Frida Underground

Wow, with a week containing Solstice, the first day of summer, Father’s Day and a new moon, I am happy to report only one nostril/food-related incident. ‘Twas Saturday last at the illustrious Market and I was in chemical need of caffeine, so I made the journey across the two lane road to the food court. Surveying my options, I noticed a sign advertising a blended iced coffee drink.

Arms outstretched like a robot, I marched toward my favorite vegetable: coffee beans. I was about to order their version of a chilled mocha java when the “barista” jammed a bored index finger into his left nostril up to the second knuckle.

This behavior had its own chilling effect. I stopped in my tracks and stared. He looked at me looking at him, grinned with pride, pulled the strawberry-digger out, appraised his treasure and then proceeded to insert it back into his other nostril.

Suddenly I didn’t want a coffee so bad.

For those of you paying attention to my segues, transitions and content, I have been on an unfortunate wavelength for the past two weeks that has me engaged with nostrils and things either going in (fingers and corks) or coming out (strawberries and boogers). This condition is likely caused my time spent with an active 15-year old relative who is delighted and proud of every one of his body functions.

Logically, since I am grossed out by them and offer plenty of resistance, the Universe is having a good time at my expense, sending more juvenile antics for me to observe. Or perhaps there is another explanation. I am in vibrational alignment with pesky, hormonal teenage energy.

There is plenty of evidence to support this theory. I am often cranky. I cry at commercials and dance shows. I want my way. I am moody, swinging from this branch of emotion to that branch in record time. I am flexible as long as I don’t have to change. I need others to change so that I can feel better. I think everyone’s stupid. I am amazed at how smart and talented everybody else is.

Which is why Groom and I are going underground for the next five days. Okay, well, not exactly underground, just turning off our cell phones, shutting down the computer and attending a five-day, 12-hour a day personal growth seminar. It’s part deux of the one we participated in a couple of months ago.

We had to fill out a fairly extensive questionnaire, answering what we’d like to learn while underground, locked in a room, or whatever they do to help us get at our personal itch. I wrote that I wanted to – oh, did you think I was going to tell you? I wrote that I wanted to stop seeing boys pick their noses.

Not really. I mean I do, but I think the issue is that I’m stuck in a particular chapter of my story and I’m getting bored with it. Here’s an example of somebody else’s behavior to describe my own, which is what the behavior is about. Confusing? Read on.

I know a Malaprop man (when complimenting my decorating style he said, “I like your decorum”) who loves to insert himself into other people’s home improvement projects. He starts all kinds of things, which the person may or may not have requested, and then becomes distracted before he completes them , leaving the project mid-mess only to start another one.

At one point, when he was complaining to me how many disorganized, unfinished projects he had going, I asked why.

He looked at me like I was an idiot and stated, “So I don’t have to deal with my own stuff.”

Oh.

I’m much more like Malaprop Man than I care to admit. Until recently, I believed I was in service, offering help to people in crisis, even though they may or may not have requested it. I thought I could take away their pain. As I hinted last week, people no likey.

This week, I am coming to understand that as I try to squelch their pain, I am unwittingly (and ineffectively) trying to take away their lessons. God and the Universe no likey.

It has also been pointed out to me that I am motivated to take away their pain because I am unaccepting of people as they are. I want to change them. I want them to change so that I can feel better. I am interested in other people’s home improvement projects so that I don’t have to deal with my own stuff. Uh-oh, now, me no likey.

Furthermore, I was guided to understand that I have to discover in myself those feelings and reactions I’m hoping to receive from others, such as approval, appreciation, validation and love.

I am all bass-ackwards. I somehow believed that I would find self-love by getting others to show it to me first as an exchange for siphoning their pain. Sucker.

God’s Minion gave me some excellent feedback, which deserves its place here: Resistance. I have been thinking of that word so much in recent years and I try to immediately transform it into the word fluidity...fluidity.... fluidity. It even rolls more easily off the tongue.

Resistance is the condition that keeps us from being our best self and from seeing the best in others. In the book Lazy Man's Guide To Enlightenment the author says: “What is it that you think needs to be loved?”

Perhaps even, dare I say it, the cutting of a tree (or the picking of a nose)? He says once we can love everything then we are in heaven and he does mean EVERYTHING. Our human condition dictates that we have judgments about as much as we possibly can, as much as we can cram into a day and even keep ourselves awake with at night. The universe is neutral. How comforting, the universe is neutral. No judgment, just response to the frequency being emitted. EMIT LOVE. Wow.

Yes, wow. As I type these last words, a car passed by honking and the driver leaned out the window and yelled, “Yeah, you’re number one, too!”

Pain-snatchers

I’m a time traveler at heart. The first place I’d go visit is Paris, 1889. La Dame de fer, or the Iron Lady as the Eiffel Tower was nicknamed, stands brand spanking new, serving as the entrance to the Exposition Universelle. I’d meander down the Champs de Mars, the Trocadero, and the Quai d’Orsay on the left bank of the Seine.

