these days

these days:

one of the cats sits directly outside my bedroom door when I am inside it. directly outside. when I open the door, his nose is pressed to the corner of the frame, waiting. he slithers off nonchalantly when I walk out, or sometimes he stands in place, directly in my way, waiting to be shooed.

I wonder very honestly how it got to be june.

I continue to be too competitive in my recreational runs; today, just after the steel bridge platform came back down, the (male) runner just behind me huffed and huffed, waiting impatiently as all the cyclists and walkers in front of us gradually trickled across. there was no use in going around -- you would just make the traffic worse -- but he went by anyway. a quarter mile later I passed him, knowing full well I was going faster than I should, because he seemed like the kind of guy who didn't want to be passed, especially by a little bit of a girl. he never caught back up.

I'm trying to convince myself that I'm really moving out of my apartment; that I really have to do it in just a few weeks. I'm living in a state of very sincere disbelief. I like my neighborhood and my apartment; I hate apartment hunting. do I have to?

The most common comment about my hair is "wow! it's growing so fast!" which happens to be true.

I am, by some divine stroke of the universe, spending a good portion of my time consumed by radiant happiness.

vacating

This past week was the opera's third (and final) furlough week of the 2009-2010 season. I spent the first furlough riding my horse, cleaning the apartment, and generally enjoying a really wonderful week at home catching up on my loafing. The second furlough took place over the holidays; I was at home with my family.

I spent part of this final furlough with an old friend from high school, who came to town Tuesday for his first visit to the northwest, to be split between seeing Portland and backpacking.



We're in the middle of a seemingly endless wet spell, which is trying the patience of all but the most seasoned Portlanders. (Like some others, I am frankly about to lose my mind). We got lucky this week and the weather mostly cooperated.





We left for our trip on Wednesday, though much later than we had planned because we were both too tired Tuesday night to pack. In the end, it worked out swimmingly: it rained the entire drive but cleared up the moment I hit Olympic National Forest.



We hiked along the Duckabush River; it was fun to hear my friend's awed take on the intensely verdant old growth forest, a setting not uncommon around here, and one I've become surprisingly used to. We didn't start hiking until after 4 PM, but managed to make it to the five mile marker, set up, cook dinner, and hang our bear bag just before dusk, with impeccable timing.

I was really proud to remember a useful knot for the bear bag. Have I ever mentioned that I LOVE knots? I added about a dozen of them to my repertoire several years ago, while dating a boy scout troop leader. I even went so far as to create a knot board -- a display of the knots you've learned -- and was informally inducted into "the order of the knot." (I have the certificate to prove it). Sadly, though I have a sharp memory, it's impressively terrible at remembering how to tie cool knots. So it was a total kick to tie the hitch for our bear bag and have my friend sincerely admire it.



The next day we decided to leave everything set up and hike further into the park without our packs in order to cover more ground. It turned out to be a great plan; the weather started out nice but got progressively more ominous as the day wore on. We hiked about five miles before hitting a stream crossing that required too much effort and potential soaked-ness to cross. On our way back it was decided that we'd seen about as much as we could see on our current trail, which (although beautiful) did not intersect with any other trails for at least 15 miles. We concluded that neither of us wanted to sleep in the potentially pouring rain only to hike back out in the morning, so we came home a day early. It did in fact pour the entire next day, so I felt pretty good about the decision. Instead of backpacking on Friday, we met up with another old friend from school, drank coffee, and then played video games on my old Nintendo.

By the way, I gamed the system a little bit: backpacking in Olympic National Park has been on my to-do list for several years, but I did put it on the list intentionally this year knowing with certainty that it would get done less than a week later. The list's rules are always in flux, people.

My vacation was bookended by two deliciously lazy weekends spent in better company than I could hope to ask for. Today I have that wonderful, exhausted feeling of needing a vacation after your vacation. In this case it means the week was well spent. I'll take it.

29.

