We have this cat, Two, who is 13+ years old. She came from a shelter in Portland, Oregon in 1999, when she pawed at me through the bars of her cage and convinced me to look past all the adorable kittens in the next room and take a chance on a seasoned adult with a past. Ever since that moment, she has maintained this scrappy, aggressive sort of sweetness about her that I've always liked.
For more than half our time together, she's been an indoor cat. I started noticing in recent years that she was slowing down a bit, becoming less playful, and watching the birds and squirrels out the back window with only very passive interest -- as though she were only doing so because there was nothing good on HGTV.
So I was pleased to see her enjoying some time outdoors when we moved into a house with a yard last fall. I indulged her desire to move in and out of the house every fifteen minutes through the winter months. It's been fun to watch her stalking little critters in the backyard and proving that she still has her hunter's instincts. And when she started bringing us dead mice a few weeks ago, well... I had mixed feelings.
I'm certainly happy to see the old girl's still got it. I hope my reflexes and acuity are anywhere close to that when I'm the human equivalent of 13 cat years old. And considering the pest problems that have plagued us in this house, having a mouser on patrol in the backyard can only help things. The tradeoff, of course, is that at least twice a week one of us has to shovel our dead little 'gift' off the back patio and into the woods. Yuck.
A couple of days ago I was sitting at the computer with MLM, when we heard the most horrifying squealing noise coming from the backyard. At first I thought it was some birds fighting, but when I looked up I saw something through the window that's been nightmare fuel ever since. Two was in the middle of the yard, gleeful, as a screaming baby bunny tried desperately to free itself from her jaws.
Now I'm sure some of my animal rights friends will point out that there's no difference between the life of a gross little wood rat and that of a sweet bunny rabbit. Death is death, no matter how cute the victim. And I would say, you obviously haven't heard a baby bunny scream. It was awful.
So I grabbed MLM and rushed out the back door, commanding my very confused cat to let go of the poor thing as it struggled for freedom. She looked at me like 'Are you kidding me?' But after a moment, she relented, at least long enough for the bunny to escape to the nearest bushes. Two glared at me for ruining what was obviously the day's crowning achievement, then returned to the patio to sun herself resentfully. I don't know what happened to the injured little bunny.
It was all a little too Discovery Channel for my tastes. In fact, it was kind of like watching the Discovery Channel only to realize that the lion who is gnawing on the zebra carcass is actually someone you see and interact with daily, like Fred from the accounting department. If, that is, Fred also enjoys curling up in your lap and licking your chin on a regular basis. No matter how domesticated my sweet little cat is inside the house, her animal instincts are right there, just under the surface, ready to move in for the kill.
Fortunately, the bunny screams stopped ringing in my ears after a day or so. But MLM is still pointing out to the yard periodically and saying "I see rabbit. Let go, cat!" Hubby finds this terribly amusing. As for me, I think I need until the end of the week. In the meantime, Two is permanently banned from all forms of chin-licking.
Showing posts with label Portland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Portland. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Friday, January 8, 2010
A Decade in the Life
In the last couple of weeks I've been seeing and hearing lots of retrospectives highlighting the key moments of the past decade -- from our fears about Y2K and September 11th, all the way to the economic collapse and 2008 election, and everything in between. It got me thinking about my own life over the last ten years and the amazing journey it's been. I decided to write my own little retrospective.
Normally I have a “slice of life” writing style; but a decade is more like a “whopping hunk” of life, and I’m a little nervous about putting it out there. It could either turn out to be enlightening and entertaining, or a lot like looking at someone else's vacation photos. Or colonoscopy video. So read at your own risk.
____________________________________
Part One: A Wild, Drizzly Start
When the clock struck midnight on December 31, 1999 and we all held our breath that the essential structure of our country would continue to function, I was living in Portland, Oregon in a 1920's quadruplex with my new husband. I had just turned 24, and we'd gotten married and moved cross-country four months earlier after a whirlwind Philadelphia-to-Atlanta romance. We had been friends for a while, but had never even lived in the same city before we got married. [If you're thinking that you can see from here what a huge mistake that was, you're not alone. But try telling that to me at 23. In fact, several people did try to tell me that, but sometimes we have to learn our own lessons firsthand.]
So by New Year's Eve we'd been living in Portland in theory for 4 months, but in reality we'd lived half that time in San Francisco because of MDexH's work; so basically I started the year 2000 as a person without a home. Despite being a recent MBA grad, I was also willfully unemployed thanks to another relationship that neither party was mature enough for - this time between me and a little start-up web design firm.
