emma b. says

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Every Day Should be Like Sunday

I was sitting on the porch today, sipping fizzy lemonade as the backyard cat prowled the perimeter and the trees swayed vaguely, feeling absurdly bucolic, when it occurred to me that I was very simply happy.

Sat in my sister-in-law's sister-in-law's backyard sipping sangria for the umpteenth baby shower I've been to since I arrived in Portland. Ate canapes, hung with my sister-in-law's sister, and their mother, overcome with well-being I wept in the car.

I came home and sat on the porch some more, then loitered at New Seasons where I waffled over cheeses and salumi, stocked up on good, cheap wine, hoarded the local blueberries that have finally come into season.

Evening here is watering time. I am on a corner lot and my yard is open, watering time at evensong is visiting time. It makes watering a very long process. Other neighbors are watering, others still are walking their animals or their children or both. We chat over hoses and leashes and screeches. I am not the most forthright social person, but I truly love shooting the breeze with my neighbors, it gives a sense of belonging and rightness. I never would have thought it, in my previous incarnation as hardened urban dweller --- people are still lighting off firecrackers -- I kept my eyes forward and my invisible forcefield activated always. Portland is like a very large town. I was out of town last weekend and when I returned my elderly Chinese neighbors across the street sent their eldest son over to inquire after my well-being, they were concerned. I was taken aback, and then I was thrilled, aint no way anyone is breaking into this house, not when I have spies across the street, like Gladys on Bewitched, except ancient and non-English speaking.

Sleepy in Seattle

I took a job. And as always happens, the second I took this job, which I settled for, I got a call from the famous disappearing recruiters with The Dream Job. The job I took is one of those ultra corporate dealies where everybody travels like mad people and speak in acronyms. Something that with a modicum of organization a slightly retarded monkey could do in his sleep, but I was desperate, it's not permanent, not yet, which is why I would feel little compunction if The Dream Job gets offered. I successfully wooed the HR person, round two up next. Keep your fingers and toes and noses crossed, internets, this one is the one I really, really want.

So the corporate job sent me to Seattle on Friday, through a series of fucked up communication misfires instead of hopping on the commuter shuttle (at 5:00AM the motherfucking tramp stamp of dawn) I ended up driving to Seattle, a city I have never been to.


I missed the meeting I was supposed to attend, hooked up with a group for a scavenger hunt, which was cool because I got to trek all over downtown, but not cool because there was a tremendously bitchy underminer in the group. Then the dreaded corporate barbecue, good god, how fucking lame. The cool thing was the park by the Sound, I got to break away and stick my feet in the Sound and was startled at the clarity and warmth of it. I split early, at two -- mind you it was a goddamned parking lot from Seattle to Olympia. Summation: eight hours in the car, three on the ground, I think I might hate Seattle just a little bit.


K and R came to town Thursday last. We road tripped down the coast to Bandon where we crabbed, I got seasick on the dock, and rode horses and ate Dairy Queen. After driving a million hours and spending the first night sharing a room with two dueling, snoring saw horses, I checked into the Bandon Inn on Saturday. That was the first place I stayed in Oregon, it was a bit weird, and lovely to return there nine months later, just long enough to gestate a life, figuratively, of course.

We drove back up along the Umpqua river and side roads and back roads, which included my first ferry crossing. We called it the getting to know Oregon trip, and Oregon is really fucking strange.


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