The backyard of my youth was in the heart of North Portland. Green and large with life, boxed in, hidden. It housed my father’s woodshop, a boat, a wild cocker, and the garden. The garden that my father fenced in post by post and seeded. Each section divided in order that the proper amount of light and moist would touch down.
It was a masterpiece.
He built a corner entirely devoted to the sun complete with two benches engraved each with his daughter’s names,
mine misspelled.
He and my mother would spend entire weekends in the yard, deep in dirt, talking and laughing along to the radio
blaring classic rock.
I remember that yard so clearly.
I remember its beginning without an end.
I remember the shorts my dad wore, and my mother’s torn Oregon Zoo tank top. My dad’s huge flip flops and my sister running around bare… and me
in the sun trying to construct a time machine out of a cardboard box, desperately trying to find my way out.
Mostly though, I remember my name carved, Noel.

Sophia
You are one month plus some old. You are Fussbudget, and Soapie to some. You are your father’s Frog, and your mommy’s Bird. You are the purpose and meaning of our being, our Professor.
Every day I fear that your head might pop off. I fear that in sleep you will drift and drop off your dream’s edge. And already my dear, I fear, you are growing too fast.
You have begun the mold of your smile. You grin. You wink in glee and your lips puck at the seams. Occasionally you look like our own miniature version of Walter Matthau, the grumpy old man version.
You have so much to say and I wait in tense anticipation for your first words knowing full well that they, like you, will be brilliant and breathtaking. You move your lips with mine and stick out your tongue to push the words along. Surely your first word will be a sentence and somewhere in that sentence the word boob will fall.
You sleep often, and you dream. You wave your fists and mumble. You smile sweetly and laugh. I try to wake you but it only serves to disturb your splendor, so despite the books read, and advice spewed I sit quietly and watch you.
We dance every day, you and I. You prefer Chris Isaac over Baby Bach and Ella over Billie. You are of Bart and I though, so tastes will surely change, but talk radio will remain.
You are every reason I will ever have to breathe. You are my greatest success, my heart, and my world.
I love you.
Mom

Sophia Jane

aka FussBucket, Soapie, Professor, Frog, BIRD.

Good Great Friday

It’s good Friday or as Katie Couric would have it, “Great Friday”. I am awake every morning, wide awake at 7 AM. I have taken to a routine whereby I check in with the Today show for the date and day. (today for example, is Friday, FYI.) Then I check my email, read my blogs, and the NYT. Then, excitedly I stare at my book with the TV on mute because actual reading now has become complicated and only reminds me of freedom. This whole time mind you I am anxious for 10 AM to turn on NPR and listen to Talk Nation. Once Talk Nation and Fresh Air wrap up I am back where I started, in bed, staring at the wall. Such is my lot, but it won’t be long now and next week I am quite busy with 4 doctor visits and a Dateline special on Sunday featuring Mike J Fox…quite busy. Maybe today I will mix it up and make it a Great Friday… Maybe I’ll put on a movie or play Solitaire, who knows…it’s my oyster.

Bed rest is for bitches.

I am of the 8th percentile of women sent to bed for the remainder of pregnancy. It seems that possibly, just possibly all women aren’t meant to carry little human beings in them while working forty-fifty hours and trying to make time for rest. In fact it seems that rest should be the priority when taking on this task. In my rush and worry to keep up with my job’s expectations and secure a financial standing beyond that of a single 20 something I overdid it and like a child I have been sent to my room and punished with unpaid leave. I have to lie down and drink quarts and quarts of liquid. I am allowed to get up to pee, thank God but baths are still strongly suggested as a shower would just be too strenuous. The car rides between home and the hospital have become adventures in themselves. I get to go outside. I get to see people other than Bart and my Mom. Yesterday I had a Dutch Brother’s coffee and it quickly became the highlight of my week. I suppose for now I will cross my fingers and hope for the best and learn to knit. Even the fucking slipknot is complicated. Whoever said this is easy was not in my lucky top 8. I’m BORED.

