Michelle Perin’s Blog

One of my favorite classes in college was Architecture as Art. I love buildings. Actually let me quantify that, I love pretty buildings, ones with swirls and ledges and preferably dark, fairy tale creatures attached to them. Although I’ve spent the majority of my life on the young (age-wise) West Coast, I’ve had the privilege of traveling some. Nothing like going to Europe or Asia where the buildings are super-super old, but that will come in time. (Hopefully, I will continue to live under the mantra “Don’t wait until tomorrow,” like I did to go see Old Tucson. It burned to the ground before I got there. That sucks.) In 2005, after as a graduation gift to myself, I spent a month on the road traveling through the U.S. I started in Phoenix and headed southeast. I went up the East Coast heading up through Canada, dropped back down (almost wasn’t let back into the country. Hey, Mounties, I was two seconds from becoming your dispatcher. Love the hats. The pants…not so much) and stopped to visit my parents in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula (I also had to pick up my other son who was 4 and my parents so graciously watched so me and my 9 y/o son could make this trip) and headed back south again.

So, back to architecture (there is a point to this tale; there always is, it’s just that sometimes I’m the only one who gets it). One of the stops on our 34 state, 9,200 mile drive-wherever-the heck-I-want-to-on-the-back-roads-of-this-great-country trip was Washington, DC. We camped over in West Virginia (everything is so close over there. It’s like people staked their claims and said, “Ooo, ooo, ooo, new state! Even though they were a stone’s throw from their neighbor’s plot. I figure by the time people got to Oregon, they were so tired they just threw down a blanket and when some government bureaucrat asked about boundaries, they barely lifted their head and said, “How bout that river there and that river there and them mountains, sound good?” Pffllmp, head back on pillow). Anyway, the buildings in DC were amazing. I spent more time starting up at the rooflines with my mouth gaping open then anywhere I’ve ever been. Buildings had swirls and marble and etchings and columns and pillars and…and…and…I was just so excited (ok, I’m not a normal girl; I get it). The apartment building next to the White House made me just want to move there, dress all in black (Victorian-style) and wait for my hot, Vampire dream-guy to show up at my window. And, the government buildings…to die for. If you’ve never seen the frieze on the Smithsonian Archives, you haven’t lived. If I could have rented a cherry picker for the day, I would have given tourists something to look at hovering for hours at the top of building touching each corner, groove and etching (I’ve very tactile and Yes, I must touch everything). I realized we don’t have nearly enough stone on the West Coast. We must do better.

After leaving Washington, we headed north and my day kept getting better (I’d like to say days but we already discussed the whole cross the street, cross the state thing) and we ended up in New Haven, Connecticut, Home of Yale University. It’s a good thing I went to Arizona State University because I would never have gotten any studying done at Yale. I would have just walked around with my head up until I fell in a man-hole. The spires, buttresses and rose windows had me drooling. Even now, looking back at my pictures, I want to put my hands on everything. (You should try it). The buildings were covered in wrought iron and flying lions and (gasp, my most favorite!!!) Gargoyles. When I build my place here in Oregon, I’m going to have at least one, if not two (you don’t want them to get lonely; they can get in so much trouble) gargoyles on my house (I don’t care if it’s going to be a log cabin in the woods. I’m having the gargoyles!). Once Marc peeled me away from Yale, (read, “MOM! Can we stop looking at the stupid buildings, PLEASE!), we headed to Massachusetts. I’ll tell you about my love affair with Plymouth Rock in another post.

So, this post does have a point other than my reminiscent drooling over hundred-year old buildings on the other side of the country. It has to do with Da Book (everything lately does; when I feel restless, I pull it out and find something to do). The “do” was, “Distinguish the difference between Ionic, Corinthian, and Doric.” I knew these terms from class and it got me all excited. I’ll try to make the definitions of these Greek-style architectural columns user-friendly and give you pictures:

Ionic- Capital (the top part) is decorated with spiral scrolls (looks like something out of Cleopatra or any one of those movies where half-naked guys run around fighting lions and all the women have gorgeous, almond-shaped eyes).

Corinthian- The most ornate of the three main orders of classical Greek architecture, characterized by a slender fluted column (champagne, anyone?) having an ornate bell-shaped capital decorated with acanthus leaves (those fern-like pointy leaves like Bacchus wears. These columns were designed when Greeks got all fancy-pants).

Doric- The oldest and simplest of the three main orders of classical Greek architecture, characterized by heavy fluted columns with plain, saucer-shaped capitals (boring, but still exciting) and no base.

Obviously, with the Doric the Greeks were like, “Ok, we are so done with this building. Watching those slaves lift those stones is hard work. I’m bushed. Let’s grab a beer.”

Now, dear readers, you know a bit more about my obsessive nature (love, love, love, love, love swirly buildings) and can dazzle your friends with your knowledge about columns (you never know when that might come in handy, “Hey, sweetheart, come with me and I’ll show you my column.”)