I’d be smacked with anti-P.C. culture shock strolling by the “Negro Village,” a major attraction with hundreds of indigenous people on display. I’d probably try to sneak photos of Buffalo Bill and Annie Oakley in the Wild West Show with my digital camera or catch a glimpse of French composer Claude Debussy at the first inspiring moment he heard gamelan music from Java.

But the first person I’d want to find is Vincent van Gogh. Now he’s someone I’d want to sit down with at a sidewalk café to share a snootful of grande woodworm Absinthe. If la fee verte (the authentic green fairy, not the synthetic one), were to be released, I’d like to ask him what really happened with his ear. However, the answer might be disappointing and ruin the mystery.

I’d like to tell him not to kill himself, that he will go on to become one of the most beloved artists of all times. Then again, what would happen if he listened to me and history didn’t turn out that way at all? He’d still be steeped in alcohol, turpentine and poverty, but angry with me.


I romanticize the past, caught up in the illusion that people were kinder, more genteel, but truthfully, it’s the costumes, the fashion of the day that thrill me. What I’d really want to do is go power shopping and get my hands on some authentic steam punk togs.

I understand that human drama is human drama, but if that’s true no matter where you go, then let’s talk setting. A divorce, an illness, or a difficult time paying bills is much more interesting in a French villa than, say, a trailer park.

Speaking of white trash rash, I had a weird day on Saturday. Groom asked what crevice in the earth opened up nearby and why all the escapee’s decided to come to Market? Anyone who knows me understands that I have a thing about hygiene. I tend to flush toilets with my toes, wash my hands before and after everything — well, you get the picture.

So it was with consternation (a sudden, alarming dread resulting in utter dismay), that I witnessed a hairy beast lumber into our booth and, while gawking at the jewelry, stick his claw (okay, hand) inside his pantaloons and scratch the becooties out of his behind, only to sniff his fingers afterward. I almost wretched.

This class act was followed by a ferret-faced gentleman proffering strawberries in a helium, high-pitched voice. “For you,” he said staring, his eyes set close together like a cartoon. When Groom politely took two, I was thinking back to last week’s question where a man pulled two strawberries from his nose, and decided to take my own advice.

The gnome started licking both hands from the base of his palm to the tips of his fingers. While I was silently bargaining with God for him not to touch anything, Groom calmly said, “Just so sweet, you can’t help yourself,” which appealed greatly to the strange little man with the helium voice.

I seem to resist everything while Groom has an ability to go with the flow. I heard a racket outside this morning and the first words out of my mouth were, “I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it.” Turns out I was right. As I sit down at the computer to drivel, one of my daymares is coming true. A large, glorious historical tree is being murdered next door.

Sure, one measly limb falls off during a violent storm and a rain gutter gets dented and the next thing you know, the chain saw massacre is unfolding. Men in hard hats and suspenders are milling around the property, testosterone and stupicles all atwitter, comparing whose tool is longer or has a bigger diameter.

A cacophony of dueling saws rattles the windows. Deafening, buzzing roars try to drown out the spirit of the wounded tree, but I can still hear it. I was just curled up on the bed in the fetal position, mourning the loss. And don’t even get me started on the willows….

I love trees. I adore them. Wandering through the forest, I feel as though I am in God’s cathedral. I read somewhere about one tree’s roots intertwining with a skeleton buried nearby, the mutual limbs entangled like lovers. That’s exactly how I’d like my remains to rest in peace.

My mother called the other day and told me batches of beautiful trees were being taken out near where they live. I was bereft. I had a tanty, I keened.

My mother called the other day with news that one of my classmates had died. “Really, when?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

I asked the next obvious question. “How’d she die?”

“Don’t know that either,” said Mother.

“Well, how did you hear about it?”

“Hmmm, someone, although I can’t think of who it was, told me.”

I called my girlfriend, who I’ve known since junior high and began the conversation with, “Do you remember Jane Doe?”I didn’t have a chance to say another word before she exclaimed, “Jane Doe? That wench? She was the most vile, heinous, nasty person to me at school, oh she was evil, a horrible human being, why?”

“Um, well, I just heard she died.” Apparently this was not bad news.

“Really? How, when?” She wanted to make sure I was not kidding.

“Mom told me, but I don’t know anything past that. She doesn’t even remember where she heard it.”

My mother called the other day and said, “I can’t help but notice you had more of a reaction to the news the trees were killed rather than your classmate.”

“Yes, but the trees didn’t do anything to me or my friends.”

Maybe it was time for this neighboring tree to go, I don’t know. But as energy reflects energy, perhaps the tree and I are already intertwined. I am experiencing a death of my own. I am being recalled. I have always wanted to know my purpose, to have a passion that I could throw myself into, but instead, I am split in many ways, carrying around a mass of conflicting energy. This resistance does more harm than good and I’m weary of it.

