I'm a mite peckish because I dressed for my dance class this morning and woke early to go to the island to visit the baby before my class and the effing West Seattle Bridge was closed. Grrrrrrrrr. And the detour signs sent me to east Jesus and I finally got on the ferry much later and got lost on Vashon---finally found the house and the wee babe and sweet family but, ah, my morning was blown.

I cam back to the house to find that Fiona had escaped the chicken yard and Heidi, my tenant, had rounded her up and put her back. But I looked into their yard and Ethel was missing. I scouted my neighbor's yard, no Ethel. I went into my front yard and underneath the dogwood was Ethel, bucking away. I chased her around for a while, got Heidi and some towels and crouched in the underbrush to ambush her--and a wasp stung me on the ankle. I ignored it until Ethel was cornered. I grabbed one of her legs and hung her upsidedown while she frantically flapped and squawked. I managed to get her back to her yard, limping now from the searing pain in my ankle.

So I decided I'm not having an allergic reaction and as long as my ankle doesn't blow up the size of a football, I'll be fine. Ice and some baking soda paste but ow, it hurts like a fucker.

And everyone and their mother is at the lake, all the places I usually have to myself. I always think they shouldn't get to be in MY park because I'm devoted and they're fair weather visitors. I mean, what's so terrible about Seward Park in the rain and wind?

And the boats! Sheesh, there must be a hundred boats down in the cove and not just little rowboats but ginormous yachts, zillion dollar boats on a lake. Really, people?

Meanwhile my ankle throbs and stings and gives me the chills.

So I'm grumpy, even though I have the NYT to read and house is peaceful and quiet. At least July 4th is over and my neighborhood doesn't sound like Beirut.

I can complain if I want, dammit.

My honey just came home with a vegetarian frittata and a LONDON FOG. She must have heard me thinking.

It is beautiful Saturday. I slept in, just an amazing experience with a small farm. Deb is out somewhere with Felix, the katz are lounging in the sun on the deck and the chickens are giving themselves dirt baths. Bright blue sky, grapes growing alarmingly and minimal weeds. A quiet house.

Last night, our student who is leaving us (sob!), took us all to dinner at Poppy, where they cook with herbs they grew out back. They bring us wee revolving plates set with bites of perfection; minted snow peas, gingered carrots, garlic peppered brocoli, curried golden beets. O heaven. We spent four hours eating and laughing and reminiscing. Leah, the student, came to us very green and leaves us with some chops. On to her next site where they will polish her up and launch her into midwife land.

We get attached, we do. Birthin' is so intense and sometimes things are hairy and our students observe and participate in big life dramas. Not to mention clinic visits where we hear all kinds of secrets (and hold them close to our hearts). So we wished our dear Leah fair well and we'll visit her in New Zealand, if that's where she will end up with her gorgeous husband, Ricardo.

I don't have to get dressed today. I could read until it gets dark. And sip a London Fog, which is an Earl Gray tea latte with a touch of vanilla. I may have the best London Fog ever if I go to Vashon Island to visit a new baby. Vashon Island is a sweet island about 20 minutes by ferry from Seattle. Their only bookstore makes a LF from heaven. I have been know to go there simply for a cup of tea.  Today, tomorrow. La la.

We waited in the zoo line in the rain and we chatted up our neighbors, as only rained-on people do. We made jokes, we offered each other corners of umbrellas and tarps. It was altogether very chummy. KD Lang still has her chops. I swear the woman has a four octave range. At least. And she busted out Leonard Cohen's Halleluja. Gawd, it was gorgeous. I once heard her sing Orbison's Cryin' and I fell to my knees right in the doorway of the theatre. Kathleen Battle makes me keel over too. And if I could bring Maria Callas back from the grave, I'd be having a case of the vapors for her too.


Anyway.

We sat on the grassy grass with our snacks and made friends with our neighbors once again. The group in front of us had margaritas and they gave us one. I think alcohol is not allowed but we didn't care. A grand evening.

Today, I let Holly choose the hike we were going to do. So she directed us to Heather Lake (we looked it up) and it said no snow, a lovely alpine lake, secluded, etc. I neglected to check the distance. Oops. So we ended up going over the pass on Highway 2, almost to Leavenworth, which, if you're not from here, is to hell and gone. Really. By the time I figured out how far it was, we were halfway there so well, we did it. And finding the trailhead was a challenge but we persevered, north end of Lake Wenatchee, hahahahahahahahaha forest service road washboard dirt road for about fifty miles and so on. You ge the picture. It was fucking beautiful, driving along the wild river, huge rapids, waterfalls, peaks still covered with snow. Washington IS beautiful. At the trail head was a nice sign with pictures of grizzly and black bears. (Gulp) Not a single car except us.

And we headed out. Crossed many swollen streams, hit the middle of the trail where we lost our way several times and it was straight up, not kidding, and then, aha it leveled out---we must be almost to the pretty lake, just a few snowfields in the way, a few large snowfields in the way where the hell is the trail, all this fucking snow. And there the story ends. Felix thought the snow was fantastic as he lept around eating snow and sliding. But. We couldn't go any farther because we couldn't figure out where the trail was and rotten snow collapses into huge holes.

So.

We sat on a log, ate our lunch and watched for bears. We saw not a bear but we did see deer, including a sweet buck with a small rack and a coyote. Plenty of trillium still in bloom.

It was splendid even without the lake. We pinky swore we'd go back and find the lake one day. And then the ride home down that incredible elevation through the glorious Cascade mountain range.