Yesterday I was feeling like I needed a boost so I flipped open Da Book and chose some things I had to do that day. I intended to do three but I managed a solid two. The first was, “Assess you Needs.” I ended up with a good list of those things that I need physically, emotionally and spiritually to be healthy and happy. The second thing I did was, “Write your Own Obituary.” I sat and thought, “What do I want people to say about me when I die? What do I want to have accomplished?” I’m sharing my obit with you, dear readers. Obviously some of the stuff, I have already accomplished on my decade and a half on this earth. Some of it I want to accomplish prior to the date at the end of my dash.

Michelle Janiece Godden Perin-Callahan

Michelle was born September 27th, 1975 at Good Samaritan Hospital in Corvallis (OR) to James August Godden and Nancy Janiece Snyder. One of four siblings, she was raised in a Navy family. She graduated from West Albany High School in 1993 and joined the Navy herself, along with her brother who graduated the same year from Corvallis High. Stationed in San Diego on the U.S.S. Dixon (AS-37), she followed in her beloved step-dad’s footsteps becoming a Storekeeper (SK). She quickly made rank becoming an SK3. She married Hull Technician (HT) Marc Stephen Howard in 1994. During her four years of service, she was stationed also at Naval Station San Diego and on the U.S.S. McKee (AS-41). She had her first son, Marc Cody Howard in 1995. After the service, she moved with her family to Phoenix (AZ) and joined the police department where she worked as a dispatcher/9-1-1 operator until 2005. Her second son, Dean Robert Howard (named after her maternal grandfather) was born in 2000.

In 2005, after the end of her marriage, she moved her boys to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan where she pursued a full-time writing career. Amidst the snow and natural beauty of Lake Superior, she “found” herself letting go of the shackles she had been living under. In 2008, she moved back to Oregon, landing in Creswell, a small town between Eugene and Cottage Grove. While there, she became an active member of the Eugene Junior Generals Hockey Club, Lane Area Ferret Shelter & Rescue, Patriot Guard Riders and Alcoholics Anonymous.

During her dash (that time between her birth year and her death), Michelle filled the world with happiness, love, light and a sense of adventure. She loved her boys and wouldn’t have changed a thing about raising them. She loved riding her Triumph Bonneville America and the freedom of the open road. She visited all 50 states and 22 countries. Her fondest memory was attending the 2014 Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia and being invited to skate on the ice with the Men’s U.S. Hockey Team. Her love of animals led her to run what she laughingly referred to as, “Michelle’s Foster Home for Geriatric Ferrets.” She loved hundreds of abandoned freasals until they were called across the Rainbow Bridge. She wrote 20 novels, including Desert Ice, a young adult story based heavily on her fond memories of her boys learning to play hockey in the frozen North.

Michelle loved life. She recognized she had seen the depths of Hell and by a power greater than herself she was pulled back into serenity and peace. She met the love of her life (and her partner in crime) in the program. Together they enjoyed the sun, rain, fog, snow and “burning through the mist.” Spunky well into her golden years, she asked the President to take her dancing when he called to wish her a happy 100th. She leaves behind her ray of light, as well as, her two sons, four grandchildren, ten great-grandchildren, 14 great-grandchildren and thousands of readers. She is now dancing (she loved that) in the light of our Lord, surrounded by loved ones and bundles of fur on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge.
***

I truly hope my obit will read something like this and that newspapers are still around for it to go into and that the word count isn’t too long. Those who know me understand my struggle not with making it long enough but cutting it down. I certainly have a lot to say. God willing, I will be around for quite some time to continue sharing myself with my readers and painting with words.

Saturday afternoon, I strapped on my helmet and headed into Eugene. I wasn’t going to the Saturday Market or to the library (which I love. If you haven’t been to the Eugene library, you really must go. It’s a fabulous, three-story book, magazine, CD-filled wonderfulness [Julie you’ve officially influenced my vocabulary]). My task was a little less hedonistic. I pulled up in front of the Westside Apostolic Church at 11th and Grant and backed my bike up to the curb. There were already half a dozen bikes there. Several bikers stood at the doors of the church which was a refashioned strip mall with blue and white awning. I walked away from the doors and went across the street to meet our ride leaders. Mary and Gene, both well into their 70s, busied themselves putting together poles and unrolling flags. A small group had gathered around them. Gene handed me a pole explaining he had just figured out how to put together these new ones made of light-weight PVC for less than a dollar. It was lighter than the one I usually carried but still felt substantial enough not to be blown away in the wind. Gene called out across the street asking if there was a marine who would be willing to stand with the Marine Corps flag. A volunteer stepped forward. Clad in jeans and a leather vest adorned with his club patch, several patches honoring fallen club members and his club name, he headed across the street to join us leaving his group behind. A small smile crossed my lips as I knew this man. Just the day before, I had been honored when he asked to ride to the funeral with me. Our two groups attending the same event–a funeral to honor a fallen club member and a veteran. Now we would be standing on the flag line side by side. He rides with the Clean and Sober Motorcycle Club; I ride with the Patriot Guard Riders (PGR).