John Tesh is my Life Coach

As of late I turn to soft rock, ice chips, and my cat for company. I am the size of a mountain and have the attention span of Robin Williams. It is like a binge. A huge retardation of what is supposed to be a beautiful experience. Beauty does not suffice. Rather, it is earpopping and disastrous. I am clumbsier than before and can not concentrate. I am a hippo without a head, a heart without a brain. And I cry a lot.
However, there is good in this news. All is not lost.
John Tesh is on the radio. 5 days a week he entertains my newly found simplicity. I laugh outloud and heartedly take in his "Intelligence for your Life" advice.
Did you know that if you take 5 fewer bites of each meal, you will lose 5 pounds...in time? John Tesh taught me that. He's like Jesus, only taller.

Always a step behind and a day ahead

I am so not cool. I’ve always known this and have been for the majority of my life content with it. I’ve never really had to defend it or call notice to it before. It’s allowed me to dress myself cheaply and by my own code. I can laugh at the jokes I think are funny and I am surrounded by friends like I am music, full heartedly or not at all. That’s why the accusation that I am a hipster was so alarming. Offensive yes, but more so surprising. If I am how do you say, ‘hip’, what the fuck have I been doing alone in my room for the majority of my life. It’s certainly not hip to paint stupid pictures and watch The Cutting Edge night after night, or is it? Classification is by accident a majority of the time and more often then not, ill-intended. Come May, I suppose I will look back at this stranger’s stupidity in envy. Once Mom becomes my title, no one, not even an emo-clad moron will have room to comment.

A New Year

Her name will be Sophia Jane. She will have my nose and wear it proudly despite Bob Hope references. She will play a million instruments, learn a million different languages, and then forget them because that’s what children do when they become whole. They take the bits and pieces and save the ones worth saving to remain whole. She will rebel or maybe not at all. I never saw cause for rebellion, I was born free. Although I did seek it. She will know the difference between wrong and right and will fight to the death to render them. Fingers crossed she will be healthy and happy all of her days. She will fall in love and out of love. One day, some day, a fool will break her heart and turn her tears into gold. She will be a million times better than her mom and pop at everything and will never cease to amaze. She will be a Sophia Jane, a wise girl in a new world. Here’s to the New Year and all the promise it really does bring

Because the Mafia is/was a Beautiful Thing

I went to bed alone and woke up alongside the Spartan. The very same Spartan who showed up just to cook me breakfast, the one I thought I could/would never miss. The Mister whose ego when in the same room with my own can control electrical devices and possibly, the tides. And it didn’t scare me, it revived me. It wasn’t alarming, it was refreshing. The winds have shifted and I can’t blame it on hormones this time. This time, he’s right; this mafia is a beautiful thing. We have a beautiful thing.

Ten fingers, Ten tows, and a button nose...

Girls rule Boys drool and I can see now why it tis called a miracle. To watch a baby swim around in a haze of black and white that is your own stomach is quite the thrill. I have pictures. I have hope. I have a Sophia Jane. Healthy, happy, one pound. And I can truly say that this is the happiest I have ever been in the whole of my life. The Sox winning the series, my first love, sourdough toast, while wonderful, have not a tenth of the joy she brings.

THE HE SHE OF IT ALL

I am making Christmas cards, in battle with a glue stick, and excited for tomorrow’s news. Yes, tomorrow donkeys I will find out if I have a Jack or a Sophia Jane. The surge for such knowledge has dominated me entirely. First comes fear, than excitement, followed by fear, and excitement again. If you’re placing bets on this one, call em off. I have tried my ass off to determine if Professor is a he or a she with no end. The pictorial debut and a happy healthy baby, fingers crossed.

Flesh and Blood needs Flesh and blood

I am stubborn. Really stubborn. I make a decision regardless of its weight and stick by it despite the ruins. I am not one to compromise or reason with. Winter is my favorite time of the year because the cold suits me. I am wrong a lot. I say mean wretched things and I displace praise. I can hold my own and have always been to proud admit otherwise. In other words, I don’t need nobody.
So when a somebody comes along and offers laundry, eggs scrambled (the only way I’ll eat them), coffee, fresh and dark (the only way I’ll drink it), and quiet, witty conversation (the way I prefer it) I am quick to decline it. So begins the discourse. First, I pick at it. I seek out indiscretions, mistakes, liabilities. I slowly and surely devour it. It is destructed and I, again, am alone. Because I don’t need nobody.
Or maybe I do.
Maybe, just maybe I can learn to live with the spoils of someone else. Maybe my pride can step down. Maybe it has to this time. Maybe I’ve no choice in the matter. Maybe it’s beyond me. Maybe Johnny Cash was right, “Flesh and blood needs flesh and blood, and you’re the one I need.”