A nearly perfect day. And some chocolate for dinner.

Damn, my feet are sore right now. And all the animals are around me because of the fireworks.

Yesterday at the monstrous home improvement store we were buying a hose and nozzle because ours had given up. Felix was being a well behaved poodle on his leash. he barked a bit at a leashed pitbull, normal dog behavior. A lady in drapey black pants hustled over to us to tell us that barking dogs bother her and by the way, her 93 year old mother was waiting for her at the check stand. ???? It was so bizarre, I was rendered speechless. Too bad too. But I still couldn't think of a clever retort because it was so random. 93 years old=barking=bother??? I don't understand why I think the way I do much less other humans.

Dogs are more predictable.

Felix and I went up Tiger Mountain and we got some rain and some sun and a lotta mud. He promptly fell asleep in the car on the way back. The wet forest looks like this.

One of the girls laid an egg, the first!!! Our first egg only cost about $2000, what with building the coop and food and the chickens. Who did it? Fiona? Ethel? Lucy? Lucy only lays white eggs, I think, so it couldn't be her.

Isn't it pretty?

Today, we're going to the zoo to hear KD Laing sing outside. We sit on the grass with our picnic dinner and hope to hell it doesn't rain on us. We're packing those low chairs, raincoats, a blanket and a thermos of hot tea. And it's July 3rd, sheesh.

There's a park here and apparently it's 2 miles from my house because I clocked it today (and walked back). It's called Martha Washington and it was the site of a home for unwed mothers. There are huge trees, a circular drive and a small orchard. Beyond the fringe at the bottom, are stairs to the lake. Hidden from the street we renegade dog owners take our off-leash dogs to the water so they can swim and romp with each other.

When I'm there, I think about the ghosts of the girls who walked those same stairs to the water, heavy with a baby they couldn't or didn't keep, going away for the summer and returning to school as if nothing had happened. And the shame. And the guilt. And how different it is now. At least half the women I see in my clinic are unmarried, as was I when my babies were born.

Girls, floating and their babies floating over the green lawn and the ball-chasing dogs. And the swallows dipping and swooping.

Who delivered them? Who adopted the babies? All because of sex. And no access to birth control. And shame. Lots and lots of shame.

It's a shame.

Rebecca and I read last night at the Seattle Center, which, if you think about it, is an odd sort of place to read. People wander around looking for FUN but the Fun Forest has been dismantled even thought you can still get cotton candy and fudge and a burger, carny eats. So the people peer here and there. Maybe they ride to the top of the Space Needle and decide that the Experience Music Project isn't TOO expensive and what the hell but there was parking and it wasn't raining for once and R and I trotted out to the outdoor stage where we weren't supposed to sit. No sitting on the edge of the stage. Why? Don't know.

So one of our audience brought two chairs so we could sit down instead of stand above the grass, silly really, but I ended up standing to read because I can bounce on my feet and wave my arms about and be more emphatic. Helps with projection or at least I think it does.

Was very happy to read some poems R hadn't heard before. I heard her snickering behind me and was so pleased. Poems aren't supposed to be funny, I guess, and so people put on their serious poetry faces and try to understand the deeper meaning. But a poem about terrible babies isn't serious, it isn't. And you can laugh if you want.

Rebecca read Henry Darger poems, so amazed to hear them, including barking out loud. And her last poem, O Chicago, was beautiful;  broken streets and red light district and ruin and grace. I entered into her Chicago and I think I'm still there. Henry's Chicago. Not a shiny new city like the West Coast but an old city and cranky.

Today it's cloudy and humid, tropical silky air. Weeds love it.

On our hike a few days ago, Felix encountered snow for the first time. The trail was high enough there were big patches of old snow we had to cross. He pounced and slid and ate some and shied away and bounced back. Dogs never think about looking like fools. They are fools.

Today I plucked from the towering pile a bunch of poems for tomorrow night. I'll shuffle and reshuffle and decide which order (important you know) and then march back and forth reading and slurring and mispronouncing and so forth. I once had the word chimera in a poem and I mispronounced it in my writer's group. I was so embarrassed. My vocabulary is much bigger than my daily speech and when do you get to use/hear a lovely word like chimera? Or beatitudes?

Me and Felix off to a hike of some sort. It's sunny and warm. We both agree. Outside in the forest is the    finest place to be, almost always.

By the way. I write good. I really do.

Dear my darlings. Yesterday we had a right fine baby all fat with a full head of hair in the daytime which is a blessing you can bet because no sleep lost for the midwives.

In two days (three days), I read with Rebecca in public. Some old, some new. When I read in public, I rehearse first. I pace the house with a watch and time myself. I read several times so I won't stumble over the big words. I once read with others who had been nominated for a city-wide poet laureate thang. It was thrilling. I admired some of the other poets and felt proud. Proud, I was.

I'm going to read a poem about bad babies, a sex poem cleverly disguised and maybe a suicide poem or three. O yes. A fine medley indeed.

Dears-It's gay Sunday in the Northwest and fortunately for all the drag queens, it didn't rain and spoil their makeup. Holly and I went dancing last night and it was so crowded, we couldn't move. There was much drunkenness and public fondling and smooching. And many homosexuals. I went to my dance class this morning so now I can't move. Well, I can move but slowly.

Sitting in the garden, I listened to a bumblebee in the bells of the foxglove. And the birds. There are ruby throated hummingbirds that visit the lilies and the hollyhocks. Faithful hollyhocks that bloom all summer. And they stretch out over the lawn and cover lesser plants. As a child, I made hollyhock dolls with two blossoms. One was the skirt and the other was the bonnet.