As we stood waiting to line up, somebody said the words, “Have you heard…” Nothing good ever comes after those words. It’s always something bad happened like a death or even if it sounds good, like a wedding, it comes with a gossipy caveat like, “and he married his cousin.” This time the phrase was followed by the news of a Chinook being blown out of the sky in Afghanistan. 31 lives lost, most of them American sailors. Members of Seal Team 6 were aboard that helicopter, as well as, several Afghan soldiers. They were coming back from a mission and had fought side by side. They now died side by side. My heart fell at the news. We stood in that parking lot on a sunny Oregon Saturday to honor a man who had stood for our country during Vietnam. Before the “words”, we had discussed the coming Monday and our invitation to escort the body of a fallen soldier from the airport to his families care in Florence. Now there would be 26 more flag lines to stand in, 26 coffins to escort home and 26 sorrowful moments as friends and family weep while we stand holding high the flags their children fought under and for. Our soldiers died half way across the world. Away from the loving arms of their spouses, parents and children. And, unfortunately, away from the often apathetic, self-absorbed and self-righteous Americans who went about their daily business never thinking about those who continue to FIGHT FOR US. Our men and women are not around the world having tea parties and playing chess. They are getting into fire fights and dying at the hands of enemies who have sworn to destroy our country and our way of life. I do not agree with a lot of what Americans have allowed to become our values and therefore what other cultures believe we stand for. What I do agree with is our right to change, to grow and to evolve. As Americans we have the right to chose our own careers (including bouncing from job to job or not working at all), to raise our children where we want, to have the number of children we want to (whether that’s none or 20), to pick our own clothes (even if that means jeans hanging down around your butt cheeks), shop for our own food, listen to music (even if it includes more cuss words than anything else), see works of art (even if it’s a photograph of a flag in a toilet). I won’t get into how many of our choices are influenced by social factors therefore limiting them severely for many Americans. I recently watched The Stoning of Soraya M. and it changed my whole mentality about how bad our choices really are. Watch it. Your appreciation for life and for being born an American, even an American Woman, will go up exponentially. People around the world are still fighting to just have dignity, respect and the right to breathe. Americans are lucky. We have our servicemen and women doing this fighting for us. And they are dying doing it.

As I stood in the flag line, my red, white and blue symbol of freedom flapping around me, I said a prayer for all the families who had lost loved ones in that helo across the world. I said a prayer for those who are still out fighting and those supporting them. I said a prayer for America that all of us will wake up and behave like the kind of people we can all be proud of. I also said a prayer for my big brother serving in Bahrain. God Speed Brother. We miss you. Thank you for your service. Because of you, I get to sit here on this beautiful Wednesday morning and share my honest thoughts with the world.

I have this pair of jeans…you know the ones that you just absolutely love and wear over and over and over again. As soon as they are washed and the dryer stops throwing them around, you reach in, pull them out and put them on. They’re those jeans. I got them on sale at Charlotte Russe on New Year’s Day. I love Charlotte Russe jeans because their longs are actually…wait for it…long. Their talls are actually for my definition of tall (read, me. All 5’10 of me) and not the tall based on the average height of American women (It’s a ridiculous 5’4.6”. No wonder I feel like an Amazon). Anyway, back to the jeans. They’re tall enough to crinkle around my ankles which I like and doesn’t create trauma flashbacks when I try them on (Growing up I had to wear jeans that didn’t even cover my ankle bones and No capris were not in style. If I could go back to visit my adolescent self, I would just crank those jeans up higher and walk around owning the look. Lead or get out of the way, ya know. Unfortunately, my adult self confidence eluded me as a teen).

Back to the favorite, awesome jeans…I wear them All. The. Time. Until this tragic Friday last. I was shimmying into them (this effort is required because you know how it is with great jeans; they fit just so on all your curves, therefore to get to your waist the fabric must get over the thighs. And I am never going to be mistaken for being anorexic), got them up, bent over to grab my shoes and rip! I would have thought I would rip out the butt when my jeans finally went but no it was down the seam of my left thigh right below the crotch. The rip just frayed and you couldn’t really see it so I wore them to work anyway. I believe all motorcycle riding did it (ok, I’m sure the excessive wearing, doing bow legged sit ups and sitting on the couch watching movies with my legs tucked up underneath me didn’t help). So, I’m sitting at work and I can’t quit thinking about and messing with the hole. I lamented to my supervisor, Julie, “Why don’t they make crotch patches for jeans?” There are elbow patches and knee patches but nothing designed to fit the crotch of a pair of pants. Please, someone invent this so I don’t have to either throw out my favorite jeans or (what I’ll most likely do) wear them regardless of my thigh fat poking through.

