It's a crappy, bad, terrible day. I have a headache and bad memories and I want to drink and smoke and lie on the ground and yell. Or cry. Or yell and cry. Sometimes it just sucks. And I can't be more specific either. I can't. I won't.

Being triggered (I think that's what they call it in therapy) is no fun. NO. FUN. Your life flows backwards to the time, the day, the bunch of days when you were scared and depressed and barely functional. Barely. And it went on for TWO YEARS. Like a sentence in hell. Never ending hell. And nothing worked to make it go away. No drugs or behaviors or other people. You're stuck with your shitty self, waking up with a pounding heart and no appetite and other lives swirling around you, oblivious to your pain. As if you're the center of the universe anyway. And you still have to go to work and take care of your kids and you pretend you're alright when other people ask. But you know you're not alright and who knows if you'll ever be alright again.

My honey is so nice to me. Even if I don't feel like I deserve it.

Another True Story

Today was Pride in Seattle. After an absence of several years, I decided to head on down (since it moved to downtown I've had my doubts) with friends. My pals the Dharma Buddies were in the parade so I thought I'd join them, especially my gay husband, James. After all, I'm a good Buddhist and in that spirit, why not march down 4th Ave, past Nordstroms and See's Candies and Bed, Bath and Beyond, etc surrounded by thousands of rainbow bedecked queers and their friends/families/dogs/recently released persons.

As some kind of cosmic joke, our contingent marched directly behind the Can-Can float. I gather that the Can-Can is a bar where much debauchery is enjoyed. Anyway, their 'theme' was called Ass Cream and it featured a giant pink ass with a slide coming out of the, ah, asshole and emptying into a water-filled wading pool. But wait, there's more. On top of the float were several scantily clad persons who spent the entire parade shaking, wiggling, humping and slapping their and each others asses. One woman did cartwheels and splits and had a technique for vibrating her thighs and butt that left the audience in tears.

Then there's us, the meditation group, two gals and five or six older gentlemen wearing Buddha shirts...

Directly behind us was a transgender group of smiling wo/men and (men/wo) in heels and polite skirts.

James, my gay husband, brought his strapping and beautiful son (straight) and g-d only knows what he thought. I don't know what I think.

The best part of the day: a gaggle of super heros on roller skates. Batman, Robin, Cat Woman and Spidey. And the guy who always comes with a megaphone and a sign to yell about the baby Jesus and how we're all going to hell was oddly subdued. Maybe he was stunned into silence by the Ass Cream extravaganza.

(I hurried by the dykes on bikes because I get the vapors around women on bikes and my honey was home sick).

So that's it for another year of Pride. And to all gals who put electrical tape on your nipples, I hope you're recovered and didn't hurt yourselves when you removed the tape. Ouch.

Time to lie down. Baby came at 8:30 while his brothers and poppa watched. Slid right out, no damage.

Man, when it's easy, it's so easy.

For some reason, I subscribe to Poets and Writers, where the fancy writers live. I read their ads for low-residency writers schools, contests for poets who will then go on to achieve success and fame and $$, and articles about finding the right editor.

Meanwhile, the generator drones on in the horror house across the street. What are they doing over there? Constructing a meth lab or a grow basement for marijuana? The siding is falling off and the hedges continue to flourish in the yard, obscuring their illegal activities.

A mom is in early labor, has taken her boys to the park where she'll count contractions and call me when 'her back begins to ache'. My equipment is in the car and I've showered. So much for Friday therapy and a pool swim. I'm on alert. When she calls again, I'll speed over the West Seattle bridge and haul my 100 pounds of stuff into her house. There we'll wait for her third boy who'll be as pretty and rambunctious as her other two.

In the interim, I've noticed that my magnolia has some dead branches so I'll get the saw and loppers and whack away. By the time the birth is happening, I'll be covered with dirt and branches; looking like scary mother nature. O, and some slugs. Slugs are part of nature's plan. I don't know which part. They're in the same category as snails, raccoons and wharf rats.

Must I pray for ALL of life?

In my next life, I want to be Katherine Hepburn.

My hands smell like earth because I generally begin weeding with gloves on and then at some point, I throw down the gloves and weed bare. It's so satisfying. Of course, my hands look like shit for a few days but who cares.

After my bike ride today, when I was all stinky and sweaty, I stopped by the nail place and had my toenails painted for $17. They're pink. I was thinking about Radish the whole time and wishing her toes could soon have a 'treatment'. And, of course, I got caught up on my pseudo-stars and their 3 million dollar dresses and their abs and boob jobs and so forth. Where would we be without People?

Anyway, the lady painting my toes was probably saying to the other employee, "Dang, this white lady sure smells and she hasn't shaved her legs and eewwwww". I mean, are we supposed to shower and shave before we go to the nail place?

My children once told me they had to learn about make-up from OTHER PEOPLE because I was such an au natural hippy.