It should be no surprise to me then, that I often encounter heavy resistance in others. In my bumbling attempt to discover a purpose, I have been attracted to the study of energy, healing and miracles. I’ve witnessed several spontaneous healings up close and personal and these experiences have left me desiring more. Eagerly, I have tried to share information on pain-release, but I am consistently met with protective anger.

Recently, I met a man with a very large bump on his arm. Since we were already discussing health and healing, I made a casual comment that Groom’s similar bump on his elbow went away after some energy work.

The man immediately covered the protruding lump with his other hand, as if it were a precious thing, and said quite sternly, “This isn’t going away, it’s mine.” And that sums up the human story. This pain is mine.

Oh, people will be quite patient with those that inflict it, calling them possessive nouns like my stalker, my persecutor, my whatever, but heaven help the one who tries to lessen it. People react strongly to pain-snatchers.

While resisting the resistance, Groom offered me a different story for the soundtrack outside our house. “What if this were a hundred years ago, Sweetie, can you picture the yells and verbal assaults of the dock workers? Can you picture their unwashed bodies, the hoots and hollers as the ship comes in and the barrels roll out? We’d be so excited, looking forward to the merchant’s shelves being restocked with all kinds of interesting things.”

I think about that. I’d have all kinds of patience and allowances for the romantic setting of the past, but wince at every sharp sound and vagary troll in my daily environs. I bet Mister van Gogh was smelly, unkempt and off putting. Sure, I want to buy him a drink now because I know of his brilliance, but what if I had been a neighbor? Would I have rolled my eyes and recoiled when I saw him stumbling down the street or clenched my fists in frustration when he fought with Gauguin — again?

Resistance is futile. Pain connects us. It is not my job to disconnect. Bad puppy!

Au revoir, beautiful tree.

Dear Frida

Questions are trickling into my mailbag and I’ve collected enough of them to introduce a new feature: an Ask Frida column. But it comes with a warning…I’m abdicating all responsibility for my answers. I shall not be held accountable for their tone, efficacy, or people’s behavior resulting from obeying my orders, er, advice.

I shall iterate, lest it slip your minds, that Frida is neither a licensed or trained professional in the medical, mental or culinary fields. However, a fashion police badge can be found in my over-sized bag, so beware.

Some of you might wonder why this Everyday Anthropologist, a self-proclaimed student of human behavior, is considering helping others suss it out.

For two elemental reasons: One, I’ve discovered that most of us are struggling with one area or another, and two, people keep asking.

Okay, I admit it - I’m socially awkward. On the other hand, as much as human behavior puzzles, it has also been said that I have an ability to laugh inappropriately at problems while simultaneously offering strange comfort.

Okay, ready for this week’s experimental grab bag?

Dear Frida,
While eating dinner at a friend’s house the host was holding court, and us hostage, with stories from his work. Suddenly I noticed he had the biggest nostrils I’d ever seen in my life. I’m talking sarcastically large, like he could fit a wine cork in each one. Excited, I got up from the table and opened random drawers, looking for a ruler. When I finally found one, I began measuring his enormous nose holes. Was that rude, or should I have waited until he was finished talking?
Curious

Dear Curious,
I suggest you stick a cork in it!

Dear Frida,
My dog recently chomped down on my little finger. In the subsequent days that have passed, my pinky is grotesquely swollen, I can’t bend it, it looks like little worms are crawling out of it, my entire arm is red and it hurts worse than when I donated a kidney or had two grapefruit-sized tumors removed from my belly. Should I go to the doctor’s or wait until the infection has tunneled its way to the bone, then have emergency surgery with the possibility of amputation, spend a few days in the hospital, and have a PIC line implanted in my other arm all the way to my heart for broad-spectrum antibiotics?
Sign me,
Actually Insured in America

Dear Actually Insured in America,
Well, that depends entirely upon your schedule. Is there anything impending that you would like to avoid, say, a family wedding? If you ignore the wound long enough, you can finesse it to get out of In-law patrol. Or, if it’s not schedule-dependant, consider if you’ll actually need your finger, hand, or arm for anything in the future. If you don’t anticipate using them, or if the pain isn’t driving you, by all means, save the gas and time getting to the doctor and instead, savor away your afternoon eating chocolate and watching soaps.

Dear Frida,
I tend to vacillate in the weight department and I’m tired of cinching up my dresses or letting them out depending on the fat factor. Any suggestions?
Feeling Frumpy

Dear Feeling Frumpy,
Here’s a simple solution. Make an appointment at your local piercing store and have them install permanent corset hooks into your back and then you can save gobs of time by threading colorful ribbons through the metal, allowing you to cinch up your fat rather than all your pretty fabrics.