On a completely different note (as you’ll see I’m jumping all over the place with this entry…welcome to my mind), I also love fluffy towels (hey, there is a theme here. This is my I Love…blog entry). I jumped out of the shower the other day, grabbed the towel off the rack and wrapped it around me (ok, I tried to wrap it around me but the edges were all ruched and frayed and there were about four holes in it. One was actually big enough to qualify the towel as ass-less). WTH??? Bravely, I opened the bathroom door and streaked to my room hoping the living room wasn’t full of adolescent boys. I don’t know how many times I go into the shower with an empty house and get out hosting the teenage block party. I really should remember to bring my clothes into the bathroom but I won’t. I get to my room and begin to dry off. Description of the experience: Scratchy. Non-absorbent. Smells like teen spirit (read boy feet). After I get dressed, I (just for shits and giggles) look in the towel cabinet (nothing) and then dig through the stack of laundry at the foot of my bed. I pull out all the towels…holes…big bleach spots…shrunk to the size of a wash rag…looks like it was used to wipe down an engine (probably was. Don’t think I’ll ask to actually verify). I need new towels. Ones used for actually drying bodies and don’t smell like the trunk of my car (after the seals stopped working, rain got in and sat in a puddle for 3 weeks). Having not bought new linens for what seems like a decade or more, I did what any self-sufficient modern woman would do—I asked my co-workers where I should go to get some. Julie suggested Costco (with the slightly-crazed look she gets when saying those words) and I reminded her (gently as not to disturb her love for the store) I do not yet have a membership to this most fabulous place on earth. Maybe someday I will get over the fact that years ago I was unable to enter said store without coming out with mayonnaise the size of a television and a wallet the weight of feathers. Therapy might be in order. Maybe I could get my therapist to escort me to the store for the first few times to talk me through the aisles of giant pickles and face cream. Terri (also a Costco groupie) possibly seeing the distress on my face suggested Wal-Mart as a less terrifying option.

Things were not going my way (read, my serenity level was directly proportional to the level of my expectations) that evening. I wanted to throw myself on the ground and throw a tantrum like a 13 year old girl. Thank God for the semblance of self control my 12 step program has taught me. I did not have to kick and scream flailing in the parking lot in an incident that would forever shame me as my children reminded me what an idiot I looked like. Instead, I headed to Wal-Mart. Walking slowly down the towel aisles, I did what every good shopper of soft things does—I touched everything. Even though there was only about four choices of towels, I had to feel them all (You never know emerald might feel different than butter cream. It didn’t). I stood there torn (much like the towels left behind…in a pile…at the foot of my bed or the one sopping up water at the base of my washing machine—ok, maybe not that one. I usually just throw whichever one I have in my hand at the time I’m doing a load of laundry down there. Hmmmm, maybe the destruction of the towels is not totally the boys’ fault. Nah can’t go there or I’ll start taking responsibility for other things and what’s the point in that when I have perfectly good kids to blame?) I gravitated towards the white towels since Terri explained she kept hers fresh by buying the ones she could throw in with bleach. I picked one up and put it back. Picked it up and put it back. I just kept being drawn further into the aisle by the colors. White is just so borrowing (and would really look awful with grease, or dirt, or ahem, makeup rubbed into it). Ooohhhh, eggplant. It was more royal purple but I liked it. Then I remembered my blue and cream bathroom. I could always paint. NO! Buying towels was not going to turn into a complete remodel of the bathroom. Why does this always happen? Why? I moved a step over and rubbed my hand on the indigo ones. Preeeetttyyyy. Soooooft. Essentially, the felt just like the white and purple ones. Ooo, no, no, no, I moved over once again to the next color. Blue Moonlight. Perfect. I grabbed three, rubbed the hand towels for a minute considering them (no, Michelle, you do not need to replace everything at once. We’re working on balance and moderation, remember???) At home, I jumped in the shower immediately and bliss wrapped itself around me in the shape of a fluffy, soft Blue Moonlight towel from Wal-Mart. Heaven on Earth.

There are few things I love more than to throw down a blanket and lounge in the sun at the edge of some lapping body of water. Doesn’t matter if it’s a river, lake or the ocean, I love them all. I’m definitely a water sprite. Woke up this morning on my bed under the stars. I’ve always wanted to just throw my air mattress under the trees in the woods and sleep, so I did. Worried about bears or coyotes or rabid squirrels? Not so much. I’m a big baby when it comes to being cold so I was covered with about 6 blankets. By the time, the animal got close to me, he would give up figuring this meal just so wasn’t worth the trouble. That would be before he woke me up too and me before coffee—now that is downright scary. I slept pretty well after I finally fell asleep. It was hard to shut my eyes when the view above me was so magnificent. The sky was that shade of dark blue I only wish I could find in a sapphire ring-deep, dark and rich. Its so cliché but the stars literally glowed like they were on fire. Each little dot radiated luminescence and the sky sparkled with them. The experience could have been ethereal and primordial for me except for my poor cousin ate too many jalapenos and sounded like she was going to die just a few feet from my bed. Another reason carnivores would stay away (actually maybe it would attract them; she did sound like a wounded animal. Next time, I’ll let everyone know I have the milk in my cooler so when they return to camp with their stomachs on fire, they can just grab it a couple feet away and not have to stumble through the camp ground—in the dark—without a flashlight—with their stomach turning inside out—to get to the other campsite where our most camping prepared cousin is with probably milk in the cooler. Sorry Heather, I am so grateful we didn’t find you in fetal position along the road the next morning due to my omission). Anyway, my life was given added beauty due to the open-air digs.

When I woke, I decided I needed to go lay on the lake shore some more (of course after I downed several cups of coffee and did something with my hideous camping hair. I seriously don’t understand why when I hand out in the woods my hair manages to mat the way it does. I pulled it back into a pony tail and threw my handkerchief back on but I only managed to make it look like I took something Ginger, my cousin’s dog, hacked up and attached it to the back of my head. But hey, I’m camping. I just rocked the look. Maybe it will catch on and I’ll start a trend with its own line of regurgitated fur-ball hair clip-ons. You’ll see these on a Paris run-way some day, just wait.