My silly dog and I went to the park for his run. He was leaping into the air and barking so I'd throw the ball into the water. I obliged. He's a pretty good swimmer now. And his poodle buddies were there so he had extra joy. Funny that he recognizes his own. The black puppy and he ran around, slipping and falling down with alarming happiness. I'd forgot dog joy.

Enjoy the gay.

It is actually raining here in the water logged city. I couldn't go swimming as I had planned because work strangled me into billing and answering messages and what-all. And it's not even a real work day.

As an alternative, I'm going to go for a long walk in the rain with the dawg in his raincoat and it will be just like swimming.

Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.

The raincoat goes down to my ankles and the boots are my garden boots so they will ferry rainwater from my coat into my boots but I don't care. I must get out there and smell the wet gardens of my neighbors and see all the droopy flowers.

A sparrow is singing on a wire by the back porch. The chickens are apparently impervious to the rain and they're making a great deal of noise by the gate. Ethel was perched on top of the 6 foot gate yesterday because she is the escape artist. I want her to stay put today.

Here it is. After a birth (yesterday), so tired I could sleep anywhere. I come home and of course, can't sleep once I lie down. What the hell. Look at the clock once an hour. 2:30. 3:30. 4:30. Up with the dog at 7.

Foggy all day. Now it's midnight and clinic starts at 8.

Yeah! Meanwhile the katz sleep 22 hours a day.

I think they should get up, shower, find something presentable to wear and go off to work. All day. No cat-napping, not one.

I bet they'd be right grumpy. (watching too much BBC)

Wish me luck. I'm going to bed now.

Today father's day I went to a meditation retreat with my dear teacher Nelly. And my father arrived several times. At first, there was a baby in a drain pipe so I pulled her out. She was ok, just a wee bit scratched. Next, my father showed up, much older that he was when he died, crinkly skin around his eyes exuding kindness. He told me money didn't matter but I should fill up a car (this car, all white and shiny) with babies, lots of babies. Not all my babies but random babies. He was so friendly and seemed to know what he was talking about.

Finally, he settled deep in my bones. And I knew he loved me as best as he could. And today, it was enough.

I know this is totally cheesy but I rented 'The Bodyguard' from Netflix. I've watched Whitney sing, 'I will always love you' about 43 times since she died. Gorgeous. Amazing voice. Her life was a mess.

Today I listened to an interview with Patti Smith and she talked about Amy Winehouse. We watch people we know/love go down the suicide road and there's nothing we can do, except watch.

WHERE I WAS TODAY

What a morning it is. I called my usual hiking bud but she can't come out to play. Felix and I must go to the mountains. I owe the tax man a billion dollars but I'm ignoring the bill. I know I can't do this forever but sheesh.

Yesterday on our walk, the crows were dive-bombing us, swooping down very close to our heads. I looked over at the yard and there was their latest child. On the grass. I think he/she could fly but was just getting the hang of it. Even crow parents protect their offspring.

Our neighbors harbored starlings and wrens in the eaves of their house this year. We can see the comings and going from the kitchen window. First the nest building. Then worm transport and the sound of much peeping. Finally, the parent bird and a fledgling on a branch, taking flying lessons. A dangerous time for the youngsters. I know they're going to plug up the holes but it's a spring ritual, seeing who comes back and starts the process again.

Last night at dance, I swooned and fell in love with the whole world. Diastole and systole. Today there is the quiet and the birds. Time for the true forest.

Oh, I broke a crown, not a tooth, not a real tooth anyway. So that'll be a coupla thousand to fix.

I went on a hike today. Me and Felix.

These are my woods. I love them. In the rain. Felix crosses streams like a big boy now. We didn't see another soul. But there were thrushes. And finches. I don't care to climb to the top. There are so many trails that wind around and around. Fields of ferns.

No, I'm not going to church (dancing) this morning because someone is percolating in labor and I have to be ready to go, to go quick. ((sigh))

Yesterday I went to Point Nn Point where there is a lighthouse and the salt water on Bainbridge Island to (sic) perform a wedding for two lovely people who decided to get hitched 6 days ago. They pulled it together with many delicious foods and a few people (and many children-she's a midwife) and the wild sun/shadow/rain/sun/waves weather. Felix went with me and ran up and down the beach in doggy delirium. While biting down on a spinachy filo wrapped thingy, I broke a tooth.

I think we have outlived our teeth. I think we were supposed to die by 40 and now the various parts are cracking, busting, disintegrating etc.

Felix's teeth are perfect. He just got them this year. Hell, he was born this year.

So now a trip to the dentist to see what kind of production I'll have to endure, grinding, sanding, excavating, capping, pulling and finally, in about 6 months, a reasonable facsimile of a tooth which has costed way too much. Thank gawd for dental insurance.

If I make it to 80, will I have any original teeth left? I brush, floss, use my electric toothbrush, get 3 cleanings a year, wear my night guard, all for this? An errant pebble in spinach undoing all my hard work.

At least there's a NYT waiting for me on the front porch.

Today I'm going to Bainbridge Island, to the Point No Point lighthouse to perform a wedding, a very last minute wedding. My buddy on Bainbridge called me on Wednesday to ask if I could do it and in the middle of my clinic day I said, sure, why not. Sheesh. Maybe it'll be nice today. I can bring the dog who's driving me crazy at the moment so I better take him for his walk.