I still haven't stretched my canvas. It's so big I don't know where I'm going to work on it. Sometimes, I only look at the dogs on my walks. One German Shepherd was 1/3rd of the way out the window, her tongue trailing along like a flag. She was enjoying herself, every bit. A blond poodle filled the window of the car. And the beagle bayed at nothing because that's what beagles do.

I go on call tomorrow.

At night, very late, I go outside to walk on the cold grass and sit with my garden. Even in the dark, the peonies are open.

You're like putty in my hands

*******My car is ready, my car is fixed******* This is music, celebration, the noises of cherubim. My very own car with car smell and random sporty stuff in the back in case I want to hike, swim, bike etc. Crumbs from numerous snacks and nutty bits and an umbrella and notes about music I heard and wrote it down so later I could look it up and my own cup holder and pre-programmed radio stations and the spare change slot where I put $$ and cents for the folks with the cardboard signs and my little statue of Quan Yin on the dash and bumper stickers and scratched up bumper and ding in the windshield it's all perfect like real life a bit bumpy and brilliant and being a lunar eclipse in it's own celestial group my car my blueberry car.

Just got home after an all night birth. Clinic starts in an hour. People say, "How do you do it?"

I have no fucking idea.

Today is perhaps the LAST DAY I will ever teach students in a classroom. My brain is picked clean. I wished them well. May you all be well. May you be open-hearted women who explore your and the suffering of others with kindness. Listen carefully. Leave your judgments at the door. Remember you will die one day too. Be humble. Be brave.

There are men swarming the deck. Sean amassed a crew. Banging and pounding and power saw noises. My back and neck need attention from the car accident. It's hard to turn my head to the right, difficult to look behind me when I park.

I'm going to offer the banging men some beer. The day is brilliant and the red head has a terrific sun burn. And no hat. Sheesh. Soon, I will have a deck that won't kill anyone. Sturdy and strong and handsome. Like my son-in-law. And one day, my grandson, Milo.

Uh-oh, cursing from the yard. I hope there is no blood. I better check. I'll wait on the beer...

I'm about to gesso a big canvas. I don't know if I have floor space. Pollack had a big studio so he could lay stuff on the floor and he could make a mess. I'm so lucky to have a studio but right now it's too small.

Ive been dreaming a lot. In one dream we were being chased by a bear. We locked ourselves into a triangularly shaped chicken coop. It was very crowded. We were all pressed together. The bear wasn't fierce, just intelligent. He was examining the fastener on the door of the coop, made of chicken wire and bits of wood (pretty flimsy, if you ask me). Then we were running down a steep meadow, brilliant with wild flowers. The bear was chasing us. I felt that we should be quick because the bear might want to eat us so there was a sense of urgency. Then I woke up and thought about bears, how beautiful and strong they are.

I was cooking dinner by the tide line in Glacier Bay, Alaska. We were on a kayaking trip. My companion said very conversationally, "Uh, about 200 feet in front of you is a bear." Indeed. She was sniffing the air and looking about for the cooking smell. I threw dinner into the water, gathered up the rest of the food and backed away. We put stones in the cook pots and banged them together and talked loudly. The bear drifted off into the bushes.

Later that night, as I tried vainly to go to sleep, I thought about the bear, the natural world and what wildness really is. Wildness in the heart of us, wildness with prickers and claws and blood and teeth. Wild wildness.

I am having a day of unabashed sloth and torpor. I read Sherlock Holmes and lay abed until 1:30!!!! I'm about to wander the neighborhood and make my way to the bakery because the banging and drilling is afoot in my yard where the new deck rises in cedar-ish glory.

A friend left an invitation on my door to come hear her read from her NOVEL. I might go and hear her because I am a friend of the arts and only a wee bit jealous. I'll try to dim my green glow and applaud politely at the right moments.

I am nearing the point where I unfurl a large canvas, cover it with gesso and begin to noodle with glop and paint. It has been percolating for several weeks and it is time.

Other than that, I will continue to remain relaxed and dreamy. Productively dreamy.

I made it through the day. Remarkable. The deck is completely gone so I MUST NOT GO OUT THE BACK DOOR because I will fall and break my neck, midwifery bags flying.

Sean says because my car has been in (count'em) three accidents, we're done. No more trips to the collision place where I am on a first name basis with everyone.

Is my car jinxed? Ok, time to haul out the incantations and smudge and feathers and pink light aura. Build a healing globe of spooky illumination around the force field. Park under a pyramid.

Or maybe get huge headlights and massive speakers coming out of the roof with noises of a thousand starlings.

Or buy a giant truck and jack up the wheels so I need a step stool to get in. Or ride a horse.

I like the horse idea. Where are my riding boots and crop? Plus, horses are beautiful and smart.

I'll call mine True Blue and I'll be Miss Lois. With a cowboy hat. And fringe.