After two giant cups of coffee, I felt awake enough to go plant myself securely on the sand. Heading down the path to the beach, I was surprised to see the three huge, canopy covers from the day before still put up at the head of the swim area. Seriously?? This is a public area. You don’t get to claim ownership of it with your garish beige and green canvas tents preventing other sun worshippers from gaining the best sun spot by creating shade. Go back to your camp site, there’s plenty of trees and shade there. You don’t need to create faux-shade on the beach. Sheesh.

I slip past the offending shades and find a spot close enough to the water to feel I’m on the lake shore yet far enough up the beach I don’t get a surprise wave up my back when I’m half asleep on my stomach (Don’t even get me started on the Beach Wave Attack of September, 2010). I threw down my suntan oil, book, blanket and pillow (I’m old enough to want to be seriously comfortable while I lay on the ground and not ashamed of it). Slipping off my shorts and tank, I plop contentedly onto my blanket. A nice breeze blows off the lake cooling down my skin. The lapping water soothes me. Peaceful, bliss—until the beach shade creating, sand hoarding people return with the two things that can ruin a relaxing morning splayed in the sun—young kids and dogs.

Soon after they arrive (amazing enough, the quiet sound of the waves lapping a few feet from my feet can no longer be heard), I’m lying on my back with one eye cracked open watching their two huge retrievers and brown hunting dog of some sort run all over kicking up sand. Why do people feel its okay to let their dogs run loose as long as it’s on a beach? I take that back—people feel its okay to let their dogs run loose wherever they want. But they’re our children! They exclaim. Fantastic, one more good reason they should be on leashes. I apologize (not really) but I am neither a dog person nor a baby person (children remain in the baby category for me until they can articulate their wants such as, Can I borrow the car, mom?) I really don’t appreciate it when your darling fuzz-ball shoves his nose into my crotch nor when your tow-headed prodigy grabs on to my leg to prevent falling. Anyway, I’m watching out of the corner of my eye when the hunting dog stops about four feet from me and squats. Fantastic! He drops his load and remains there for what seems like eternity (I was seriously ready to offer him my book), then sniffs it and runs happily off. By this time, the smell of dog shit has now joined the pleasant lake breeze wafting over me. I now turn my cracked eye towards the shade-makers. Nobody is moving. Seriously!!! People let their children play on this beach. Pick up after your dogs, people! Finally, not getting the response I want, I prop myself up on my elbows and glare towards the tents. Making first contact, my eyes bore into one of the shirt-less, definitely showing he’s on the wrong side of 35, beer-swilling at 930 in the morning baby-making, non-dog leash owners. At first, he quickly looks away, but I hold my ground. When he glances back, I’m still glaring. Reluctantly he gets up from his chair, grabs a shovel and cleans up after his dog (of course he just threw the sand and poo into the tree-line at the head of the beach). Finally, I can rest my head back on my pillow. Time to flip over. I contentedly settle my face into the soft fabric smelling of laundry soap. I truly think original Gain is the best scent ever. I wonder if that comes in a body lotion or bath beads.

As soon as I shut my eyes, the most grating noise of all starts—the sound of baby talk. Popping open the only eye not mashed into my pillow, I watch as “Grandpa” walks down from the shade-makers camp with a fistful of blue and yellow plastic horseshoes and two red, plastic stakes. Hobbling after him are two 4 or 5 year old girls. As he works to set up the game, he continues to explain everything he’s doing, asking their opinions in the most annoying baby talk voice. Seriously, people! Do you ever wonder why our children grow up and can’t string two sentences together? Enough with the baby talk. Just use your normal voice, with normal words and we can save the next generation. Besides those little girls are not going to give you their opinion on where you should set up the horse shoe stakes. Actually, maybe if they did they would have suggested you not place it ten feet away from the grouchy-looking girl lying on her blanket trying to enjoy the sun. Unfortunately, without their guidance that is exactly what he did. And, when the first child over-throws (wow, punkin, that was so good but a bitty bit too far), he’s surprised. I highly recommend he not write foreshadowing into any novel. He wouldn’t be good at it. All I can say is thank goodness for the attention span of little children. The girls soon moved on and I no longer had to worry about being tagged with a plastic horse shoe during my sun worship. I finally relaxed enough to shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, part of me (the OMG, I’m about to get my face ripped off part) wanted to mash them back together. Inches towards me, face to face, was a giant Saint Bernard (hello, Cujo anyone?) His gait was super timid which didn’t bode well for me. He’d inch forward a bit head down at my eye level staring me down. Anytime anything moved (like the wind) he would jump. He had that tense body language which made me want to jump up screaming and run into the water. That of course wasn’t an option; in fact I was terrified I might sneeze. He inched forward. I cussed in my head thinking of a million ways I would rather die than getting my face bit off. I seriously do not want the notoriety that the woman who got attacked by her friend’s monkey did. If I’m going to be famous, I want it to be for something cool– not getting eaten by some stranger’s dog (who was not on a leash I might add). Finally, we were almost nose to nose. I stopped breathing. Thankfully, he had drunk out of the same attention-span water as the little girls and he bounded off. I believe I melted into my blanket. I decided to go for a swim. After all the water was perfect, and treading water out by the buoy I figured dogs and children won’t bother me. Unless someone threw ones of those rocks the friend’s of the shade-maker’s pub kept chasing. That cannot be good for the teeth.