Dear Frida,
Last week I bumped into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen for about 12 months. The last time I spoke with him, he was a bi-ped, but now he’s mysteriously transformed into a double amputee. Should I have whistled gaily while avoiding eye contact and asked, “Hey, how’s it going, what’s new?” Or jump right in and casually point to the two shiny nubbins with jagged scars and the wheelchair and say, “What’s with the new ride?”
Call me Stumped

Dear Stumped,
As one who has spent a wee bit of time in a wheelchair myself, most folks try to dance around the subject, so the next time you see him, ask if he got a two-for-one deal.

Dear Frida,
On Mother’s Day, I took mine for a stroll and we passed a Japanese tea ceremony in progress. Although it was occurring in public, we stood to the side so as not to interrupt. A Japanese woman in kimono knelt on the ground, whipping a bowl of tea into a frenzy. Although I wanted to pay close attention to her every movement, a gentleman in the place of honor was digging for gold in his nasal cavity. The first time he pulled a large strawberry from his nose, I shook my head to relieve the cobwebs, for I could not believe what I was seeing, but the second time he went mining and pulled yet another strawberry from his proboscis I looked at my mother in horror only to see the exact same expression on her face. Since I know you’ve been to Japan recently and attended a tea ceremony, would you explain what that part meant?
Culturally Unprepared

Dear Culturally Unprepared,
The frothy ceremonial green tea can taste quite bitter and attractive sweets are a part of the ritual to soothe the tongue. However, I would avoid eating anything that gentleman might offer.

Well, that’s it for this week’s mailbag. If any of you have more questions, please email them directly to Frida.Chiquita.Kahlo@gmail.com . If they are quirky or awkward enough, then I might just use them. I do my best work when I’m cranky or PMSing, so pretty much anytime.

Go ahead, take my advice… I’m not using it anyway.

Spookaloo

This installment of the weekly serial about Frida’s adventures takes place in Spokane, Washington. Each little segment may not be specifically related, as in theme and focus, but they are tangentially connected by what we saw, observed and experienced in the “Lilac City.”

For instance, did you know that the word “lilac” is an Arabian word for blue? This piece of trivia won’t particularly relate to anything else here today, but it is something we learned while visiting this Pacific Inland city.

Which smoothly leads us to back to the first paragraph. A moment ago, while trying to spell tangentially, I made an error and typed in “tangenital.” Whoops! This mistake reminds me of a conversation I had on the phone this week. Somebody I know received a reminder email, “genitally prodding” her for something, which has nothing to do with anything other than I find that typo humorous and I heard about it while in Spokane.

If you can’t tell, I’ve received some constructive feedback on my writing segues and thematic material. One genital reader is offering to help guide me to better and clearer transitions, so I am practicing by telling you what I’m going to write about, then writing about it, and then telling you what I wrote.

So now I’m going to introduce you to Spokane. Kimmm’s grandmother referred to this Eastern Washington burg as Spookaloo, which I think is a fine nickname and henceforth perhaps I shall call it that, too.

My first introduction to Spookaloo occurred last century, in the year nineteen hundred and seventy-four. My father and I took a road trip in our 1967 Chevy Impala and stopped for the World’s Fair. Remember the big whooptie U.S. fair of the Bi-centennial era? It is the scene of a now funny, then traumatic experience with my paternal figure called The Bumper Car Saga.

My 10-year old self had never ridden a Ferris wheel so big. It was the world’s tallest at the time, or maybe it just felt that way, and the people down below looked like ants. Stop, you say. What does a Ferris wheel have to do with bumper cars? Yes, I can see how this might bewilder. Let me explain.

In the larger context of the World’s Fair, I was about to make a long-term memory (although I didn’t know it at the time). It began with the Ferris wheel getting stuck for a brief eternity. I was riding alone and my open-air bench seat was just cresting the top when the whole thing came to a sudden stop. I’m making the comparison that it was a little frightening to be caught up there while waiting for it to be fixed, but nothing compared to the trauma of The Bumper Car Saga.

In my short history, I had always ridden amusement park rides that were wholly controlled by nefarious looking carnies. It was within this framework that I hesitantly took my dad’s suggestion and got in line for the bumper cars. When it was finally my turn, I had to let go of my dad’s hand and allow the thrill-ride engineer, with his skinny body, meth breath and bad teeth, lead me to a car and lower the security bar.

I waited for him to start the ride, but nothing happened. Abruptly, without warning, the other kids started crashing into me. It was jarring and confusing. My bumper car would not move with the exception of being smashed into. Within seconds, I was the favorite target and like a magnet, all the other cars were aiming straight for me. My body was knocked side to side and I looked up for help. What I saw was worse than getting hit.

Floundering, I had drawn a crowd outside the arena as well. The adults waiting for the ride to end were laughing and pointing at me. But that was not the worst of it. My father was in the lead. He was pointing and laughing at me. I died a couple of deaths. One from being targeted and crashed into over and over again for the entire time and the other from being humiliated in front of many people including the man who was supposed to have my back.

