Pouring rain her in San Rafael. We lost power last night and Mel kept saying, 'Downton Abbey, we're in Downton Abbey' as we walked around with candles.

Now a quiet house. Milo is at school across the street. Maya's at work and Eden and Mel have left for LA. Eden has a catering job tomorrow night.

We drove to Point Reyes yesterday. There are a lot of small towns beyond San Rafael along the peninsula and the water. Beautiful wintery hills. We passed Spirit Rock, a retreat center where I have spent many days and months in the dharma hall,  with the horses in the lower fields. I imagined I could live in Fairfax, a hippie town-lette or Bolinas, an unincorporated town of diehards, hippies and anti-government types who have resisted wealthy Californians from swallowing and building and altering their beautiful bit of wilderness and ocean. It always comes back to working, how would i support myself. I could get a California midwifery license and hang a shingle but it takes so long to build a clientele and so forth.

I keep leaning into retirement, more time to write, paint, hike the hills with the dog. And dance, of course.

More joy. Tomorrow Maya and I will dance again. Maybe Ah will be there. Gawd.

I know I'm in California when...

Last night Maya and I went dancing. Hippie dance church, Clark calls it. And because it's Marin County, there were, um, some interesting people there. One guy, about my age, who said his name was Ah. That's right. Ah. He was wearing purple velour pants with a bulge.

And a gal dressed as a Tibetan nun with a 'service dog'. Maya said she is 'interesting'. Only in California.

Today we're planning a Point Reyes drive and it is, of course, raining. I don't care. I honestly don't. I'm with my daughters so I don't care what we do.

Tonight, Eden, as our resident chef, is making a feast. My ex-husband, the current wife, their kids, Maya, Shaun and Milo, Eden and Mel, and me will be here. Should be interesting. I won't speak ill of anyone but, whew. Feathers may fly. Or plates. Or words. It's complicated, all those personalities.

I'll report back.

Tomorrow I leave for California to visit my kids. Eden has plans. While Maya is at work, Eden and Mel will escort me to museums and galleries and art and the great outdoors of the Bay area. I lived there once many eons ago and so a visit is rather like a time machine. A lot is the same, a lot is different. I was there just before AIDS decimated the population and we lived in the Castro neighborhood, the heart of gay boy city and the location for the best Halloween outdoor party ever. Much creative nakedness.

Maya is in San Rafael now and Eden is in LA but they were children there, playing in Dolores park and tromping through Golden Gate Park, surely one of the biggest and most diverse public parks in the US.

Still. I was grateful to move to Seattle. San Francisco was not a kid town. Not if you're living on minimum wages and in funky apartments. I sent them to an alternative school I had to pay for (with all my child support money) because the public schools were horrid. Seattle was so benign in the 80's, before everyone became millionaires.

Anyway. I love to visit. Eden always finds the most interesting cul-de-sacs to explore; artist house boats and warehouses, back alleys and cafes. And Maya and I will go dancing together. Milo will wake me in the morning and I can hug his sweet boy self.

Dina:Queen of the Cabaret Universe

Last night we saw/heard/experienced:

at the Rebar with a very enthusiastic crowd of Thanksgiving weekend revelers. I was crying I was laughing so much.  I can't explain why she is is so fucking funny. It's her sincerity and her awful singing and her murderous pronunciations. And the worst outfits in the world. The red Christmas sweater with gold woven-in ornaments over pantyhose that aren't quite covered up by the sweater, oh dear. 

Dina Martina rules.

As I have posted on facebook, but I will tell the tale again. In bed this am, I heard the garbage trucks, shit, yesterday is the usual garbage day but there was a holiday yesterday, uh oh,  so I race down in my pajamas in the pouring rain to take out the garbage. While I'm out there, I decide to fill up the hot tub for my honey. She has so many aches and pains all the time, she uses the hot tub every day and we decided to clean it out. So I'm on my knees to turn the wee nob so the water won't drain out and I begin filling it. However, the nob doesn't want to turn all the way and the water is running out again. I run back and forth, with additional tools, rain dripping off my raincoat and glasses.