Armstrong

I live above the Homestar. A very trendy coffee shop for all the very trendy middle age folks who like soy milk, over priced retro furniture, and apparently Lance Armstrong a little too much. This morning I woke up as I do on Saturday mornings, early. Saturday being my only early shift and my Friday to boot, I usually have to hit snooze until I hear a bus go by and realize that it might have been mine. This morning, however, I awoke to screaming cyclists instead. 6:30 in the am. I tossed, I turned. It was worse then the bar traffic come closing time next door. It was coffee shop, ass early, trendy cyclists traffic. Forced out of bed two hours before my actual alarm, I was intrigued and pissed. What kind of party are these people having? Is exercise really a cause to celebrate? Has the mid life crisis really come to this?
When I went downstairs it was yellow. Children, Women, Men, all in yellow watching the tour. Weird coffee guy Paul had set up a television set and had his Lance Armstrong bracelet on. It was LA mania. Maddening, but a bit amusing, so I stayed awhile. I read the paper for the most part but found my eyes creeping up whenever they cheered. I am in general a bit of a sport's enthusiast and can appreciate the typical Gatorade commercial, but these people were over the top. One guy had sharpie markered his bald head in block letters to read, ARMSTRONG. A very trendy 30 something had her hair in ribbons, one read, arm, the one read, strong. All of this I thought, all of this before 8 on a Saturday morning. Shit. I am in my twenties and I don't get this pumped about anything, not even in decent hours. It was as if Lance Armstrong gave these people some sort of hope. Some union. Some reason to be happy. And it wasn't as depressing as I originally made it out to be. It was kind of sweet actually.
As I looked around at the LL Bean clad mother, the fanny pack guys, and the J Crew singles I realized that maybe there is more to it than soy milk and Eddie Bauer, maybe the midlife yuppie knows something I don't. I mean hell, they were all genuinely happy right there and then. Maybe I need a Lance Armstrong, a belief, a faith of sorts. Or maybe, I need a thicker floor and a spine. Who's to say. I just know that a yellow jersey and spandex now represents a whole new facet in the midage bracket of my mind, one I enjoy watching, but fear returning to.

Some single sappy shit stuff

I am fond of the risk I take in knowing you, the break, the cracks, the darkest hour, and your laugh.
A laugh riddled in custom.
I am fond of your habits, the hours you keep and the sound of you.
I am inclined to tell you these things, but I won’t.
Not now. I have nothing to give you now.
So in this now, I will laugh with you, drink your tea, and arrive to meet with you.
Learn the crevices of you and eventually risk losing you, loving you.
.........................................................................
On a ball again. Rolling.
With said inspiration and its calling.
Speak to me, I say. Read me
your riot act and pretend
you are listening.
Pretend that this
just one last match, one
last burn before
the rising.
..........................................................................
There is a phone call from a certain
someone that would make all
the difference now.
There are words unsaid
that demand residence
places unseen
waiting in good measure
for my return.
But here, here I sit instead
in the crisp of the sun’s rest
waiting for one call
from a certain someone.
...............................................................................
And I tell you to
tread lightly
because I will
not know how to
forget you or the night spent with you.
The anxt, the caress.
I have to reserve it
all of it, retract it,
and dismiss it.
I am harder now.
Quicker to judge, selective.
I came undone once
fell through the cracks once.
Speak softly to me,
of me, so that I may
step around you,
make sweet love to you,
and forget how to miss you.
.........................................................................

Share your harvested
wit with mine.
We will whidle
music in time.
.......................................................................

Pleased to meet you, scared to know you.
Pleased to talk with you, scared to hear you.
Pleased to know you, scared to love you.

