Wednesday, May 28, 2008

the dangers of working from home


I have now dragged my finger through the frosting of those ginormous, leftover from our Memorial Weekend BBQ, Costco cupcakes three times. I've microwaved the same cup of coffee a half dozen times. I'm still in my bathrobe. It's after 10 in the morning.

A leak in my NW Portland office, and the offending black mold smell that now wafts through it, is keeping me and my laptop at home today. It's not that I'm not productive at home, it's that I'm a different sort of productive. I've back-burnered client work and novel work in favor of, um, this post, and updating my suzyvitello.com website. Not to mention checking in with various online distractions that shall not be named.

But, I did manage to tap out a working synopsis for Secret to Love. I'll slap it up on a further post, after I have another fingerful of icing.

Friday, May 23, 2008

observing our city's bridges on foot

"The Broadway Bridge has the best Suicide Hotline sign. Very readable. Better than, say, the faded Sellwood Bridge sign. It's not as easy to convince yourself to stay alive when you're confronted with a faded pink, barely legible phone number."

Observation by my friend Max, who's been doing a lot of walking of late

Saturday, May 17, 2008

eavesdrop of the day: category, chivalry is so dead.

Two young men walking along in NW PDX. One guy says to the other:
"So I go, 'Dude, why don't you come on over,' and she goes, 'Is it public transportational?' Shit man, like we live in the freakin' city, so I go, 'Yeah, we got a bus,' and she goes, 'Will you meet me at the bus stop?' and I'm like, 'fuck that.' "

once a soccer mom...


So yesterday afternoon, in 100 degree weather, I embarked on the 100 mile drive south to U of O to watch my oldest child kick a soccer ball. And, to upgrade his clunker with an older, higher mileage, but safer one. A safer clunker without, I must add, air conditioning.

I had the little guy with me as co-pilot, and after myriad sweaty stoppages in rush hour Friday afternoon I-5 traffic (made worse by the litter of broken down, burnt engine, smoking hood vehicle detritus along the side of the interstate), I arrived at the field in time for the second half of Sam's team's game.

Carson and I lugged the Gatorade-filled cooler to the field and cheered on the Thundercats (a name usurped from the glory days of high school--for a team that included many of the erstwhile team's members--a deeply satisfying terminal soccer mom moment). I missed Sam's first half goals (they won 4-1!), but got there in time to watch him suffer in the heat--squinting, sweating, red-in-the-face. Like many native, or nearly native, Oregonians, Sam's not a big fan of the sun.

We followed the game with a trip to a brew pub for dinner, where I found myself trying to get used to the fact that I have a kid old enough to say, boldly and legally, "I need a beer!"


Watching my two boys side-by-each in the darkened McMenamins tavern it's hard to miss the fraternal look. Both are blond, blue-eyed and fair-skinned. True to phenotype, they both have my half-closed eyes stoner look, but personality-wise they come from opposite poles. Carson ordered a kid's burger with fries (as opposed to tater tots). When his meal came with tots instead he ate half of them, then summoned the waiter, pointed to his plate and said, politely, but firmly, "I think I ordered fries." After which the server scurried off to deliver same.

His make-no-waves elder brother was visibly impressed. Not only would he never have pointed out a mistaken order, he frequently goes out of his way to avoid even the appearance of disappointment. "Dude!" he said to his little brother, and then pirated half the fries.

We finished our repast and then swapped titles, cars, glove box crap (including a pair of rear view mirror breasts), and then I got to fill the old Honda with gas, buy a quart of oil and embark on the 100 miles north. The check engine light went on pretty quick, directly on the heels of the unmistakably foul smell of burning oil. Oh yeah, and the belch of gray smoke coming from the tail pipe. So much for using the air-conditioning I was looking forward to.

I'm not good with stuff like this. I tend to exclaim that I'm freaking out, even though I have a nine-year-old beside me saying, in his best I-statement, "When you say you're freaking out, it makes me feel freaked out."

Visions of the earlier car fire we witnessed filled me with worst-case-scenario dread. I pulled over, bought more oil, and got some attendant guy to muscle off the oil tank cover that was welded on due to excessive heat.

Upon restarting the car there were more smells, more sounds, more plumes of smoke. But no check engine light. We made it back to Portland in tact, and just before midnight.

My fingers still smell like an oil refinery.

It's still really, really hot outside.

I'm so glad I have a brand new Element so when Carson and I go bike-riding and skateboarding and tennis playing later today, we can look forward to interludes of not being freaked out.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Fuckery Fridays

It's a particularly summer-like day in the Pacific Northwest. I suspect it will be hard to focus. I want to play. Laura and I have branded these Fridays "Fuckery Fridays," a sort of nod to Amy Winehouse and her "what kind of fuckery is this" song.