I realize I've locked myself out, hahahahahahahahahahahaha! The dog is standing on the other side of the glass door looking at me. Duh.

I go across the street and bang on Brenda and Pete's door. Nothing. A few more times and Pete comes to the door in his jammies. I explain that I'm locked out. He walks back into the kitchen. I notice that Alice, the 2 year old, is standing by the couch watching an ipad movie. She's naked, of course, with a fine smear of poop on her butt. I offer to wipe her but she refused. Instead she shows me where she's pooped on the floor.

About that time, I remind Pete that the garbage trucks are outside. He moves into high gear, throwing on shoes and racing outside. I run out too, in time to see him do a rather fantastic twirling side spin onto the pavement, blammo. I get the garbage can to the curb, Pete staggers back to the house and we begin cleaning up poop footprints while Brenda is hosing Alice off in the tub.

It was beautiful.

Eventually Pete drives me to Deb's store for a house key. I fuss with the hot tub a few more times and give up.

I take the dog out in the downpour and kee-rist, he's a total mudball when I bring him home. My socks and pants are soaked. I'm frozen.

I took a bath, made tea and I'm watching the last two Harry Potters. I want a magic wand for Christmas.

Tonight we're going to see Dina Martina. I'll probably drink. A lot.

http://menacinghedge.com/events/frigginsmokinhedge/ if you wanna hear my last reading.

Happy thanksgiving to all and to all a good night.

Don't try this at home

So OK. On these very pages, I've explained the incident of the treadmill and my glorious but ill-advised attempt to do a 4 minute mile. In front of college students who IGNORED me as I lay on the floor.

This morning I had no audience but with grace and style, I smashed my head on the garage door and broke my glasses. How, you may inquire?

Easy.

I have a garage door that only opens with a button inside the garage. So. If my car is in the garage (where it has been lately because my hiking boots, stainless water bottle and GPS were recently stolen), I go in the side door, hit the button, the garage door opens, I back my car out and, with the engine running, go back into the garage, hit the button again and stride purposefully to the door as it comes down and duck underneath. Got that?

So which part did I forget to do? Well, it was dark-thirty when I left the house today. I was wearing my raincoat because we are having a monsoon and (here is the critical part), I had the raincoat hood up.

If you guessed that I forgot to duck, you'd be right. I slammed right into the door with my head as it came down, whacking me in the face and (sob) breaking off the stem of my glasses. I thought my glasses were ok until I was driving away and adjusted my glasses to discover that the left stem had broken off and was in my hair.

These are my everyday I look like Penelope Cruz while wearing them glasses. I have another pair that are too heavy and hurt my ears (don't ask). I bought my glasses down the street and they are purple and I love them and they were expensive, wha, wha, wha!!! Maybe they can fix them.

Otherwise, it is very dark out and it's only 4:30. Jeez.

I'm gonna watch a Harry Potter or three. Witches and wizards love this weather. And the dark.

Oh my gawd.

I did fuck-all today. Tonight I'm gonna take a bath and watch Avatar again. My favorite part is when they're flying on the beautiful lizards.

Hugo the cat is snoring. He's been dipping into the dog food as well as his own food so he currently looks like a furry Mt Rainier with his stomach arching over all the land. And he has a bit of trouble getting through the cat door.

Milo is turning 10 in two days. Just a minute ago, he was a huge newborn baby (10# 1oz) and now he's a grown boy with manners and everything.

November 26th also approaches. Ug. When I think about Geoffrey's death (or try not to think about Geoffrey's death) I want to crawl into bed and sleep until next Spring. Suicide is a worm of regret and despair. Suicide is suffering made visible.