My birthday weekend was so wonderful, it almost defies description. I don't even know what to tell you about it, except to say that it was full of the things that make me happy. I actually don't much want to talk about it; it feels quietly sacred somehow. Suffice it to be said: I love twenty-nine so far.

I will tell you one of my weekend activities: I had a great jumping lesson with Cookie on Monday night. They've brought in a trainer originally from the UK to help the 4H kids with their jumping and dressage prior to their big show this summer, and have opened up those lessons to those of us who are interested. I haven't done much jumping in the last ten years, and Cookie has done hardly any, so I expected it to be sort of a disaster, especially given that her steering mechanism is not always so good. But she was a superstar. She jumped everything I pointed her towards, even if the approach was bad. And the physical memory of how to ride a jump remained in my body throughout all this time. What a gift. The last jump we cleared was probably over two feet, which doesn't sound like much until you're trying to get your horse over it. Cookie sort of sat back mid-stride as if she wasn't going to do it, and then surprised me by rounding up over it beautifully. Afterwards the trainer said, "Well, she surely is willing!" Sometimes she is so giving of herself that I feel wretched having ever been frustrated with her. That animal tries her heart out for me, and I am so grateful to her, and occasionally humbled.

Tomorrow I'm headed out to Olympic National Park with an old friend from high school, who came to town today so we could get our backpacking gear situated. We were going to enjoy a day doing PDX sight-seeing things, but he got up at 3:30 and promptly arrived at the WRONG AIRPORT for his flight; I haven't had more than 5-6 hours of sleep since last week. We stopped at Powell's for ten minutes, ate crepes and french fries at the food carts, and came back here to play on my old school Nintendo before I dragged him to the barn so I could feed. We shopped for our trip, and now we're fully stocked but were too tired to pack. When we got back here, we stuffed ourselves full of sushi and promptly went to bed. It's supposed to rain rather seriously throughout our 3-day trip. I'm pretty sure we're going to come back covered in moss.

golden birthday

Some people lament turning another year older; some people lie about their age; some people don't like celebrating birthdays at all. I've never understood that. Maybe one day I'll reach an age where I do. In the meantime, I am happy to be alive, and healthy, and loved. In 29 years so many things have happened, and I would not take a single one of them back.



p.s. my friend Lauren made me the best cake EVER. seriously. ever.

the list

29 things to do before I turn 30

1. go to a zen practice.
2. stay a night at timberline.
3. take a bikram class.
4. drink water straight from the source.
5. kiss at midnight.
6. teach the mare to smile.
7. visit keana's candyland.
8. renew my passport.
9. eat cupcakes at saint cupcake & cupcake jones.
10. run with the lizards.
11. step off the native soil.
12. reclaim former 200m glory.
13. rock the spankies.
14. see a pop idol live.
15. do handstands on the beach.
16. break a 7 minute mile.
17. dance cheek to cheek.
18. go clamming.
19. see the swifts (really this time).
20. watch all of the maestro's movies.
21. head out to the round-up.
22. drive in.
23. wear a sundress.
24. join the naked mob.
25. see the rainforest.
26. compete at training level.
27. complete a 100-day streak.
28. go east.
29. climb the ruined peak.

float

Today I took the morning off work so I could be there when Cookie got her teeth floated. Horses, like many animals, have teeth that grow continuously through most of their lives, and are ground down slowly over time as they eat. In a perfect mouth, they grind evenly, but more often than not, they wear down more in some spots than others, eventually making the taller bits into sharp hooks that catch on the tongue and insides of the cheeks.