I had no clue that the bumper car came equipped with a foot pedal to power it myself. I was waiting for an outside source to make my car vroom and instead, I was stalled in the middle of a hostile crowd. I was temporarily helpless and I burned with the shame of it.

When that circle of hell ended, I climbed out of the stupid car with as much dignity as I could muster and it was the first time I was more angry with my father than afraid. I did not look at him.

I could not look at him.

He tried to take my hand, but I would not allow it. The joy of the World’s fair was gone and replaced with the knowledge that kids and adults alike could be cruel. The color and fun drained away and I even ignored my father’s offer of an ice cream cone. Epic.

Because I was hundred’s of miles away from home, I eventually had to talk to him and he explained that the exact thing had happened to him as a child and that now, as a grown up, he could understand why the adults had been laughing. That didn’t make me feel any better. Nor did the phone conversation with my mother later that evening when she broke the news that my kitty, Mr. Bojangles, had disappeared.

I cried and felt very alone and let down. That was my introduction to Spokane.

I agree. It was very brave of me to return to the scene of the crime. While at the Waterfront Park, I peeked at the bumper cars and eerily enough, they were cordoned off with yellow caution tape. The arena was empty, but the echoes of laughter still haunt the place.

Shaking off the past, we toodled around downtown, gawked at Spokane Falls and on a whim decided to ride the gondola. We attended the Museum of Arts and Culture and caught a glimpse of the Wicked Witch of the West’s hat just in time for the 70th Anniversary of the Wizard of Oz.

After playing tourista, we visited extended family who live on the lake and we lazily enjoyed coffee and conversation on the dock. A pair of loons nodded as they swam by and then Mr. and Mrs. Duck greeted us. The fish were jumping, an eagle swooped nearby, and a marmot ran for cover.

The extended family includes a hormonal 13-year old boy. Nana says that his “whores are moaning.” The kid is quite active, funny and unpredictable. After the first day, he asked if he could go to Italy with us. We were impressed because that took goolies.

He made up a word for boys who think with their dangly bits instead of their brains and calls them “stupicles.” Nana said his “stupicles” were definitely descending. It is one of those multiple parts of speech words, used frequently in this household to describe both the person and their actions. I will now provide you with an example.

As we walked the short distance from the lake to the house, two young boys buzzed us on quads. I was about to comment on the potential danger when Nana gestured discreetly that one of them had already crashed in an earlier accident resulting in permanent brain damage as well as losing half his face. I’m new to this vocabulary term, but I think the parents were demonstrating stupicle behavior.

Remember, I’m still in thirteen year-old world. He walked around with his iPod, reading us random stupicle jokes. Here are two of them: “Your mama is so stupicle, she brought a red magic marker to the hospital because they needed to draw blood,” or “Your papa is so stupicle, he sold his car for gas money.”

I had a much longer list of things to mention about our week in Spokane, but it looks as though they might need to be put on hold for another time. To follow-up, as you’ve probably already deduced, we did not hit the mega jackpot lottery in last week’s drawing, but someone else, appropriately from Winner, South Dakota, won in our stead. Congratulations!

I told you I would write about Spokane, I wrote about Spokane and now I’m telling you that I wrote about Spokane.

The Green Fairy

Have you ever been invited to a goat’s birthday party? Seriously. Our invitation came engraved on linen paper, egg shell 28 bond with pageant rose ink instead of a multi-purpose desktop version. The words were flourished with Declaration of Independence fancy font, announcing the date, time and location with a request to RSVP.

Baby Goat was turning 365 days old, twelve months or one year, take your pleasure. As I’m not raising kids myself, I tend to get confused when I hear how children’s clothing is sized. Twenty-eight months, thirty-two, forty-seven, I lose track. When do months finally morph into years?

Math quiz: If I’m 543 months old, what size shoe do I wear?

Back to the invitation. I’m kidding. It was a Blue Mountain greeting card, delivered via an electronic mailman named Yahoo!

At the party, Baby and Honey Bunches of Goat were presented with a shredded carrot and almond butter birthday cake to share with a carrot candle planted in the middle. Most attendees behaved well, although there was lots of spontaneous pooping going on.

Have you ever seen a goat make deposits? Their tail-flaps lift up and out pop little pellets just like a Pez dispenser. MamaFriend thinks the pellets are the cutest things in the world. I’m surprised she hasn’t had them bronzed for coffee table art or shellacked, drilled and beaded into a necklace. When Grandma pooped spontaneously, it wasn’t as cute.

I haven’t completely made up my mind on the dog issue yet. Keep up, it’ll make sense in a moment. I know a woman who is really, really into her dogs. So much so in fact, when she grooms them, she extracts their fur from the brush, pays someone to spin it and then knit sweaters out of the doggie yarn.

