peeing in the woods.

I have lived in Portland for only two months, and yet I have peed in the woods three times here. How is that possible? I have peed outside more in this city than at any other time in my life. Does this mean my bladder is shrinking? Am I in a higher-density of wilderness more often? Do I secretly enjoy getting in touch with nature? Perhaps all of the above are true. But it's not exactly pleasant, and I've only had toilet paper with me once. Let's go over the three situations that have caused me to pop a squat in the clover.

1. Driving to the Oregon coast in a Zipcar MiniCoop convertible. It was one of the most beautiful drives I've ever done, also enhanced by the fact that I was in a convertible (for the first time!) and blasting R. Kelly loudly, and without mercy. There are little to few gas stations on this somewhat treacherous climb through the forest, and when I came to a "scenic overlook", I put it in park and scampered away to a heavily wooded area. Almost fell into the ravine, but a successful attempt nonetheless. Also helped that I was wearing a dress.

2. Hiking in Multnomah Falls. This was a given. I knew it would be a two-hour hike, knew I would be hydrating frequently from my Nalgene bottle, and knew looking at waterfalls in the gorge would only enhance my need to pee. People did seem to pop up on the hiking trail without warning, so this was a little scarier, but I got through it with nary a poison oak rash!

3. Washington Park in kinda sorta downtown Portland. It's an oasis of woods that houses the Rose Garden, the Japanese Garden, and a Holocaust Museum of sorts. This was a low point for me, as it was not in the wilderness, and I had drunk half a bottle of white wine with a friend in a clearing. As we somewhat clumsily made our way back to the city, I had a panic attack to pee that only alcoholic beverages can bring on. I clambered up a steep hill and tried to hide between a big fir tree. At any moment a homeless man (most likely) or happy couple (also likely) could have seen me. But apparently, this was a good hiding area, as I spotted several condom wrappers and blankets as I peed. Well done, me!

I hope to not urinate in the woods for the next six months. Seeing how fall is coming, I predict lowering one's pants in the woods in a chilly climate will be that much more unpleasant. And breezy!

51 Birch Street

What I wouldn't give right now to go to a bar mitzvah in upstate New York. I'd get really tipsy and dance with 13-year-old boys and eat lots of sheet cake. I love that area of the U.S.--well, in the summer at least. I picked cherries there when I was fifteen. It's so classically American country; I picture boys on horse-drawn sleds gliding through the snow and Christmas carolers and summer carnivals with caramel apples.

So I've always felt that I am an inner Jew. Meaning, though I have a Protestant Scottish/German background, I relate more to Judaism. I love the culture, the deli foods, the acceptance, the attitude, the challah bread...I just want to meet a nice Jewish doctor, is that too much to ask? I'll gladly convert. I went to a Saturday Shabbat service by myself last weekend and it was lovely.

Where am I going with this? Well, I watched the documentary 51 Birch Street. A guy's mother dies and he tapes his family's reaction and going through their mother's stuff and finding thirty years of her diaries. It made me sad. We never really know our parents as people. And there's probably some stuff we would rather not know. But I think I would read my mother's diaries if I found them after she passed. I'd want to know her thoughts. I don't like this hypothetical situation, but there it is. What hurt the most watching this was when the son asked his dad if he missed Mom. And Dad said, "Not really." Not really? Fifty years of marriage? Oh yeah, Dad got married to his former secretary three months after the mom's death. I understand it was not a happy marriage, but spending that much time with someone has to count for something, doesn't it? And his poor mother...extremely bright and articulate and passionate and frustrated with her suburban housewife existence.

As much as I love the 1950s, I'm thankful that that repressive period for women and marriage is over. As much as divorce sucks, at least they are socially acceptable now and people get them if necessary. Now if we could just stop teenagers from having babies and people getting married too young...

I wonder if anyone will ever read my journals when I die. It's horribly embarrassing for me myself to read them. Some of the stuff I've written is so eye-rollingly corny and self-pitying. And don't get me started on my ninth grade poetry! I'd obviously read too much Sylvia Plath. Anyways. Shabbat Shalom.

stand by your man.

I frickin' love Tammy Wynette.

It's poetry in motion.