I’ve been horrible about keeping up on my status doing my own version of a Bucket List. Working out of 2001 Things to Do Before You Die since 2005, I’m trying to expand my experience in life. As of 6/6/2011, I have done 564 things. I believe in the last month, I have accomplished around 6 more, but I’d have to check. There were a few items I wanted to accomplish while I was Las Vegas (nothing in particular, I just figured there would be a ton of adventures related to Las Vegas-y things) but when I looked through Da Book (as I call it), I couldn’t find many. Maybe “Spit off the Eiffel Tower”? I could adjust that one a bit and do it from Paris in LV, but that would keep me from experiencing the full adventure of actually going to France. I would also feel bad if I spit on some coiffed-up bachelorette on her last day of freedom. (Granted that would give her a feel for what’s to come. What? I’m not bitter). Other things like “Throw your panties at Tom Jones,” could have been done in another era. I don’t believe he performs there anymore (I just wish the memory my mom so graciously shared with me of him wearing leather pants and gyrating to the theme song from Cats would fade. Thanks Mom for sharing). He has to be like a thousand years old now. I suppose I could just look some guy named Tom Jones up in the phone book, explain Da Book and see if he’d participate (after all that’s how it worked with “Drive a Maserati”—except minus any undies).

So, I didn’t accomplish much from Da Book although the Public Safety Writers Association (PSWA) conference that I was there for was excellent. We had a variety of speakers on a myriad of topics, including how television and movies get “cops” wrong, writing for non-fiction publications, screenwriting, setting, working with partners, and a touching panel of two firefighters (one from Toronto talking about his experience at Ground Zero and one from Detroit sharing his families journey when his son got caught in a back flash). It was great to spend time with old friends (I’ve been going to the conference for 6 years) and new friends, including Dr. Ellen Kirschman author of I Love a Cop. Not only is she a great person who has helped thousands of police and fire families over the years, she is a bundle of fun wrapped up in a teeny-tiny frame. I’ll post a photo of us together soon (ok, I truly am decedent from the Amazons). But as for Da Book, I spent more time looking through it and planning than actually finding anything I could accomplish then and there (After the conference, I did find I enjoyed spending my time cuddled into my hotel room bed reading anyway—not real conducive to finding adventure. Actually not true, I could be practicing for, “Spend the Entire Day in Bed.”). I did make a list of ten things to get started on once I left LV. Here they are:
• Create a regular blog (I’m trying as you can see. In true Clinton fashion, I would ask, “Define regular?”
• Write your high school teacher a thank-you note (Do I write one to Mr. Wolfe, my Junior and by-default Senior English teacher/Year Book instructor who I adored and was a HUGE influence in my desire to pursue writing and who’s preemptory advice probably kept me from getting thrown in the brig for telling my superiors [I use that term loosely] what I really thought of them and their instructions, or do I write one to Mr. Mr. Mr? [damn, I can’t remember his name off the top of my head], my Senior English teacher who obviously had a problem with me and my mouth, threw me out of class after an animated argument over the correct way to punctuate p’s and q’s and created the need for Mr. Wolfe to make an imaginary class for me so that I would graduate on time?)
• Watch Spinal Tap (I have that here somewhere. I think it feel behind the printer which is where my darling ferret Gambit believes everything should go including the contents of my In-box)
• Send Someone a “Just Thinking of You Card” (Do I have to know this person? Can I just send the card without writing anything on it? After all, the sentiment says it all. How can you elaborate on that? Guess that depends on who I’m sending it to. Maybe I don’t want to include what that “thinking” includes in detail)
• Leave your Umbrella and take a Walk in the Summer Rain (I thought that would be easy living in Oregon and all, but it seems like the only time it’s raining this summer is when I leave town. I’m not complaining but it makes doing this one hard)
• Write your Memoirs (Working on this ala Jen Lancaster-style. Does this blog count?)
• Achieve washboard abs (I am on day 13 of a 90 trial to see if doing 50 sit-ups a day [along with my regular work-outs] can achieve this goal)
• Hug and Kiss your Relative a lot more (This one’s tough because I was raised “Victorian”, have unresolved issues and generally have to struggle being affectionate. Then again, maybe Dolph Lundgren would agree to be my cousin for a while. Ok, that’s too gross)
• Watch Devil Girls from Mars (I wonder if I can get that from Netflix or if that’s the type of movie I have to go “behind the curtain” to get)
• Send Lox to Someone (Teresa I haven’t forgotten I owe you an Oregon basket)

So, that’s what I’m working on. I’m hoping by writing it here (and possibly with nagging support from my readers), I can accomplish a few more items. Oh, I do have to mention “Ride on the back of Sports Bike” was accomplished yesterday evening and all I can say is,

1) Wow!
2) Going fast rocks!
3) Anyone who controls his bike like that around the curves can take me for a ride anytime

Signing off now, Dear Readers. Leave me comment or a suggestion if you’d like. And, if the boy who took me for a ride is reading this,

Yes, I was duly impressed by the wheelie.