A true story

Drifting home in my wee blue car down the gangster highway past the Safeway and T Mobile and the 99 cent Chinese place and the collision shop where I have unfortunately been twice in two weeks, just driving along then the unmistakable sound of screeching, grinding, car bits flying from MY car because a Coupe de Ville Caddy, vintage unknown has decided to change lanes into me. Oh great. We pull over and the lady jumps out, two tone bangs, missing teeth and attitude. I call the cops and she's trying to convince me we can work this out without the police. Uh-huh. Well, I'm trying to open my driver side door, lots of creaking and car bits falling on the ground while the traffic is way too close.

Then the husband appears and he's accusing me of being anti-social (?) and they have to go pick up their kid, don't I care about their kid??? Well, don't I? I spent some time thinking about this. I am a midwife and I spent the morning with students teaching them to extract a stuck baby in a simulation lab. I do care about kids, generally.

But. Half of my car in in the road and I don't think I can drive it very far with the bumper mashed up against the tire. So, as you see, I feel conflicted. I call my insurance company and listen to their sorry noises until we get to the confirmation number, which is many numbers long. I'm beginning to feel decidedly fuzzy when I remember I'm on call and there are a few calls to clients I need to make. "Hi, tell, me what's going on, oh, I'm waiting for the police to arrive so I can get a tow and a rental car, then I'll be all set for your birth." Sheesh.

The nice policeman arrives and finds out the lady is driving with s suspended license and no insurance. Again, I feel for them-poor people in a busted Caddy with the bumper hanging off. I get to drive to my collision place after the cop jimmies the bumper with a crow bar, get my rental (a giant Buick for g-ds sake) and they go off with a citation and a ticket and more to follow from my insurance.

Now I'm on the couch with an ice pack on my neck. I'm hoping they got their kid ok and nobody goes to jail. As they were leaving, the lady came over and apologized to me. It really isn't personal. She's not drunk or on drugs. She's just poor and can't get a break.

I downloaded all of the Glee songs and that's what I'm gonna listen to. Show tunes. Well, I am an honorary faggot so I get to.

My honey is coming home with dinner and her strong hands. Sometimes I feel incredibly lucky.

Cats have perched about me and the Sunday paper is unread. I basically did nothing today. Well, I wrote poetry and a student eval and I told someone who I was considering hiring that I withdrew my offer.

I've stopped panicking when I consider two midwives instead of three in my practice. Someday I'll retire and this will all be a memory. But. I have a time getting up at night and a bigger time recovering from an all-nighter. Sleeping for 14 hours seems to cure the fatigue.

I fear I've become a misanthrope. Clues: I'd rather stay home than go to the Nick Cave exhibit at SAM. I hang out in my garden A LOT. I wander around and pick weeds without gloves on. Then my hands have that moth-bitten look. I hide in my house if someone comes to the door unless I'm sure who they are. I'd rather spend time with my cats than almost anyone. Sometimes I go dancing and it feels great until I remember that I don't really like people. Well, I like some people. I like my clients. I think women in labor are amazing. Then I think I could be spending all my time reading and writing and playing the piano and painting and lying on the couch doing fuck-all....

It's happened. Sean and Henry came over today and ripped off the rest of the deck. It was truly rotten, I mean rotten. Thankful no one died out there putting their foot through a rotten board. Now when you open the back door, it's a five foot drop. And I wouldn't bounce. I would break all my bones. Plus be pierced by many rusty nails. The cats are behaving predictably bitchy. They have taken to sharpening their claws on the screen door in the front. Creatures of habit. Their cat door is in the basement, darlings. Nothing has happened to your cat door.

Sheesh.

What a glorious delicious scrumptious and blessed day of sun and blue and all. And the police cars screaming and driving 100 MPH through our quiet child-filled neighborhood.

My neighbor and I had a garage sale, my first ever. Since vacating my old midwifery office, my garage was sky-high with stuff. And I sold almost all of it, hooray. There goes the family round table with the five leaves. I sold it to a midwife buddy so I can visit it sometimes. And the beautiful teak couch from my exam room went to a pregnant woman and her man. Perfect. The blue velvet 'fainting couch' went to an artist for her studio, also perfect. And yes, girls, I kept the rug of your childhood and the platform rocker.

After it was all over, I showered off the grime and lay on the couch counting my money. Oh yeah.

By the way, I am deeply sunburned so I feel euphoric and glow-y.

Now the guy across the street is attempting to start his ancient pick-up. It sounds like summer, revving and popping and stalling. Better than the police cars. The air is perfumed with the smells of burning animals.

As for me, I walked down the street to the local home made ice cream parlor and had a vegan cone, almond roca. Yum.

The deck is partial, some parts of it are missing so you could break your ankle or your leg if you forgot and went out at night and walked the wrong way in the dark. Sean made a big pile of lumber with nails sticking out, a true lockjaw playground. Have you ever met anyone with lockjaw or recovered from lockjaw? Me either.

By the way, Carol Burnett on Glee looks terrible. Her lips are all stretched out like her mouth has melted and is heading towards her chin. Otherwise, her face is frozen.

Why o why do celebs do this to themselves? Why is it so wrong to get old and look it? Just look at their hands, I tell you. Vein-y and spotty and gnarly and OLD!!