Deb brought him a ball that crackles when he bites it. It sounds like he's chewing leetle bones very loudly.   But then there is a segmented snake that has a different squeak in every segment. He plays that like a glockenspiel.

Gawd.

The buk-buks are eating an ear of corn. They LOVE corn. And melon. And sunflower seeds.

I can't believe I wear a bra that I could use as a hat. Or a raincoat. When did my breasts get so big? I think when I was sleeping, gremlins broke in and plumped them up into the 36 DD they are now.

I'm still in denial about them. I mean, will they just get bigger and bigger until they are the size of Buicks? And then what?

It's cold and raining and the garbage trucks are clanking around outside. Betty the pullet died this morning. We didn't do the right things for her. I thought she was illin' yesterday but had to run off to a long long long clinic day with car repair thrown in and Deb was here. She tried to help by isolating her and talking to the chicken person about antibiotics and different food.

But.

We should have brought her into the house and warmed her up and made sure she was eating and drinking. So this morning I tried to do those things but it was too late. She was the moran, the chicken with dark brown eggs (she never laid any, still too young) and pretty black and grey feathers.

Shit. She was the littlest one and the one Lucy picked on. But she was growing and I thought she would be able to hold her own. She's wrapped in a towel and I go in and stroke her pretty feathers.

I let the other chickens out of their coop. They don't mind the rain, in fact they don't seem to notice. I threw them some greens from the garden and they're out there scratching and pecking.

Birds are different from other creatures. They're miniature dinosaurs.

The woods in the rain.

I know what I said. But.

Tomorrow I'm going to the forest with the dog. I don't care that it maybe raining and grey. The trees will drip with green rain and hopefully the trail won't be too muddy. I'll take it all in, like medicine.

I have too many responsibilities back at the ranch. The mountain doesn't care about that. We're all the same to the mountain.

Today I went to the wild park by my house and heard an eagle high up. Once you've heard their manic chatter, you never forget it.

I need the wild to feel normal. Right now, I don't feel normal.

Whatever normal is, I'm not sure.

Yesterday I delivered a baby. And she's a beautiful thing and her parents and the grandmas and the cousin and auntie.

The whole family is blessed.

Sometimes I'll drive around my city and I'll pass a house where a babe was born and I think, "That house is blessed, this block is blessed."

This morning I went to dance class with my old tired body and I danced myself into a whirl of happiness. Dancing=life.

Today the air is soft. And moist. I let the buk-buks out and I can hear them. They scratch and scratch and make little worried noises. And Hugo the cat lies in the dirt by their fence and stretches out so he'll get dirt all over his fur. I think he thinks he'd be able to conquer a buk-buk if he could only get in there but he'd be WRONG.

Silly cat.

Back from the woods with a bang. Work descended upon me. Alas. When your job is birthin' babies, sometimes the thought of hiding out, changing your identity is very tempting.

However.

I had a fine dream on Sunday night. I walked into a bar and the jazz singer was Rebecca. She was wearing a curvy black dress, very low cut and high heels. Her hair was piled up in swoopy curls. She was singing, "It Had To Be You" in a breathy way. All the people were swooning. (interruption to pee) I woke up.

Dream resumption: R and I were going to buy toilet paper. I'd forgotten my wallet and we had 98 cents between us. We arrived at the store and I had to climb a steep embankment to get there. I struggled upward but arrived at the door. I explained to the clerk I had barely any money but she said I was in luck because 98 cents could buy 12 rolls. So back I went to find the car. The parking lot was vast and dark. Before I set out, R had given me a red knife and a black (plastic) gun. Two men started following me and I unfortunately stabbed one of them. Oh dear. And on a Buddhist retreat too. But. He didn't die. And I didn't have to use the gun. Lucky for me because it was a toy. R was nowhere to be seen.

Otherwise, not a dream in sight.

Time to walk the dog who lies in complete boredom at my feet.

Deb built a contraption so the chickens can roam a bit. It makes them so happy in their birdbrained way.

My accountant got a delay on my taxes. Then he tried to explain to me why I couldn't put $ in my Roth IRA ( a piddling sum) and I didn't understand him AT ALL. He needs an interpreter, or I do. I mean, what is an AGI?

I just go to work and hope at the end of each month there is enough to pay everyone and the effing IRS. I am not a business person. Not.

My mother always told me I'm 'too' sensitive. What the hell does that mean?

For the next five days I'll be in silence. In the woods. Bird call and a train whistle in the background. I'll sit a lot, eat meals others have prepared, sleep in a wee bed ( I hope, in a room by myself) and tromp around in the rain when I'm not in the zendo.

Ah, retreat.

Not a holiday.

Time to myself.

Henri

The new Sherlock Holmes is starting in 6 minutes on PBS and I'm seriously into it. Seriously. One of the best Sherlocks and I'm an (ahem) aficionado. LeStrade called him a psychopath and Sherlock corrected him, "No, I'm a high functioning sociopath, get it right!"

O yes indeed. Benedict Cumberbatch, what a Brit name, by gawd. YUM. And I'm a lesbian.

Last night we went to the symphony and I fell into a swoon when Nadja Solerno-Sonnenberg bounced onto the stage. She tossed her hair. She wore pants. She dipped into and released the most exquisite notes. I leaned in and held my breath through her playing. O, she is magnificent.

Thursday morning and the dog is wuffing because there are MEN in the yard with ladders and loud machinery to saw tree branches and crawl on the roof of the garage. The garage roof has evil moss that eats away at the shingles so they fall off and then the roof leaks and then more disaster ensues with flooding and floating and ruin.

