo and the Pursuit of Happiness.

a peace offering

Hi, all. It's me. You know. The girl who's supposed to be writing things in this space, but isn't. Yeah that one. So...things have gotten a little difficult as of late. No reason to worry, but I couldn't let the days and weeks continue to roll on without mentioning that. I don't have much mental energy left, and the logon screen often leaves me wordless and witless. I don't have plans to close this blog, but I do know that if I don't let myself off the hook about a few things and soon, you may find me running down the street with underwear strapped to my head, raving about 'the pressure!' It's all self-inflicted of course, but it's high time I sorted some things out. I'm not sure how long that will take, but I hope to be back to something close to normal soon, writing about dog poo and the pursuit of happiness. 

I will still be around, plugging away at 52 weeks and visiting your lovely corners of the internet. And if a jar of wilty lilacs isn't enough of a peace-offering, how about a little dog smile? I hope that will do. Until then...

Much, much love,

*Andrea

Two good reasons.

14: 52

There have been days, many days, in the last few weeks where I have nearly walked out, or at least walked away from my job with no intention of returning. Days when I thought I would collapse from either heartbreak or exhaustion. Or both. Adding injury to insult, today I hobbled to and fro, after gruesomely catching my foot under an industrial sized door while cleaning the bathrooms. It was not pretty. Not any of it. 

And then, wouldn't you know, came these.

.    .    .    .

 

Mother: (utterly genuine) Thank you so much for helping us. We appreciate it so much. Have a wonderful night!

Me: You too! You're very welcome.

Daughter, 3 (whom I have never met): Thank you very much for helping us! Ap-pre-shate it! Thank you I love you See you in the morning!

.     .     .     . 

Boy, 8: Excuse me, Miss, would you be able to help me find something? I can't find a book and I really need your help. (with growing distress) It's the first book in the Guardians of Gahoole series, and it's so important, and I looked where it's supposed to be and I just can't find it...

Me: Well you are in luck, bud, because I got a copy in this morning that's still in the back.  I'll go grab it for you.

Boy: Really?! Really?! Oh I would be SO VERY GRATEFUL!!!

Me: (returning with the book) 

Boy: (jumping up and down) Wow, Miss, you are really very good at your job! Isn't she very good at her job, Mom?! Isn't she the best book person!

Me: (falls on the floor. dies.)

.     .     .     .

So I've decided to stay.

Happy Friday, friends. 

Thank you I love you See you in the morning.

All love,

*Andrea