I'd been cashiering at Target to help make ends meet, which was painful to both the pocketbook and my pride. We'd been robbed during our absence in San Francisco, and though we had nothing of real value, the thief made off with some personal mementos of mine from college and my treasured 1996/1998 passport -- complete with border entry stamps from over 20 countries. So the decade was off to a less than auspicious start.
The social scene was challenging, too. Northwesterners, in my experience, are a kind, loving and generous folk; but compared to the bombastic Southern style to which I’m accustomed, they were pretty reserved. It was hard for an outsider with no connections to make friends in the drizzly Portland weather. Meanwhile my best friend in Atlanta had to call me up from three time zones away to tell me that her first daughter was born – a joyful moment laced with the tiny sadness of distance.
Still, I was in love with the Rose City -- the bike paths, the gardens, 6 miles of books at Powell's -- and optimistic for what was to come. I worked a few temp jobs, put up fliers as an ESL tutor. I took a creative writing class at the Portland State continuing ed annex, which turned into a small coffee-shop writers' group: lovingly but sardonically called, "Happy Animal Stories." When I branched out and took an acting class, I made even more friends and finally started to feel like I knew enough people to throw a respectable dinner party. I even landed a couple of freelance writing jobs.
I was finally settling into my new life in Portland. Cue the Internet bubble. MDexH's company (one of those crazy bad examples from that era -- the ones with kegs of beer in the breakroom and incomprehensible titles for all its executives) went bankrupt and our 1.25-income household was suddenly about to be broke. Given that Portland had the nation's highest unemployment at the time -- nothing compared to today, btw -- we packed our bags and a cat named "Two" who'd come from the mean streets of North Portland, and headed for the bright lights of Austin, Texas.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
You Could, But Will You?
Years ago, when I lived in Portland, Oregon, one of my favorite weekend activities was to stroll through the Saturday Market -- a lively collection of artists' booths, street performers and food vendors downtown by the Willamette River. I'd get a chai tea or some greasy ethnic food from one of the booths and then wander around for a couple of hours, daydreaming, shopping, people-watching... it was one of those activities that is both inspiring and relaxing.
Like many such outdoor festivals, the Saturday Market was full of both works of art far beyond the talents of the average person, as well as some things that were technically simple, but cute and clever. Those simple innovations or creative pieces often leave me asking myself, "Why didn't I think of that?" And sometimes that thought is followed with, "I could totally do that myself."
And why not? I have (or could obtain) acrylic paints, mismatched spoons, wooden frames, shellac, old magazines, lone barstools, fake flowers, a typewriter.... whatever the ingredients of this particular creative project might be. Why can't I go home right now and do [whatever it is] myself, for far less money?
I guess this is a common reaction, because at one such booth, the artist had posted a sign to spur sales from hesitant customers: "Yes, you could do this at home. But will you?" The honest answer: no, I won't.
The words on that sign have come to my mind again recently, as I've found myself with a little more time on my hands (well, time to think, anyway, while cradling a fussy infant in the wee hours.... not so much time to do). I've been trying to decide how I want to channel my energies in the coming months and I've found, discouragingly, that the possibilities are almost endless. There are loads of things I could do, but the question is, what will I do?
For example, I recently finished reading an astonishingly mediocre historical novel; and about halfway through, I began thinking -- "This is terrible. How am I not a published author already? I could write a better novel than this with my eyes closed. Maybe I should." Okay... certainly I'm capable of doing the research for such a novel. And perhaps there's some kernel of truth to the idea that I could be better than some at writing historical fiction. I would probably even enjoy it, if that's how I decided to spend my time.
But that's the thing... writing even a mediocre novel takes time and persistence. So in order to write a better novel (eyes open or otherwise), I would have to decide to spend my time that way. I would have to commit the time and discipline to doing the research, writing, editing, marketing, etc. at the expense of all the other ways I could spend those few precious moments while the little one is napping. I would have to choose to do that instead of doing just about anything else.
Now we've hit my problem. And, I suspect, the problem of talented procrastinators and underachievers everywhere. In order to do something, you have to commit to that and forgo other things, even if only in the short term. And committing like that means taking a risk -- hitching your wagon to one identity or pursuit, and casting off the safety net of the many other ways you could demonstrate your true talents. There is a built-in excuse for any shortcomings in your work when you're not pursuing your "true" passion. In that sense, I guess you could say it's easier to be a frustrated waiter than a failed actor.