I don’t know if that’s weird or not, where do you weigh in? On the one hand, people wear wool, angora, mohair – a posh word for goat fibers, and polyester. I know, those poor little darlings, does it help ease the guilt to know that polyesters are farm bred for just this purpose??

On the other hand, is there a term upscale enough to make dog hair more palatable? Not that I’d want to eat it, even though I’ve recently nibbled on goat flesh, I mean is there a phrase that inspires wearability? A “lab coat,” perhaps, suggests Groom? He’s a sick puppy too, and that’s one more reason I adore him.

So what happens when Acquaintance wears her dog fur sweater when it’s raining, won’t she smell like wet dog?

As an adopted “Auntie,” I was in the booth with my 15-year old niece when Acquaintance stopped by wearing one of her “lab coats.” When I asked Niece’s opinion, she just stared at me in the way only disapproving teenagers can do and summed it up, “That’s just wrong.”

Which reminds me, Groom woke himself up laughing the other morning. Apparently he was dreaming of Playmate Brandi Roderick’s lapse in language skills and her use of the word “forgooed” to replace “foregone,” and his psyche came up with a joke.

In his dream, Vinnie the Mobster said that a particular situation needed a “four goon conclusion.” Okay, that’s hilarious.

Wait a sec…Groom is dreaming about a Playboy bunny? Why am I laughing?

Oh, that’s because we’re in the car driving up the Columbia River Gorge. We stopped in Hood River, a town very happily hovering in it’s own economic bubble, supported by tourism. Kiteboarding and windsurfing in the summer and snowboarding and skiing in the winter. Their downtown received a large sum of money to improve its looks, and boy does it show!

We pulled over, lulled by the view of the water, the piercing blue sky and lazy breeze. How could we not stop at a place called Passport Café with a French bistro in the front and a British pub in the back?

That still does not answer why I’m laughing. That’s because their specialty is Absinthe, or what is better known as “releasing the green fairy.” I’m told it tastes like black licorice, which in translation probably means cough syrup. Since I’m such a history romantic, if I’d lived in the olden days, I’d be one of those gals sipping laudanaum out of a spiffy flask hidden in my bustier.

If it weren’t for morals and calories, there are many things I’d like to try, but I’m too chicken. The most giddyup I got is playing a rousing version of chopsticks on the piano. So right now, as I’m floating, the fact that Groom dreamed of a Playboy bunny and a “four goon conclusion” strikes me as funny.

As we continue up the Gorge, there’s the Columbia River on one side and a bouquet of rocks on the other. There are many signs to catch our eye, not the least of which is the lottery jackpot coming in at $222 million.

We’ve already done the math.

In order to receive the cash in one lump sum, the winner is presented with half, which whittles the total down to $111 mil. Then Uncle Sam will be the first in line to get his share, so that further reduces the amount by another 40%, so a cool $222 with lots of zeros is magically transformed into a paltry $60.

We could live with that.

The only problem we predict is nobody else will do the subtraction. If the world thinks we have a couple hundred million bucks at our disposal, well, Uncle Sam won’t be the only ones a knocking…

Other signs that tell us we’re heading in the right direction are the ones announcing “Highway to Happiness” and “Vacationville,” which sound good to us.

With six times ten million in our pocket, we’d want to spend a little on shoes, frippery and geegaws, but then we’d do some serious good with the windfall like set up foundations to save the polyesters, provide “lab coats” for equality, or support groups such as “Adult Children of Parents.”

We’d also shower our loved ones with a little of the loot. So if you ever receive an engraved invitation from us on linen paper, eggshell 28 bond with pageant rose ink and curly cue letters and a request to RSVP…

What would you do with $60 million?

Tastes Like Chicken

Last week, after a friend’s goat stepped on my head (I have video proof!), I wasn’t too sure about goats…but after this week’s adventure, I can honestly say I like goat. Especially with curry!

We discovered this by traveling to Bill Gatesland, home of the Sea Hawks, the Huskies, Seattle Grace and Dr. Frasier Crane.

Spontaneously boarding an articulated bus (note, if you want some extra fun, try sitting in the bellow seats, they’re super bouncy), Groom and I rode the public transport to the Fremont neighborhood where we sauntered past an Indian Restaurant. Our stomachs growled us into submission (was that yours or mine?), so we stopped to read the large menu board posted near the sidewalk. We both saw it at once.

We looked at each other. “Dare we?”

We dared and it was delicious! Goat meat is not gamey like I’d feared. It’s less fatty than lamb, so it was a perfect combination of texture and flavor. Lip smackety good.

Groom and I are such nerds. Our definition of fun is going to the Planetarium at OMSI in Portland on the way up, having sushi lunch with Bee Bugg, almost getting kicked out of Whole Foods in the Pearl District (they thought Frida was a food spy! Hee-larious), and viewing a Coffee Exhibition at the Burke Museum.