Dr. Clabaugh (seriously, click that link and scroll down, she has the freaking bad-assest bio in history; I wish I had had more time to talk with her) was super sweet and fawned over Cookie -- always a bonus in my book, like somebody complimenting your kid. ("I'm a sucker for buckskins. You know, I'd like to think I'm beyond color, but she is just so cute. Look at those ears! I've never seen ear markings like that.") She had to give Cookie two doses of sedative, because after the first one she still pretty much looked like this:



.. and therefore not nearly sleepy/drunky enough. The second dose worked much better, though. It was simultaneously hilarious and sad to see my horse dosed up like that. Kind of like seeing someone you love really, obliteratingly drunk. Thank god horses can't read blogs because I'm about to show the internet how sad she looked.

Getting the speculum on:


having a hard time holding her head up (she hadn't been propped up yet); tongue lolling:


Once she was all set up, we took a look. I got to see the ulcers she had on both sides of her cheeks from where she had rubbed/bitten them; her hooks weren't too bad but she had a "ramp" on her back molar -- it was worn down in the front but not the back -- that Dr. Clabaugh told me would be making it more painful for her to bend at the poll: in other words, making it unpleasant for her to keep her head in the appropriate place while I'm riding. She also still had her wolf teeth, small pre-molars not unlike human baby teeth, which bang on the bit and can be uncomfortable. We decided that in addition to the float, Dr. Clabaugh would also extract those two teeth. Ouch!

world's scariest dental drill:


Fortunately for my wallet, one of the wolf teeth popped loose as she was filing the others. The $25 I would have spent on that tooth would have put the vet bill over $300. Thanks, tooth!

my camera sucks, but I wanted to get an action shot of the drill. (Or maybe just a sound clip). I should mention at this point that I did sheepishly apologize to the dentist for being a crazy horse mom. "Are you kidding? We get this all the time."



The whole process took about forty-five minutes. Not so bad. Cookie was so sedated she needed help walking to her stall. It's hard enough when your 150-pound friend needs help; imagine your 900-pound horse?



She was staggering. It was hilarious.

She got a round of vaccines (unrelated to the float) and we tucked her in. She supposedly would be more awake and alert in about 30 minutes. (I had to go to work, so I couldn't hang around & find out). I gave her some pats I'm sure she couldn't feel. Sleepy mare!



I mean, look at this face. This is the face of your friend at 3 AM just before she passes out fully clothed in the bathtub. She had to lean her head against the wall. She couldn't even move. So cute/sad.



It'll be a few days before I can ride again, since her mouth will be healing from the extractions. I REALLY can't wait to see if the work changes how she carries her head. One of her chronic problems is head tossing/fussiness, so I'm really hoping the dental work makes her head carriage more consistent. And I'm glad, of course, that she won't be rubbing the insides of her cheeks off every time she eats anything.

scaredy cat

Yesterday at the barn, Larry, a fellow stall-cleaner and barn mate, mentioned to me that when her turnout door is open, my horse will stand with her head out the door but never goes outside. I suspected this might be the case but had hoped that maybe she was out during the day, when I wasn't around. Her stall opens on to a small pasture, and once every couple of days it's her turn to be out there. She's only been in this stall for a few months; before that, she was in a stall in the middle aisle of the barn, where there was no access to turnout at all. I considered this a major upgrade, so I really would like her to do more than stick her head out the door.

Larry's assessment was that she must be afraid to step in the mud immediately outside the turnout door. Because this is Oregon, and it's May, and they are horses, there's an area about two feet wide of puddle/mud next to the barn. The other horses just walk out into it and beyond, into the grass. Larry decided to take her out of her stall, walk her around to the outside gate that opens onto said pasture, turn her loose, and then feed her in her stall so she'd walk through the mud to come in.

This morning at about 11 I got a text from him with this photo:



I was so happy! Look at her go!

A few hours later we had a tremendous rainstorm in downtown Portland, and I thought, "Well, I sure hope Cookie's gotten over her fear of the mud and isn't stuck outside in this."

When I got to the barn, I walked down the aisle and, as I always do, called out "Hello mare!" which is usually what brings her to her door (if she's not already there). But: nothing. I got to her stall only to discover this morning's hay still on the ground, and no horse. I let myself in and peeked through the open turnout door. There she was, around the corner, just hanging out. She walked over when she heard me but stood about four feet from the door, on the 'safe' side of the mud.