I mean, let's face it, the reason Lady Mediocre is a published author and I am not, is that she wrote a damn novel! Meanwhile, I have lots of ideas and notes and half-finished paragraphs all strewn about in a black hole of a file folder called "Writing." Once in a while I invest some time and effort into that folder; but more often, I think of it longingly while I'm doing other things. And in many ways, it's safer that way.
But the reality is, life does not judge us on our aptitude (despite all the hype around the SAT in high school). No one cares what I could do if I [wanted to], [had time], [could find the energy], [got paid in advance], etc. I can only be judged on what I have done, am doing. That's where real greatness emerges, and it's up to me to do the work to bring it out in myself.
For me, the first step is letting go of some of the things I could do. Paring down my ambitions might feel like a loss in some ways, and it's certainly risky. But by closing a couple of those distracting side doors, maybe I can channel my energy to create definite direction, and build passion toward one or two pursuits at a time until I actually have something resembling a finished product. Then someone else can play the critic!
Like many such outdoor festivals, the Saturday Market was full of both works of art far beyond the talents of the average person, as well as some things that were technically simple, but cute and clever. Those simple innovations or creative pieces often leave me asking myself, "Why didn't I think of that?" And sometimes that thought is followed with, "I could totally do that myself."
And why not? I have (or could obtain) acrylic paints, mismatched spoons, wooden frames, shellac, old magazines, lone barstools, fake flowers, a typewriter.... whatever the ingredients of this particular creative project might be. Why can't I go home right now and do [whatever it is] myself, for far less money?
I guess this is a common reaction, because at one such booth, the artist had posted a sign to spur sales from hesitant customers: "Yes, you could do this at home. But will you?" The honest answer: no, I won't.
The words on that sign have come to my mind again recently, as I've found myself with a little more time on my hands (well, time to think, anyway, while cradling a fussy infant in the wee hours.... not so much time to do). I've been trying to decide how I want to channel my energies in the coming months and I've found, discouragingly, that the possibilities are almost endless. There are loads of things I could do, but the question is, what will I do?
For example, I recently finished reading an astonishingly mediocre historical novel; and about halfway through, I began thinking -- "This is terrible. How am I not a published author already? I could write a better novel than this with my eyes closed. Maybe I should." Okay... certainly I'm capable of doing the research for such a novel. And perhaps there's some kernel of truth to the idea that I could be better than some at writing historical fiction. I would probably even enjoy it, if that's how I decided to spend my time.
But that's the thing... writing even a mediocre novel takes time and persistence. So in order to write a better novel (eyes open or otherwise), I would have to decide to spend my time that way. I would have to commit the time and discipline to doing the research, writing, editing, marketing, etc. at the expense of all the other ways I could spend those few precious moments while the little one is napping. I would have to choose to do that instead of doing just about anything else.
Now we've hit my problem. And, I suspect, the problem of talented procrastinators and underachievers everywhere. In order to do something, you have to commit to that and forgo other things, even if only in the short term. And committing like that means taking a risk -- hitching your wagon to one identity or pursuit, and casting off the safety net of the many other ways you could demonstrate your true talents. There is a built-in excuse for any shortcomings in your work when you're not pursuing your "true" passion. In that sense, I guess you could say it's easier to be a frustrated waiter than a failed actor.
I mean, let's face it, the reason Lady Mediocre is a published author and I am not, is that she wrote a damn novel! Meanwhile, I have lots of ideas and notes and half-finished paragraphs all strewn about in a black hole of a file folder called "Writing." Once in a while I invest some time and effort into that folder; but more often, I think of it longingly while I'm doing other things. And in many ways, it's safer that way.
But the reality is, life does not judge us on our aptitude (despite all the hype around the SAT in high school). No one cares what I could do if I [wanted to], [had time], [could find the energy], [got paid in advance], etc. I can only be judged on what I have done, am doing. That's where real greatness emerges, and it's up to me to do the work to bring it out in myself.
For me, the first step is letting go of some of the things I could do. Paring down my ambitions might feel like a loss in some ways, and it's certainly risky. But by closing a couple of those distracting side doors, maybe I can channel my energy to create definite direction, and build passion toward one or two pursuits at a time until I actually have something resembling a finished product. Then someone else can play the critic!
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