I want a wee cabin in the woods where the wild hyssop grows and no one mows the weeds and the chickens mingle with the elves and I sit on the porch in my pajamas drinking tea and reading a fat novel. With a pond off in the distance where frogs live. And no sirens or people only wild creatures. And the vines curl into the kitchen and the floors are made of birch worn smooth and a big fireplace where a fire burns most of the time and we eat with our hands and we live until our beards touch the ground.

And there is no need for maintenance of any kind.

And I continue with my magical thinking unto the end.

Yesterday Holly and I went back to good ole Tiger mountain to hike a new portion of the Lingering/Dwight's Way etc trail except we didn't. My feet were so sore from the previous day and Holly was walking very slowly and grumbling about her laundry so we decided to head back. We stopped for snacks and to be in the glory. The sun on the green leaves and ferns and the winding trail, not too steep this time, we kept stopping to breathe it all in. We both agreed that the forest is medicine and healing and we'll not stop hiking until we no longer can. It's sunny today too and I'm tempted but I better give my feet and legs a rest.

AND when I came home yesterday, Simon, Deb's son, was in the yard, digging post holes. I don't have a son and my daughters live in California. BUT. Deb asks him to come over and lift something heavy and he does. Or dig post holes. Without complaining. Cheerful even. He had his shirt off and the chickens were watching him as he fitted three 4 X 4's into the three foot deep holes he'd dug. (I tried to dig holes last week, very pathetic) Then he took us to a restaurant called Poppy for Mother's Day where we had the most exquisite dinner: lovage and nettle soup, fried fiddleheads and spiced asparagus with lemon and sage-all herbs grown in their garden out back and they gave us a sage plant to take home. I <3 Simon.

Both my daughters called too and I love them and want to see them soon. July is too far away. But I  invited Simon to come this year to the camping extravaganza and he said he would.

Sweet boy.

Rebecca said ' o baby how did we survive it all?'  and it burned into my heart it did so I took myself to the mountains a trail called Dirty Harry way up the pass off 90 and it was a dried up (mostly) stream bed a real ankle breaker me and Felix and we forded streams and walked on the slippery rocks and when something crashed down Felix barked his big dog bark and when we got to the snow line we decided to head back down and the sun wasn't shining on the trail before but now it was so everything sparkled the water wee waterfalls the dead garter snake the ferns uncurling their fronds the brilliant mountain tops still wearing the winter snow so I forgot about the sorrow the sadness my friend my always present shadow in the mountains there is green peace and critters and trillium still blooming and for a while I think about my wet boots and my sore foot and the next boulder we have to jump off and the next bend and the next

my legs are rubbery the chickens are all there the dog is lying asleep on the rub and the day blazes into evening

for now this is enough

Buk-buks

Tis a fine morning. I've fed the dawg, the chickens and myself. I've watered the garden in preparation for planting seeds today. It's supposed to be warmer and warmer by the weekend. Yesterday I sat in front of the coop and watched the chickens. They are Lucy and Ethel, Betty and Fiona. Lucy is bossy and bitchy. 'Pecking order', now I understand. Lucy is a bit bigger than the other gals and pecks their backs if she wants the choicest bit of greens or the primary place at their feeding bucket. She's pushy and I already want to spank her and say 'share!" However, I think this is the way in the chicken world. Deb and her son Simon, dug post holes yesterday for the fence. Felix goes and stares at the girls. Hugo rolls around in the dirt in front of their coop, showing off his canines.

I think that, when they're bigger, they'll be able to whup his ass. Raccoons, another matter.

I have work this afternoon. (wha wha) And I burned the toast and set off the smoke detector. I cried in the garden for a while and then pulled weeds in a fury.

You'd think if I'm the boss, I can do what I want but actually I have to be sure the engines of commerce are running smoothly. Fie on all of it. The midwife who's clinic day it is is at a birth ergo-I get to work until 8PM, which is totally wrong AND I have a twelve hour day tomorrow.

I'm tired.

We saw The Avenger (Superhero) movie last night. A great deal of foolishness. I LOVE Mark Ruffalo, esp in the movie, You Can Count on Me. He's the HULK in this expensive 3D thang and it's silly. However Robert Downey Jr as Iron Man is so perfect and funny and true, you want him in every scene. Even if his movie g'friend is Gwyneth Paltrow, yuch.

Anyway.

I'm having insomnia these days. Very inconvenient. I can't fall asleep. I don't stay asleep. When I learn my plans for the day have been dashed, I dissolve into a blubbering pile.

Pathetic.

I'm making stewed rhubarb. The rhubarb is next to the chicken coop WITH FOUR CHICKENS IN IT. There's a Rhode Island Red, a white one, a speckled one and a black one and they're so pretty. I'll find out what they're called later. I want to name one Betty.

The dog stands in front of the coop and barks. The katz are trying to get into the coop. They're plotting right now. Especially Hugo.

Just try it, big guy.

Another birth last night. Favorite family and Lynn, my sister midwife, came.

Still.

I'm staggering around, so tired. I gardened and dealt with the litter boxes.

Watching Wallender series from Sweden. In Swedish. If I don't pay close attention, I miss the subtitles. Then all is lost.

Someone else is in labor. Sheesh.

In the past 24 hours, Sean came over and righted/added four new feet to my claw foot bathtub. I must also mention Pete because it took both of them oofing and cursing to get the damn thing to level. But I just hosed off the muddy dog in it and it didn't a) fall on my foot or b) flood the first floor. And then this morning two nice young men put a chicken coop together in the side yard. All complete. I just opened the door and there are perches and two nesting boxes and rat proof wire all around.