People, my horse is afraid of mud. My horse, who has been trail riding through the backcountry of Montana, who has lived for a winter in a stall prone to flooding, who spent her first several years outside all year in pasture in OREGON, is afraid of mud.

All I can say to explain this is that the mud in front of her stall door is trampled by the feet of many horses, yet very squelchy and wet; in places there is standing water. It's not very deep -- not even ankle deep on me -- but to a horse lacking higher reasoning processes, it must have seemed like a scary place to put her feet.

So, I put her halter on and began to lead her through. I stood next to her and gave her a pep talk, then took a few steps forward into the mud. She walked with me for a second, and then balked. I made reassuring noises. She was not reassured. She stood there and looked at me like, "yeah, right," and didn't budge. I stepped into the doorway, holding her lead rope, and pulled gently. She reared up a little and refused. Okay, okay. Take two: I grabbed a handful of treats, stuffed them in my pockets, and resumed my place in the doorway. Leaning out, I held a treat just out of her reach. She took one tentative step forward, so she got to eat it. I held out a second treat. Her front feet were lined up primly next to one another, just at the edge of the mud. She leaned her head as far as she could possibly lean it -- go go, Inspector Gadget head! No luck for her: the treat was just out of reach.

Finally, just like a kid who finally sums up the courage to dive into the pool, she seemed to take a breath and then LEAPT into the stall. Fortunately, I'd anticipated the possibility of getting run over and I got out of her way in time. She leapt so neatly that her back feet weren't even muddy. She looked relieved and a little sheepish, and dove into her grain bucket with relish.

What a weirdo. I'm hoping she's cured of it, but I didn't get an opportunity to drag her back outside yesterday -- I wanted to let her eat. When I left her she was surrounded by both her morning and evening hay, munching happily. I couldn't bear the idea of forcing her back out into the muck.

a little bit of earth

I woke up dreaming my mother's garden—
fields in autumn, green turning gold,
grasses scythed down in the late, dark sun;
and here will be corn, she was saying, tomatoes,
flowers I never knew she loved.

I woke to a child climbing into my bed
—four-year-old girl of my sister's son—
hair like silk and the color of wheat
falling into her eyes, begging me to get up.

And in my mother's kitchen the strong light smelled of coffee
and autumn, in fact. In fact, my mother,
who hasn't gardened in twenty years, was taking a bath.
I heard her splashing through the walls. It was October;
the child came forward, one fresh egg cupped in her palm.

I woke up dreaming the harrowed fields,
sharp with stubble, my mother's lands.
She was already preparing for spring; she was already
stepping naked from the bath, away from grief—

a widow with work to do, weeds in the yard,
and the child calling softly to me, come on, come on, come on.

--waking elsewhere, cecelia woloch

Today I visited my new community garden plot. I've been on the waiting list for a year, which I don't feel so bad about because it turns out there are 1400 people on the waiting list.

1400.

The plot is a couple miles from here, nestled in an area of southeast Portland that's impossible a challenge to navigate because the streets start and stop randomly. You'll be driving down 57th and suddenly it dead-ends at a house and picks up again six blocks later. I lived in this neighborhood when I first moved to Portland and there were truly nights in the first few weeks where I would drive for two hours just trying to get back to the house.

I got lucky, because not only did I get a garden plot, I got a SHINY NEW garden plot. The garden is expanding this year and there's a new section with 23 new raised beds.



The plot is 20' x 20', which I just want to point out is bigger than the studio apartment I lived in during graduate school. (For real: the studio was 15' x 15'). I am SO EXCITED! I had a balcony garden for two years in my last apartment, and I got such joy from it. I already have a list of things to cultivate: tomatoes, peas, salad greens, cucumbers, kale, basil, chives, tomatillos, garlic, green onions. Sunflowers. Sweet peas.