What is it about a girl on a bike? Ok, let me be more specific: what is it about a grown woman riding a motorcycle that makes men drive like idiots around them? I guess I don’t really have to answer that question as most of us probably know that answer.

So, I’m riding my 2005 Triumph America home from work the other day. I have on jeans, leather jacket and my biker boots. The Oregon sun has decided to come out and play and it is beautiful. Times like this make me wish there was some sort of clear, light lotion that I could put on my skin to protect it from crashing instead of the heavy leather I wear. A hairspray that could protect the head and still allow your hair to be free, flowing and fantastic wouldn’t be bad either. (Hello out there to guys who like girls on bikes and might be a futuristic engineer, I’m talking to you). Anyway, I was in full gear and it was beautiful. I get to the over pass going into Creswell on Cloverdale/Oregon Ave. Traffic is backed up and there is an old Ford truck in front of me with two guys in their mid-20s. The passenger turns around and is staring at me from inside the truck and starts nudging the driver. The driver is trying to glance in the rearview mirror but traffic is starting to move. He inches forward; I inch forward. Now he’s trying to look out the back window (along with his friend) and is missing the flow of traffic completely. Essentially, it’s going, he’s not. I would inch forward and then have to stop because he was doing this weird stop and go thing that didn’t match up with the rest of the traffic. Of course, being on a bike, I don’t just lift and replace my foot on the brake. I have to put my feet up then down and when you’re going that slow sometimes it’s just easier to throw them in front of you and ride super slow all stick-legged. With legs as long as mine, that really sucks.

We finally make it close to the light and the driver suddenly veers off to the left and pulls into what will become the turn-lane—in about three car lengths. I pull into the space he has vacated and the truck doesn’t move forward. Now we’re side by side and both guys are staring out the window and I’m trying not to look over at them. I began feeling very self-conscious and actually wanted to laugh because I’m wearing a full-face helmet and they have NO IDEA what I look like. It’s humbling though because I totally get them and where they’re coming from.

Although I’m a cruiser girl, there is something about a guy on a sport bike that just makes me—well honestly—salivate. I will stop whatever I am doing (probably even driving forward in traffic) to watch him ride by. The funny thing is I have no idea what he looks like and probably would be disappointed if he removed his helmet. That’s the beauty of it, as long as that helmet remains on, my fantasy remains in place. Thank you Oregon motorcycle helmet law. So, as far as the boys in the truck were concerned, I just gave them a show and gunned it through the light, my long, brunette hair flowing magnificently out of the back of my helmet. After all, I’ve enjoyed my share of shows and am so grateful the motorcycle community continues to allow me to participate. This post was going to be a rant about guys ogling girls on bikes but I realize I’m just as bad so obviously the behavior isn’t that bad. At least in my world 

I encourage your comments and reflections on this topic or any topic actually:

A common theme I’ve been coming upon lately has been forgiveness. The reading from December 22 in Simple Abundance: A Daybook of Comfort and Joy by Sarah Ban Breathnach says, “Each time you share forgiveness, somebody else will forgive.” There are a lot of things in my life, things I have said and things I have done, that I am not proud of. Many I still have hang your head shame over. I have a lot to ask forgiveness for and many people still to make amends to. As I think about forgiveness, two paths direct my thoughts: the path of forgiving others and the path of forgiving ourselves.

In forgiving others, I find it is easy when my mind wraps around their faults. I know that sounds bad, but it’s as if I think, “I know you messed up, but I can get over it.” To me, it’s not authentic forgiveness because it is more about my pride and sense of superiority that is at the heart of it. Almost like, “I’m better than you so of course you messed up.” When my heart has been truly hurt, and when true forgiveness is needed, I struggle. I want to hold on to my resentments and my “being in the right-ness”. But in my spirit, I know I have to let go. We are all human. We all make mistakes. We all have the ability to learn and grow. We spend so much of our existence bouncing off each other. Instead of reaching out and embracing, holding on tight to those who are also struggling, we shove away and careen towards the next person. One of my favorite sayings is, “We are all angels with only one wing. We can only fly embracing each other.” I will try to do this more this week. I want to be a person of understanding and true forgiveness.

The other path, which is my biggest struggle, is the forgiveness of myself. I expect perfection from me. I should be able to do everything right all the time. There is no room for frailty or weakness. So, the idea of forgiveness would be an admission that maybe, just maybe, I’m not perfect and that’s unacceptable. These are the thoughts I’ve given free rent to in my mind. It’s like I know I’m not a goddess but accept nothing less than a goddesses qualities within me. I hold myself to the standards of a goddess, but fall miserably short of attaining them. This is where I must learn to forgive. I make mistakes. I create hurt. I’m human. The sooner I can wrap my mind around this and learn to be gentle with myself, the sooner I can be truly authentic.

I pray this week I can focus on the goals of true forgiveness. I will take time to be still and sit in quiet solitude healing myself. Go in peace.