Let the games begin! We need straw and feed and water and chickens! Oh, and a light to make it warmer out there. And grit for their craws. And maybe vitamins and lawd, I don't know what else.

Meanwhile, the dog really likes my underwear. Kinky, I know. And by the way. If you wash the white dog, it will rain. You can bet on it.

I worked a 12 hour clinic day and then went right to a birth. A beautiful birth too. The momma had a c/section with her first babe and angled for a vag birth this time. And she did it. She pushed that little girl out. She was a tiger.

So came home at 6 this morning and slept in. Sleeping in when I'm on call goes something like this:

The sun comes blasting in through the skylights at some ungodly hour. I have a headache from lack of sleep. The phone rings about 54 times. Each time, I lurch to a sitting position to see if it's the answering service with another birth. None of the 54 calls are the answering service.

I realize I'm hungry. I fantasize about a big breakfast with drippy toast and hot cereal and marmelade and tea. But I'll have to make it. I also have to pee but that means getting up and my headache is a monster with bad breath.

I think I sleep for 15 minutes at a time. The katz are on the bed. The dog has mysteriously disappeared. I fall back into a swoon. By 2:30 I'm up. My head is pounding. It's raining so I don't have to feel guilty about doing any yard work. The dog is being bathed at the dog place. I have to go get him. I stand at the fridge and wish a kindly chef was standing in the kitchen cooking me some delicious food with garlic and strawberries, not perhaps in the same dish.

I don't need a shower. Showers are for sissies. I think about the birth early in the morning and rejoice for the mom. She did it. She wanted the whole experience and she got it. My heart opens. I'm in my dirty clothes, hungry and tired and in love with the new parents and their babe and my good fortune. I'm a midwife. I'm a damn lucky woman.

The guy who's delivering our chicken coop says he won't be here for another three weeks!!! That's forever. He wanted to know if we had chickens. We should have lied and said, 'Gawd yes and they're all over the house. Git over here right now and build them a house!"

Instead we worked in the yard and took ibuprofen for our backs and knees. Deb's son came over and lifted a giant statue thingy like it was nuthin'. O the young and the strong.

Gotta take the dog out before evening falls.

Deb let me sleep in this morning and I was so grateful I cried. And cried.

Sometimes it doesn't take much.

My apple tree. This means a lotta apples this summer.

I go on call tomorrow. Fun and games are over. Hiking, dog walking, pulling weeds. Being on call means I have to stay close to home. In case. I can't ride my bike too far away. I can't be in the swimming pool too long. I have to go to bed early. No second glass of wine.

I did weed. And I have to take off my gloves to weed properly. I can't feel with gloves on. My hands look like gardener's hands. Gnarly and dirty.

However.

I went to Good Will today. The woman in front of me in line was wearing a large straw hat with many crow feathers stuck into the band. Many feathers, like 50. And she had other items on her hat, buttons, flowers (plastic), a small pink comb. She was also wearing a velvet dress and a long leather coat. She was impressive. I imagined her trip to Ellis Island, in the old days. She has lost her accent by now. Perhaps she sleeps under the bridge. Perhaps she sleeps in a mansion. Perhaps she wears her hat to bed so she can fly in her dreams.

I'm going to read with Rebecca in June. Holy shite. What will I read? What will I wear? I think we each read for 15 minutes. 15 minutes is an effing eternity. Although R said she might bark in one of her poems. Maybe I'll make balloon animals to take up some time. Rebecca is a genius. I'm humbled to read with her.

Gawd.

Maybe I'll wear my red shoes. For courage.

I didn't take pictures today but we went hiking again, Holly this time and Felix and me. We were trying to find the beginning of the Tiger Mountain trail and we failed miserably so we instead hiked Mount Taylor. Ha! You didn't even know about Mount Taylor. Apparently, it was stripped and now it is making it's way back with wee trees and in the swampy parts, the most lovely green nettles and moss and dark luscious mud.

And it's a horse trail. So we saw some beauties and Felix went crazy barking and growling because they were the biggest dogs he's ever seen. And they looked at him like horses do. ...dumb dog....what's his problem. Finally, some nice ladies told us to let him go and he raced past them, surely thinking they were going to eat him. I patted their necks and bowed to their magnificence.

Ah, horses.

We found a hill with two hitching posts on it and we had lunch. A raven and a snake visited. Seeing snakes is good luck. It was no bigger than a shoe lace and hoping for some sun.

Afterwards, we stopped at the XXX root beer place. They have an old bus parked beside their joint with Buddy Holly painted on the side. It looks like a '50s tour bus. And the menu says they serve nothing with any health in it. As in: bacon, cheese ham and burger sandwich, with fries and enormous floats. The meals were about 500,000 calories each. We shared a 'small' fries and Holly wanted a child-size cone that was about 3 feet tall with whipped cream and sprinkles on top. Next time, I'll take pictures.  Sheesh.

Deb brought Felix a rawhide chew thing and he is right behind me munching away. It STINKS. I better leave the room. Oh, he also had a few horse pie snacks today on the trail. Dogs are gross.

Where I was today

And a dog in the field...

Off to Tiger Mountain with the dawg. I'm gonna try to find a different trailhead. Wish me luck.

From my walk today, for Rebecca.