It rained this morning, so I mistakenly thought it was a lousy day outside and therefore didn't step foot out the front door until 4 PM. In fact, it was the perfect temperature; a sweet, late-spring warmth. The opera season is over, and summer is coming. The sky glows faintly with the last of the day's light until well after 9 PM. My favorite time of year, while the days are still extending and extending; the flowers are still blooming, and summer is still a hopeful promise, a sweet singular taste.

thoughts on baldness

It's taken me a couple of days to settle into my baldness. Here are my conclusions so far. Some of them are things I had already anticipated:

1. Your hair really does keep you warm/you really do lose a lot of heat from your head. It is BREEZY up there now. The best way I can describe it is that it feels like I have wet hair, constantly. The same sense of chill.

2. Reactions can be divided into three main categories:
a. Unabashedly complimentary: "You look beautiful!" (my favorite, of course)
b. Complimentary/fascinated: "Your head is a great shape!"
c. Covertly uncomfortable/needing reassurance/assuming I am uncomfortable with baldness: "Well, it'll grow out fast!"

3. I was right in believing that losing my hair would heighten my desire to perform my gender. I feel okay as long as I can wear eyeliner and earrings. Clothes I never would have given a second thought to -- the hoodie and jeans I wear to work at the barn, my running tights -- I am suddenly self-conscious in, aware now of their gender neutrality. I felt palpable relief last night when the cashier at the grocery store called me "ma'am."

4. Likewise, despite the plethora of compliments I've received, I feel significantly less cute and less noticeable as a girl. Already. A friend in my running group casually suggested we go out for snacks/drinks recently and I feel sheepish but I'm honestly nervous that he may be less enthusiastic now that I have no hair.

5. For all these reasons, it does occasionally take a great deal of my courage to step out the door. My coworkers were all warned, but there are plenty of friends/acquaintances who I see on a frequent basis who did NOT know about the shave. I was very aware of this at the barn yesterday, running in to a number of folks who weren't informed beforehand. Some commented on my head, some did not.

Overall, although I was expecting it I'm still surprised to feel that shaving your head -- as a woman, in particular -- is a real act, despite the fact that it is JUST A HAIRCUT. The people who seem to need my reassurance are exasperating; it's as though they subconsciously want me to feel as though I've made a mistake and regret my transgression. Another person close to me was positively horrified when she heard I was going to do it. She seemed to believe it indicated I was on a downward spiral. As if I'm a different person because my hair is a millimeter long.

I don't love it yet, but I don't regret it. I'm curious to see what happens as my hair grows in, which it's doing FAST; I suspect there will come a time when I feel less bald and it starts to feel more awesome. My current level of hair is a delightfully tactile level of fuzziness that still LOOKS too short for my taste but is really fun to touch.

And I raised $855 for St. Baldrick's, a number which surpassed my goal by nearly $400. You people are awesome.

number 24

more on this tomorrow. I'm bald!

derby day

We take the Kentucky Derby very seriously in my family. Observe:

Our choices: Mom - Mission Impazible
Travis - Awesome Act
Ashley - Sidney's Candy

I got my mint today. I'm placing bets online tomorrow. Saturday, I'm putting together some kind of beautiful hat to wear. Coverage starts at 4:00. I'll call you around 5:30 and we can
talk about Bob and anybody else that's noteworthy.

Love,
Mom

(Bob, by the way, is the trainer Bob Baffert, who my mother and I have fun loathing for various reasons.)

I spent most of the rest of my day dyeing my hair.

round one: bleach







round two: dye







round three: dye (again)



I picked blonde because it was the color I would be least likely to dye my hair if I actually were going to do it on a permanent basis. I thought it would look wretched but it's actually kind of fun, in an artificial, Barbie sort of way.

Tomorrow is the shave. The reality of what 'shaving your head' means is beginning to sink in.