We attended John Fluevog’s birthday celebration on Friday the 15th and each got a pair of shoes. Whoo hoo, mine are bright orange. On Saturday, we hung out with the highest-ranking non-fiction writer on Amazon.com (you can look that up if you want to see who it is) and together were shanghaied into a conversation by complete strangers about the Northwest disappearing into the sea within the next 18 months. Yeah, that was fun.

The other fun thing was the U-District Street fair. The weather in Seattle was positively gorgeous, a miracle in and of itself, but sales were down from last year. Sigh, I know. Want to know by how much? One dollar. I’m not kidding, so I’m doing a little jig.

You’ve heard the phrase, “April showers bring May flowers,” well, here’s another springtime observation. When the sun finally comes out after a long spate of rain, so do the people and who doesn’t love the first of the summer B.O.?

Parades of humanity flowed past our booth, the unwashed masses in their blinding white skin suits, several of them offering their bodies for cash. One guy held a hand written sign advertising you could punch him in the stomach for five bucks while other bright individuals were letting folks staple crisp green Lincolns to their foreheads with a staple gun. Ka thunk, ka ching!

Which might explain why I had a dream that Jane Seymour (the actress, not one of King Henry’s the VIII’s harem) was Miley Cyrus’ mother. I do not know what a Hannah Montana is, but I’m pretty sure Jane S. and Billy Ray did not make it.

But I did catch that episode of My Name is Earl, where Joy, who is White-Trash American, falls in love with Ms. Seymour’s open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and just had to have one.

Every day is a learning opportunity and I learned something new just today. People skills.

Or the opposite of people skills. A woman came into the booth wearing a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers and recognizing the design, I asked her, “Is that a Jane Seymour open heart necklace sold by Kay Jewelers?

The woman smiled and nodded, her hand instinctively touching the pendant hanging around her neck suspended from a chain, pleased that I had noticed. People skills.

Hey, I saw that episode of Earl,” I told the customer. “Joy sure wanted that necklace bad.”

Oopsey, she was not flattered.

But I was when a very handsome man in a sharp suit gave Groom the full body sweep with his eyes. “Oh my goodness, did you see that?” I squealed, “He was soooo checking you out!”

“He was not,” Groom deferred. (Pause...)“But if he was, did he like what he saw?”

“Ho baby, you got the Dude glance.”

There’s no phobia taking place here, just a milestone. Over the last ten months, Groom has lost 60 pounds and can fit into something other than Diego Rivera’s overalls. With his designer zapatos and form-fitting togs, he finally got the urban seal of approval from a well-dressed fancy man in downtown Seattle. I think my husband is becoming a Metro-sexual.

It’s been fun to watch people’s reactions to him, especially those who haven’t seen him in a while. As the Art Fair season has just begun, we’re at the starting point of visiting our annual destinations and the difference is quite evident.

A woman gasped when she saw him and boldly ordered him to lift up his coat (to his T-shirt) so she could “see his belly.” She gave it a love smack with her hand and after making certain the weight loss was intentional, congratulated him.

We ran into an artist who had also lost a significant amount of weight and while oohing and aahing over her, she confessed Groom had inspired her into it. You go girl!

At the Burke Exhibition, we learned that goats discovered coffee. Shepherds, while watching their flocks by night, noticed how the herd caught a buzz after eating the red berries from a flowering plant that smelled like gardenias.

I’m a little sleepy, so I think I’ll grab a freshly brewed cup of that red berry juice.

“Tossed salad and scrambled eggs, they’re calling again, good night Seattle…”

Getting Your Goat

At this moment I have no idea what to write about. In the last installment, I simply wanted to eat chocolate, watch mindless television, have a full body massage with benefits and take a break from personal growth lessons, but instead Companion and I went to Southern Oregon over the weekend to spend Mother’s Day with my folks and do an art show.

There’s no room at the Inn, so to speak, at the family hut, so we stay with friends whenever we make the trek to the Rogue Valley. This sounds like a normal arrangement, except, well, they’ve recently adopted a couple of kids and we’re adjusting.

And when I say “kids,” the common image of human children might sproing to mind, perhaps a couple of diapered brats running wild, spoiled kidlings with bottles and toys and general mayhem in their wake.

And yes, this is the case, only the kids are not human, they are goats. Yes, that’s right, I said “goats,” as in barnyard critters with cloven hooves, curved horns and voices that can wake the dead. Only these particular beasts wear diapers, sit on the couch or curl up comfortably next to the fireplace.

We were awakened each morning at 7am by a baby goat bleating and then bottle fed in our sleeping quarters.

In addition to the heavily aromatic goat’s milk, the “kids” are hand fed rose petals, plums (which give them the appearance of wearing lipstick), pears, bananas, organic corn chips, carrots, apples, uncooked oatmeal and the occasional Wheat thin.