I read poems last night. We started incredibly late because the traffic SUCKED. I don't know what has happened to Seattle traffic. Tonight people were running red lights, cutting each other off, etc etc. No civility. I gotta go live somewhere quieter. Really.

You know, poetry readings, a mixed bag, right? Some good stuff. And dare I say this, one gay boy read FOUR poems about fisting. One poem about fisting is quite enough, but four? Ewwww. I mean, I'm an open minded kinda gal. Sexual activity is, well varied and interesting. I keep up with Savage Love pretty faithfully. But at a reading??? Fisting???? "I'm inside you with my fist..".and so my visuals start up and well, yuck.

Maybe I'm an old fuddy-duddy. I probably am. My mother said we girls should leave certain things to the imagination. Maybe I'm turning into my mother. Lord.

And besides, is this poetry? I once sat through a workshop many years ago and listened to a guy recite a poem about shitting. Honestly, I did. Gross, right?

Ok, I'm done with this topic. Deb's already in bed and I'm headed there. Tomorrow I'm tackling the giant pile of newspapers, poems and opened books on the floor. I can't take it anymore.

Here's my new rule: Certain bodily functions are off-limits as poetic subjects. Please review.

Thank you and good night.

Tonight is the reading and I got back into bed after clattering through the kitchen, cleaning out drawers and cupboards and making a pile for Good Will. I washed the windows with vinegar. I put a huge plant on the table so I won't forget to take it to the office tomorrow. My plants become huge. Very large. They take over the room.

I think I'm supposed to live in an enormous house with 20 foot ceilings. My plants would look normal there.

Ten minutes to read is an ETERNITY.

I haven't read since Rebecca and I read at the Seattle Center, outside. We read to a few people and to the grass. And the trees. I enjoyed it. But tonight there will be several other poets and their friends and I'm unaccountably nervous.

Gawd.

I performed a wedding today and it was beautiful and the bride was radiant in her poofy dress and red roses and her wee veil over her face.

I met her mother and father and sister and friends. I stood in front of the room and said some things about marriage and I read poems about marriage and they repeat after me said their vows and cried. It's cheesy in the best way that public vows are, intense and revealing. And I stood between them and watched. Like Glinda, the good witch.

Her mother, from the Southwest, gave me a giant baggie of ground hot pepper, air dried. I'm sure a wee bit would render me insensible. It's the English mother I had and boiled dinner.

So now I await the Comcast guy who will tell me my internet is FINE even though it's been hinky for two weeks but working now (natch).

And I found out that I have 10 minutes to read poetry at the reading, egad. 10 minutes is a long time to read. Brief, wow them, and then step down. Sigh. But 10 minutes. I hope they don't glaze over. They'll be mostly friends, fellow writers so they understand. And they understand poetry, how to listen and make the connections. I think I'll read the Terrible Babies poem. It's my anthem for babies everywhere who are troublesome. As I'm sure I once was.

Tomorrow I have a day off. Thank thee lawd in heaven and the BVM and her teeny baby who grew up to be troublesome. I'll prep for my reading ie: shuffle through piles of poems, get distracted frequently, do a few rewrites, doodle in the margins, behave as I usually do with poetry. And then I'll whittle down the selection and with a timer, read aloud while marching about the living room in my slippers, dog at my heel. The evening of the reading, I'll be a wreck, trying to decide what to wear that doesn't look pretentious and thinking that what I've chosen is all wrong. A beret maybe?

When I stand before a mic, I fill into the space, make eye contact and read. my. own. words. Terrible Babies and all. I think it ironic that Beth the midwife has a Terrible Baby poem. But I do. And it's a good poem. I just hope someone laughs because it's funny. Poetry is funny so dear audience, you dan't have to sit there furrowing your brow and being all serious. Really.

Like meditation. Also a funny activity. Dancing, I smile and laugh. And today, my dear Clark was there and we danced together because we were happy to see each other and because we can get married. He can marry Andy and I can marry Deb. As I live and breathe. While smoking pot. With Obama in the White House. (white house?)