Heaven will have to take note
I think
of our meeting
our beginning.
Heaven should subside
I think
to out perpetual ending.
Heaven will have to
open
I think
within reason.

lil Bix

im a gonna

I'm going to make myself the ultimate cheet sheet and send it to myself
with
illusions of love.
I'm going to walk in the shoes of my father and love football, Notre
Dame;
the grand fight.
I'm going to seek out new places and old faces where the past becomes
viable; that I might meet the dead.
I'm going to sing old songs, love songs. Sinatra and Bing, Louie and
the
blues.
I'm going to capture a little of that glory and fight with the best of
'em
to keep the boss alive.
I'm going to placate every living morsel of old times and discard the
ones
not worth living...
Because there were indeed times not worth living...yet I'm still alive
and
kicking.
I'm going to drown my sorrows and be miserable tomorow but live awake
today
to seek another way to love.

Rich

The best part about failure is KBOO


My Vanguard papers came today in a large package that screamed open me, take me out, surprise! You are Rich Noelle Kristin, Rich beyond imagined hope!

When really what it means to say is: Don't spend it all at the bar you twit, there is a tax penalty you moron, oh and plus also you are taking out your retirement at 25 due in large to personal failure!

So I signed it, I sent it, crossed my fingers and thanked my stars for it. Misfortune comes in all shapes/sizes/amounts. A reminder that cash in lump sums is a deal with devil and I am in his debt.

Swan Island is a funny little place indeed.

. This morning came and went with yet another interview for another job I don’t want, but will probably accept seeing as how my options are slim. The complication here is that I am over-qualified without a degree leaving me swift in the middle of the road. Employers don’t want middle of the road. Thus far my experience has taught me that in order to be employable one must appear utterly deficient of original thought or have the words “Asshole with degree” tattooed on their forehead. Either way I am close to the second and hopefully far from the first. Checking in with the Euge this weekend should prove distracting. I have a party to attend, and some drinks to drink, some late hours to keep. Fortunately my love hate relationship with Eugene is solid and no where near the middle of the road. I love the folks and hate the place. It’s simple. I like simple. I miss simple.

You picked a fine time to leave me Lucile

I am listening to Kenny Rogers and web seeking a new form of capital. I had forgotten how fun Mom’s house can be and how much I fucking love Kenny Rogers. I spoke to an old love last night. It was drunken and numb and sensational to hear myself forgive him without reservation. It was resolution of some shape and I feel better today because of it. I can’t be sorry for it despite my will to discard it. I suppose there is really time enough for counting when the dealin’s done.

I have a couple interviews, a really harsh cold, and a little bit of hope.

I need a job to consume this

I locked the dogs out. I shut the door on them and pleaded with Olive to come out from under the bed for an hour just now. This is not what I expected. I have faxed out 13 resumes this morning alone, and I am falling fast esleep before 10 every night. I am supposed to go to Chopsticks tonight and say goodbye to a person I can barely recall. I have been kicked out of one bar in my tenure. That one bar was Chopsticks. I highly doubt it will be remembered. I was 20 when it happend. My fake id was acceptable but my drunk boyfriend at the time was not. We were not-so-politely escorted out when he called the bartender a 'pretentious asskid'. All and all it should be okay I suppose. The old and the new friends will meet for the first time and I will sit quietly and nod. I am a wreck inside. Broke and homeless do not suit me well. Fingers crossed the pabst will be chilled and cheap upon my arrival, and I wont be asked to sing 'Angel of the morning' for the drunk stranger's party for the 565th time just because I can.

The need for a nice gay man

 


Asshole: Are you as cold on the inside as you are on the outside?
Me: Yes, I am actually. Is that a problem?
Asshole: Yes it is. When you warm up come find me and we will hook up.
Me: No Sir, no we will not. Thank you very much.

This is the first, hopefully not the last, interaction I've had with the opposite sex regarding my single status. I am not accustom to dating, I don't know how. I have yet to decide if I even want to. At this rate it is likely that I will spend most of my time with a bottle of wine and Olivia to talk with. I could be wrong.
So I've decided. What I really need is a gay man.
A gay man with free time to cut up magazines and watch Sex and the City with. A gay man that likes trips to Goodwill and bikerides. A gay man that will not hesitate to be my date at two weddings this summer despite the long drive. A gay man who likes singalongs and Grandmas. A gay man to ward off assholes.
If I get my way I can avoid this dating thing altogether. I can say 'No Sir' without the need to thank an asshole.