It Happens Like This
by James Tate

I was outside St. Cecelia's Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There's
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. "It's not my goat,"
I explained. "It's the town's goat. I'm just taking
my turn caring for it." "I didn't know we had a goat,"
one of them said. "I wonder when my turn is." "Soon,"
I said. "Be patient. Your time is coming." The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. "That's a mighty
fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
"It's the town's goat," I said. "His family goes back
three-hundred years with us," I said, "from the beginning."
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. "Mind if I pat him?" he asked.
"Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
"It's your decision." He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, "What's his name?" "He's
called the Prince of Peace," I said. "God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there's mystery
and wonder. And I'm just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry." "We forgive you,
Officer," I said. "And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince." The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.

From Lost River by James Tate, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. Copyright © 2003 by James Tate.

When I was in ninth grade I got really into poetry. I wrote something like five poems a day, bought Sylvia Plath anthologies, and was generally a dark and gloomy adolescent. Then I guess I joined theater and started goofing around with fellow thespians and making inappropriate jokes and didn't have time for poetry anymore. The point is, I miss my poetry days. But I'm trying to bring them back. A friend of mine introduced me to James Tate and I think he's just fanatstic. His writing is so surreal and sad and funny and winsome and makes me feel all introspective and melancholy and alone when I read them. Good rainy day/by yourself/time to stare out the window and ponder kind of reading. I couldn't pick a favorite, but I like this one a lot. Is there a better feeling than walking out of the public library with your arm full of smelly old books and knowing that you get to read them all?

No seriously, I want to marry Mike Rowe.

How often do you turn on the Discovery Channel and see the man you're going to marry? Not that often, my friends. Not that often. And I'm not talking about The Deadliest Catch. Sure there's an age difference. Sure he hosts a show on the Discovery Channel and lives in San Francisco. Sure he probably has a Swedish neurosurgeon girlfriend. Sure the odds we will ever meet are slim to none.

Sometimes you just know. And when I'm eating Kashi 'Good Friends' cereal in the morning and watching Mike get seasick on a shrimp boat in the Louisiana bayou, I know he's the one for me. I love his deep, deadpan voice. His barrel chest. His craggy handsomeness. Those forehead wrinkles! His humor. The fact that he looks like he could fix anything in my house. So what if he can't fix my dripping kitchen sink. He looks like he can. Good enough for me!

"Oh my God, that's my daughter."

I really love 1970s films. They have a look, feel, color, taste, and sound all specific to that decade. Take for example the film Hardcore starring George C. Scott. First of all, the title sequence is absolutely amazing. An old country song plays while idyllic scenes from Christmas in Grand Rapids, MI roll by--the perfect set-up for a film about the underground pornography industry. As much as I love my 1940s and 50s musicals, I get a special kind of inspiration when I watch films from the 70s. I think it was the most innovative decade in film for sure. And I don't understand why films can't still have that gritty, brownish, tangible look to them still. It's absolutely fabulous. It makes me want to go to England and train to be a colorist (at least I think that's what they're called) in the entertainment industry.

And the music! Lord, it's just perfect when George the Calvinist is driving around the seedy parts of LA looking for his lost daughter. It just seems like such a dirty time in our country. Drugs, sex, tight pants, thick ties, more drugs, greasy hair...delightful!

I need an investor, quick!

Okay, so I have this amazing idea for a restaurant. Two actually. The first one is called Picnic. And basically, it's all about the picnic experience. It will feature:

1. classic picnic foods: broccoli salad, carrot salad, corn on the cob, hot dogs, ants on a log, iced tea in a thermos, sugar cookies, pasta salad...
2. the floor will be Astro Turf.
3. Similar to a tatami room in a Japanese restaurant, we will have the Blanket Room. Yes, you will sit on a freakin' blanket on the floor.
4. Separating the tatami rooms will be a wall that is...AN ANT FARM.
5. The tables will be picnic tables, covered with the classic red and white gingham tablecloth.

The sister restaurant will be called Sides. And the food is all sides, no entrees. You can order a one-sider, a two-sider, up to a six-sider! Think of the possibilities...baked potato, mac'n'cheese, mashed potato, sweet potato fries, collard greens, biscuits, cornbread, stuffing, corn casserole...
The decor will be Southern charm, with a bit of Dirty South. Pine floors, white cotton curtains, ceiling fans, rocking chairs, perhaps a front porch to sit on.

My friends also helped to brainstorm on this and I thought, aren't restaurants started by a bunch of friends with one rich friend? Where is our rich friend? We need an investor. I think I've found my true calling...now I needs to make it happen!