As the light fades from this beauty of a day, a robin is singing clearly in the blue spruce by the alley. At about midnight for the last three nights, I've heard a frog croaking across the street. One lone frog. He's calling for a girlfriend but he's pretty far away from other frogs. I've never heard a frog in my hood before.

Back home, there was a swamp at the bottom of the road just before we turned to our driveway. At this time of year, it was full of peepers, wee frogs that set up a chorus after dark. Hearing the frog last night made me think of them.

We're always on the edge of the wild wood. We just forget sometimes.

Phooey, on this grand sunny morning, I have to go to work to fill in for one of my fellow midwives. I wanted to lounge on the couch, read the rest of the paper and inspect the aphid-ridden plant in my garden. But instead I get to get dressed in my work clothes (ie. not my ratty bathrobe), comb my hair and put on shoes.

Lola is curled up on the rocking chair, Hugo is by my elbow and Felix is in his dog bed surrounded by 43 dog toys. THEY don't have to work, they never have to work.

Phooey.

And drat.

Life is fine and dandy until the plant that was thrusting out a butt load of leaves is now covered with aphids, litte fuckers. I blasted them with the hose and knocked off all the leaves. The plant may never recover. I don't even know it's name. But the leaves were purple and so pretty and now they're on the ground and I hope large aphid-eating spiders come and find them and eat them entirely. Bastards.

Love, your vegetarian Buddhist

PS I'm now on the second season of The Killing (the Danish version) and it's sooooo good. Why do we (ie: Americans) remake perfectly good movies/shows/books? The original Girl With the Dragon Tattoo was excellent. Did it need a remake? No, but there you have it. Subtitles? Wha wha wha. The American version of The Killing is good but too much drama. They gummed it up. We like to be clobbered, right?
And why am I watching a show called The Killing if I'm a Buddhist?

Because.

Seaside Improvisation


I take off my hands and give them to you but you don't
                                                  want them so I take them back 
   and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. The yard is dark.
the tomatoes are next to the whitewashed wall,
                     the book on the table is  about Spain,
                                                                         the windows are painted shut.
Tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns
             of snow and I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,
                                                                           counting birds.
                                                You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy
             but tell me
you love this, tell me you're not miserable.
                                                               You do the math, you expect the trouble.
            The seaside town. The electric fence.
Draw a circle with a piece of chalk. Imagine standing in a constant cone 
                                                of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless.
A stone on the path means the tea's not ready,
          a stone in the hand means somebody's angry, the stone inside you still
hasn't hit bottom.


                                                                                        from Crush by Richard Siken

There are men roofing on the house down the street. In the rain.

Ug.

I want to take them some warm soup and a bottle of Scotch.

But then they'd fall off and hurt themselves. I hope they're done soon and they can go home to a shower and dinner.

Sheesh. Sometimes the weather is just a bitch.

And more

This is what I did today, with a pick axe, shovel, hoe and wheel barrow. The new fence the neighbors insisted on building actually gave us more lawn, about 3 feet of lawn. Because the guys that build it worked in the rain, they mashed down the dirt to the consistency of concrete. It's taken two days but I whacked away at it with a pick axe (really) and later a shovel. I think I found some tools from the Paleolithic period, and rocks and broken dishes. No golden grickles, alas. Oh, after the dirt was, uh, loosened, I ferried a few wheelbarrows full of compost while it rained lightly. My former dog liked eating compost but Felix hasn't acquired a taste, at least not yet.

My back is feeling it now but I believe I stopped before permanent injury ensued.

The 100 tulips are blooming and the daffs and the rhodies.

Weed freed.

One more thing. Last night I went to a fundraiser for Sierra Leone's midwifery project. A Sierra Leonian midwife was there talking about the 1 in 8 women who die in childbirth in her country. The worst in the world. I can't begin to imagine. And she was so splendid. Light was coming out of her.

Uh-oh. The katz were yelling so much I fed them again, I think. I think I already fed them. But they prey on my post-menopausal brain and I must bow before them.

Sean came over today and looked at my fallen bath tub. He moved it around, a minor miracle because it weighs ten billion pounds. For the bad news. He suggested a strap kit thang he'll drill? strap? fasten? to the bottom and then he and another brawny guy will 'gently lower' the tub onto the contraption. I don't want to be here when this happens. I think there wil be a lot of cursing and grunting going on. He does think I didn't fuck up the drain.

This all sounds very expensive. Home ownership is a privilege and a headache.

In the old days all I owned fit into a backpack.

Today on the radio there was a story about Merriam Webster. He got fed up with random and creative spellings so he wrote a dictionary that was neither accepted or published in his lifetime. And he probably had OCD.

Ha! Unpublished and OCD.

I can relate.

This morning I awoke thinking about friendship and who stays and who goes. Over the years there have been flood tides and slack tides of friends. Used to be, at Thanksgiving, there were a lot of people for dinner. Some years I'm alone, deep in grief or with a consuming need for quiet.

This morning, I'm alone with the katz and the goofy dog. I might be alone all day. I might visit a few new babies. My work is so draining, colossal, intimate-I need considerable time to myself.

Midwives are my friends. We understand each other, the stories we harbor and can't really tell to our families, our partners, anyone who doesn't do what we do. And yet, we see each other infrequently, at conferences or meetings. My midwife partners are unique friends. We carry the weight of our client load together. We share the stories our clients tell us, some so heartbreaking and terrible we too feel the pain. In fact, I think we always feel the pain of those in our care. Physical pain is easy. Labor hurts but it doesn't mean we're sick or injured. I find myself getting bigger and bigger during a labor, 'holding' the mother in compassion for her suffering but knowing it will be over. I fill the room with compassion and kindness, for her, for her partner and for her baby. I shouldn't say 'I' really. The room is suffused with compassion and love. And we're all inside it together.