But what we mean by Fuckery Friday is somewhat different than in the done-her-wrong parlance of Ms. Winehouse referencing Her and Mr. Jones. It's not so much, You don't mean dick to me, but more, Let's take a break from the hamster wheel. An invitation to meander over to whatever calls us the loudest. Let's see. I should water the lettuces I planted. And the geraniums, and the hanging basket. And then I should clean the kitchen before it gets too hot. I should take a shower. I should do the crossword puzzle. Oh yeah, and probably, I should WORK!

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

the curse of context as compensatory device

I have this affliction called alternate extropia. (I have no idea how to spell it, and I'm loath to consult Wikipedia lest I find out stuff I don't want to know.) It boils down to this: I only look out of one eye at a time. Hence, I have zero depth perception. I parallel park by instinct. I have to guess, based on experience of velocity and angle, where the tennis ball is likely to come down.

I remember biology lab, looking at cells through one eye or the other. I never got that 3-D peek at life, up close. The thing that's right in front of me? I'm never sure what it really looks like and where it truly is. But I'm really, really apt at context. Ergo, if you'll take this leap with me, I have a wee bit of trouble staying in the moment. Everything is assessed for its potential for inclusion in the masterpiece, at the expense of its value in and of itself.

This come-to-Jesus weekend I had with Laura…it became clear that we both lament the speed of expectation, the feeling of never being caught up. That to survive, one must multi-task—not just a few things at a time, but everything. One must carry upon oneself, at any point in time, all the things of a given day. A masterpiece on our backs, laden with heavy frame and thick oil paint and the musty odor of the ages. That's the myth, anyway.

I feel as though I have to actively practice an antidote to this madness. Dismiss the intrusion of context. Practice multi-tasking with just two things, instead of seventeen. Sort of like weaning myself off of coffee by mixing in the decaf portion by portion. Like now. I'm writing, listening to Lucinda Williams. Two things. No checking e-mail, no lining up the client work, no mowing the lawn, starting the laundry, scrubbing last night's salsa from the kitchen floor.

Going back to the eye affliction. When I was eight years old, a scary eye doctor made me wear a patch over one eye and look through prisms in an attempt to cure me. He was trying to get my individual eyes to strengthen so they wouldn't take turns checking out when they were part of a team. Alas, it didn't work. But maybe I can revisit that experiment with other parts of me—see if the parts can be strengthened in and of themselves by detaching from context for a while.

Monday, May 12, 2008

mother's day

Yesterday, Mother's Day, marked the end of our retreat, and, as Laura pointed out at brunch, "The first day of what's left of the rest of our lives."

This sentiment was repeated later in the afternoon, at the 4th Annual Mothers Need Cocktails Party at Sheri Blue's house. Mothers gathered around the pear vodka and organic herb-infused mixers lamenting inertia and job dissatisfaction. "A toast to who the fuck knows what!"

As daughters of Mothers who may or may not have been Joni Mitchell Ladies of the Canyon types, or Joan Crawford highball types or, even, Joan Fontaine exotically depressed types, a lot of us, gals ranging in age from late thirties to early fifties, are feeling discontented and confused.

Our world-weary intuitive powers have been churned to death. We're overly competent, but shy to take what we want—lest we be branded, ala Hillary, power-hungry she-men. We're sick of being teachers, administrative side-kicks and support professionals. Some of us just want to be there for our kids when they come home from school, and be taken care of, financially, by spouses. Spend our days creating that lovely oasis, or painting, or writing or plucking weeds from the flower bed. Truly be, as Laura put it, CEOs of our families.

Then there are those of us who are still not giving up on the "save the world" dream. As long as it can be done part time. The entrepreneurial spirit is illusive. The idea of creating a new business sounds exciting, but largely overwhelming. The concept of the "life coach" is spreading like cover crop, with middle-aged women hanging shingles announcing that they have the secret formula to help other middle-aged women change their lives. A sisterhood of experts in professional coffee klatching.

All of us at the cocktail party, we're starting to be old enough to see kids we used to teach in the working world—engaging in messy relationships, unwanted pregnancies and Svengali bosses. We don't want to welcome young people we knew as children to be our peers, but, hey, who else is going to explain to us what "tagging" a photo in Facebook is.


tip of the weekend

"You go down to Newport with your pots in August. Tear up a raw chicken. Put a little motor oil on it. The crabs can't resist it."

-from a waiter at the Lincoln City Mo's Chowder who doesn't condone this crabbing practice 'cause he's an environmental sorta guy.

Monday, May 05, 2008

monkey mind

blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah the sun was out today.