Where is the Comcast guy? I gotta go get flowers, a card and replacement chocolate covered currents for Deb because I ate all hers. And she deserves an apology from me because I behaved abominably yesterday. That's another story about being bitchy and incomprehensible and goading her until she gets angry. Sheesh. I act like such a jerk sometimes. Babbling now.

Peace out.

I'm on the couch in my ole nasty bathrobe with a can of coconut water and gall bladder enzymes. I tell you, I know how to have fun.

Two births, two full clinic days, a conference, peer review tomorrow and a wedding on Sunday.

I crawled into bed last night and didn't move until the alarm went off.

Now I'm watching a Norwegian (I think) detective series which I once again can't turn away from cuz I miss the subtitles. And the main character is Icelandic so he sometimes lapses in to Icelandic. And occasionally English. It's very confusing.

The lawyer guy is sleazy. Certain things don't change.

I think I would have been fine in Scandinavia. It looks cold there. And they put double dots over some of their letters. Plus they have fjords and icebergs and cod liver oil. All of which appeals to me. I'm not sure why. Maybe because they have midwives and socialized medicine.

THANK GAWD

This morning I got one of those recorded voices telling me my signature didn't match the signature they have on file on my absentee ballot. I get one of these every year even though I try to write in my nice legible handwriting (as if I know how I signed my name before).

See, I'm gonna be one of those people who holds up the entire country from having Obama steer us for another four years and for us to have another Democrat at governor, not the stupid Republican. Until I correct my ballot.

I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.

And I'm scared for us, for all of us.

Right now, I'm taking the dawg for a long walk to try and get the bounce out of him. My laboring momma still is laboring, poor thing. So I'm ready for her too. I have chocolate. I have Canadian friends who've offered to adopt me.

Peace out.

I've been sitting all day in my scrubs waiting for a lady to go into active labor. Sigh. It's taking a while. My clerk at PCC, Remy, is expecting twin boys. Rather, his wife is. I told him I was waiting for a momma in labor and he gave me a chocolate bar to give to the mom. He wrote SAMPLE on it. So if you go to your local coop and write SAMPLE on some grapes or a bottle of wine or some dish soap, you can just walk out without paying. At least, I think you can.

Our Felix had his, uh, surgery. The vet said we had to keep him quiet for 10 DAYS. He is still a puppy and bored out of his head. No stairs? Right. No chasing the katz? YOU keep him from chasing the katz. So he is crazy with inactivity. I can't really explain how wild he is. He throws toys in the air all by himself if we won't. He doesn't run down the stairs, it's a sort of controlled fall/slide thing.

Only four more days to go. Until he can run after a ball. Or run across the grass. He's a toddler in a cage. On uppers.

Tomorrow is the day. Except for absentee ballots. And the Eastern seaboard. And other acts of the Lawd.

Surrender Dorothy.

This weekend is devoted to DANCING. Last night I danced til I had to lie down on the sweat floor. In sweat. A puddle of sweat. I danced with my darlings. My dance community is so grand and lovely and I love them even though I don't always know their names.

The best song of the night was Patti Smith covering Nevermind, the Nirvana song.

 I know, I know. Hippy dancing. But the music is loud and nobody cares how you move. And I dance today and tomorrow.

Yesterday three boys from next door came and raked my leaves. They passed out a flier asking if we needed 'releaf'? They were so cute. They came with their mom. And they raked the whole yard and brought a leaf bin. All for $15. And their mom came to collect them when it started to rain.

Felix is recovering from being neutered. We're supposed to keep him quiet. Ha! We barricade the stairs so he doesn't hurtle up and down. He has more energy than a pile of puppies.

I read poetry in public on the 15th. Gawd. What shall I read? What shall I wear? I'm gonna aim for elegant and aloof. All black? A ski mask? My jellyfish costume?