I’m writing today just to reflect on the weirdness of life. I’m not even sure if you read all the way to the end that you’ll come away with the thought, “What was the point?” No point. Just musing

Today is Christmas Eve Eve which in my house officially starts the 3 day festivities. Growing up, my parents always let me and my siblings open a gift the day before Christmas Eve. I used to think they were just really cool and nice, but now that I’m a parent, I think differently. I believe it was actually they were just tired of listening to our incessant; “Can we open a gift? Can we open a gift? Can we open a gift?!!!” However it started, the tradition has continued into my family and I look forward to it, especially opening mine since I always get what I want (the joy of buying for myself).

I’m proud of myself this year because I actually got all that I wanted to get done on time if not early. The Christmas cards were sent out with a family photo AND a letter about my year. The real tree is up, decorated and watered regularly (Dean asked me the other day why he has to water the tree all the time. I told him I designated it as his job this year. In his 10 year old way, he then asked, “What’s Marc doing?” I calmly explained he had put on the lights both on the tree on the outside of the house. He also installed the new shower head and designed and installed a shelf/container set for me in the bathroom. After that, the next logical question, of course, was, “Well, what are YOU doing?” I, again calmly, looked at him and said, “Well, I provided the tree, the lights, and the decorations. I pay for the water that waters it, the electricity that lights it and the roof over its top. Anything else?” He pouted but watered the tree.

So, back to the weirdness…I am a firm believer in the power of the full moon and how it makes things and people get bizarre. Years with the police department cemented that into my head, but every year that goes by reinforces it. This year, the full moon was accompanied by a full lunar eclipse that the boys and I watched at midnight on the Winter Solstice. All those elements were just weirdness waiting to happen. So the next day, yesterday, many people in my life just went crazy. I got text messages that made me realize that my reality when I was a teenager was not the way things really were. It’s really strange to find out that people around you thought you were the bomb when your memories serve up images of being that weird, awkward, too tall girl who guys didn’t like, girls wanted to fight and no one wanted to dance with.

So after that, a friend of mine pushed some boundaries that made me reassess the woman I’ve become. I’ve grown a lot spiritually and emotionally over the last year and attempt to think and behave differently than I’ve done in the past. In this situation, I checked in with some of my best advisors and then dealt with it openly, honestly and with compassion. In this interaction, I maintained my dignity, his dignity and preserved the friendship. One of my advisors told me afterwards, “OMG, you acted like a grown-up!” That’s weird. How did that happen?

Just when I thought the evening was winding down and the weird day would soon be over, I get another call. A friend is having a bad time and wants to know if I’ll meet her for coffee. Of course! Let my hand be that hand as they say. We spend a few hours talking and when I got home I was emotionally exhausted. Never has my pillow felt so inviting, warm and cozy. During all this outward stuff, internally, the pull of the moon had me weirded out too. You know that feeling of wanting to jump out of your skin? That’s where I was at. I believe I could have run 20 miles hardcore listening to Megadeath or Rob Zombie and still not have gotten rid of all that anxious energy.

Needless, to say, I woke up today hoping nothing weird will happen. I’m hoping no one will need me. Of course, if they do, God willing, I will be available. Merry Christmas Eve Eve everyone. May your day be mundane.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day. So often I think about gratitude associated with this day and this time of year, but usually (I’m sad to say) it’s just a fleeting thought. I want to take time this year to really reflect on what I am grateful for.

I woke up around 8am. I’m grateful:

I am healthy enough to sleep well
I have a job which allows me a day off
For a soft bed that’s not rat, termite or disease infested
For a safe house that’s not full of bomb holes
I don’t live in fear someone (my military) will kick my door open and take me or my sons away

First thing, Dean said, “Happy Thanksgiving, Mom. Gobble. Gobble.” I’m grateful:

Marc and Dean are healthy
My children are not forced to work long hours or become child soldiers
My children are growing in a safe, loving environment
I have the ability and the opportunity to provide for them

I made breakfast and then went to the gym. I’m grateful for:

Rice Chex and 1% Ray’s brand milk
A healthy body
A place I can go to work out where I feel comfortable and have friends
The congratulations and holiday greetings of a friend who’s also in the program
Elliptical machines with a place to set my book
Child Finder by Mike Angley (a friend and colleague) which I’m reading and enjoying

I came home and started making mashed potatoes and continued painting my cupboard doors. I’m grateful:

I have somewhere to go and family to spend Thanksgiving with
For a stove that turns on when I want it to
For potatoes
My landlord lets me paint and renovate my rental house to suit my style and taste
For creativity
For Chambray blue paint
For butter

Aaron came over. I’m grateful for:

A good man who loves me despite myself
A strong man who is willing to learn when I need space and when I need to be pulled closer
Someone who stops at the store and brings soda and more milk
An intelligent man who has the cajones to question me and call me on my stuff
A loving man who has earned the friendship of my boys

We jumped in Tedee and headed to Philomath to have dinner with family. I’m grateful for:

Aaron tackling his first Godden-family event with me and our first holiday together

After dinner, we painted Christmas ornaments. I’m grateful for:

Glass bulbs
Wooden ornaments
Sparkly paint
Laughter
Love

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone and thank you to everyone who makes my life richer.