The kids are named Baby and Honey Bunches of Goats. When they aren’t climbing the recliner, watching television or having their diapers changed, they have a large back yard to frolic in and specially built structures to mount.

For their outside meals, they scarf creep (starter pellets), inhale grass hay, and forage for bamboo and lilacs, but their very favorite snack involves stripping the butterfly bush.

Keeping an eye on these two is a full time job. To protect them from eating things lethal, Friends have constructed fencing around their rhododendrons and azaleas and learned via an upset stomachs (they each have two) that wilted leaves from stone fruit is a bad idea.

Goats are obsessed with their mouths and are constantly on the hunt for things to put in them. MamaFriend must pay attention at all times and whenever I’m in proximity, any string, button or loop from my clothing instantly becomes a teething ring. Can you say goat slobber?

To ruminate means to mull something over. Goats are ruminators, as in they eat and chew, eat and chew and finally swallow only to have the food land in one stomach and then come up again a bit later like a mini-vomit for them to chew some more and redirect to their spare stomach.

And here’s a little hard-earned advice: Never fart in a goat’s face.

Rooting around for food, Baby shoved her face in my bikini area. I certainly was not pleased by this turn of events, but became even more embarrassed when the male of the household announced in his baritone voice, “Oh, someone must be near their moon.” Okay, he didn’t say it quite that gracefully, but I’m already turning six shades of red.

Immediately repositioning my body to avoid further truffling, she took offense and began posturing for dominance. Disinterested in fighting with a goat, I assumed the more mature position and started to walk away. Holding a wee grudge for the Aunt Flo shoutout, I gifted her with a SBD (silent, but deadly) as payback. This gave her room for pause.

She stopped in her tracks and I swaggered down the hall, victorious in my own small way.

I didn’t see it coming.

Leaving something to sniff was my first mistake, turning my back on her was the second. Lowering her head and pawing at the white plush carpet like a bull in the ring, she snortled a puff of smoke and charged, ramming me in the tush with her horns.

Eeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Guest abuse, guest abuse.

Here comes a segue. Yep, that was it. Making a slight right turn in conversation, on Sunday, while at the show, an old high school crush and his wife came by to see us. It’s no secret to all parties involved that I used to scribble his name with hearts all around it on my Pee Chee, and still, we have an annual tradition of saying hello. I won’t tell you who he is, but I will let slip that he is related to a famous country singer and a serial killer.

He was a bit surprised to learn I don’t cook and I reminded him that I did not exactly pop out of the Traditional Box. Which is why, after the show, we went to my mom’s house so that Companion could cook her a lovely Mother’s Day meal (we had pasta carbonara, in case you are curious).

We brought our own pots and pans along with some spices and the ingredients, but forgooed any utensils. “Mother-in-Law,” Companion called, “where might I find a spatula?”

“A what?” she said entering the kitchen, a puzzled expression on her face.

“You know, a plastic scrapey thing or maybe a wooden spoon?”

“Hmmmm,” she ruminated and began looking in the oven and under the sink. After searching through this cupboard and that, she finally pulled open a drawer that contained an ice pick, a fondue fork and an old timey cheese grater. “Oh there’s my utensil drawer,” she said relieved to have found it.

“That’s it?” we said, peering inside the lonely drawer, as if we stared hard enough the tools required might materialize.

“Would this help?” Mom said, holding up a partially melted plastic ladle she pulled from somewhere mysterious.

Companion blew dust off it and shrugged. He proceeded to fry bacon with the whitley ladle and in fact, made the entire dinner with it (the fondue fork would have scratched our non-stick cookware). I was proud to watch him improvise in my mother’s “Kitchen,” and pleased that he was my Groom instead of the country singer slash serial killer’s cousin.

I smiled, knowing that even though I did not grow up with Betty Crocker (my mom’s favorite culinary text is Phyllis Diller’s I Hate to Cook cookbook), she taught me enough life skills to marry a domestic god. Thanks mom!

Setting the card table, I asked where the placemats were hiding. She handed me a roll of paper towels and said, “Here are the placemats and the napkins.”

Over dinner, she asked, “What does your Friend’s mother think of the goats?”

“Oh, she loooooves them. She bought a Grandma’s Brag Book, loaded it with photos and takes it down to the Senior Center to show them off.”

After dinner and dishes (I had to wash them with the placemats, i.e. the paper towels, as she doesn’t believe in sponges), we sat around and watched a video of Barbershop Quartets.

I considered the weekend full of masticating goats, unstocked kitchens and musical preferences and realized I didn’t have a criticizing word to say, after all, I carry around a doll and use her “voice” and point of view to write.

Question: What’s the classic definition of humor? Answer: Someone falling down. What’s the definition of tragedy? Me falling down.

Therefore, what’s the definition of weird? Pretty much anything anyone else does.