So on this Spring day all the daffs and tulips I planted last year are blooming or about to bloom. The lilac is budded out. All manner of plants are sending out their shoots. The lettuce and spinach are getting bigger. The lake down the hill is shining like a flat blue plate. The mountains shimmer in the distance, snow on their roofs.

The singing world.

The thing is, when you are hooked on a series called 'The Killing' and it was made in Denmark, the actors are speaking Danish.

20 subtitled episodes.

If you have to pee or let the dog out or you, uh, fall asleep on the couch, the words don't reach your conscious ear or your subconscious. Because they are Danish words.

You'd think after 20 episodes, I would have learned Danish.

Alas.

Nope.

This AM I went to the Century Ballroom for my Sunday dancing and there were many people dressed in their finest, with purple wigs and hats with stuffed baby chickens and leopard print shoes and massive eye shadow and there was a CHOIR and a preacher with a sequined jacket and all those gathered were stomping and clapping and yahooing to beat the band. And there was an aqua caddie parked out front too, with white walls.

WHAT WAS THAT? Did I dream it? Whatever brought these fine folks together but for the singing and (I fear, some alcohol) and the general merriment of Easter, day of chickens and chocolate and jelly beans and children with rabbit ears on their heads.

Then we went to the Grange store and stared at the chicken coops with the buk-buks and the bunnies and the ducks inside.

A chicken coop is in our future. With chickens.

On the way home, we passed the wee park beside the ghost building of Kurt Cobain. There are two benches and today they were loaded with flowers and notes and people sitting beside them and on the grass, mourning that fine beautiful boy.

I came home and listened to Smells Like Teen Spirit real loud.

Oops

I was just trying to fix the legs. That's what I'm gonna tell my GF.

Maybe I should stick to gardening.

The only reason I'm still awake is because I brought work home and the last two days have steamrollered over me and squashed me flat.

Besides after work was DOG SCHOOL where Julie, the dog whisperer trained the humans to understand their canine friends who a) bark b) pee and/or poop on the floor c) jump on people d) ignore your requests/commands etc.

Julie is strict but kind. Felix whips around and stares intently at her whenever she says his name. Felix! See, there he goes. She rules him. She commands him. We are sad slackers compared to Julie.

We are learning:
Sit
Down
Off
No
Good
On the rug
Stay
Let's go (with emphasis)

After a 12 hour clinic day, I am just not really ready for class in a stinky dog pee room with other dogs who are ill-mannered. I mean, felix is perhaps not perfect but we're so proud of him. It's sick actually. He's like our child and we're the pleased parents. Gawd.

I must go to bed now. I go on call tomorrow at 7AM.

Fortunately, I found a bit of chocolate in my secret drawer and I ate it all. Staff of life=chocolate.

Sincerely,

Your friend Beth

PS. I just finished Swamplandia! Fantastic book. And I'm on to a new series called The Killing, from Sweden, also fantastic.

Until Ms Moon reminded me, it's palm sunday. You go to church and get a palm and take it home and bend it into a cross because, uh, oh, next week is the BIG EVENT when they nail the guy up there, torture him for a few days, take him down and throw him into a tomb. Whoa.

Then build a whole religion around his life, embellish at will, take his words out of context and spawn legions of whack-a-mole preachers who delude the masses into voting for someone like Rick Santorum.

Sorry.

Back to your regular programming.

To celebrate, I'm going to my church. I'l dance for two hours into a state of bliss and sweat with my fellow dancers. Loud music and bare feet. Then on my dog walk, Felix will teach me how to run and bark with joy with a ball in his mouth. Woof! Dogs are joy machines.

And the sun is out.

I'm listening to a Wagner opera on the radio. What the hell? I hate Wagner. Maybe I'm too lazy to get up. Nah, I can't stand it. I'm turning it OFF.

A day without the muppets is like...a day without the muppets

My neighbors are building a fence between our yards and I've gotten over my resentment that they started this project NOW when I'm feeling broke and pulled into the decisions and earth moving and the like. It will be beautiful and I don't have to pay for it right now but I must pay something since it is my fence too. Neighbor to neighbor communications. They're nice people and we've lived side by side for 13 years.

The dog needs to be led out on a lease because, well, there's no fence. He doesn't seem to mind. Today we played at the dog park until he actually lay down, covered in mud.

Dog fun:
1. Bitey-bitey, growly-growly game
2. Run the perimeter at top speed
3. Hump any dog the same height, regardless of gender
4. Run after balls but don't bring them back
5. Sniff butts (an all-time favorite)
6. Run through the mud with wild abandon

When you get home, carry him directly to the tub to hose him down. Remember to get a black dog next time, dummy.

I have the day off, mostly. A new baby to visit this afternoon but that's all.

I read an article in the NYT about race horses that was so awful, I couldn't finish it. Euthanizing horses when they break their legs after they've been shot full of cortisone so they can run with injuries. WTF.

Jockeys get hurt too but they have free will. But horses? Gorgeous creatures that they are. It's shameful.

Rebecca, these are for you

I'm waiting for my first client to show up. This morning, the sun shone on the magnolias in the front yard. They haven't quite opened but they've shed all their fuzzy coverings. It's not raining, a minor miracle. A friend is in Maui right now and I'm trying not to be cranky about it. I said I was trying. We could have a day of sunshine. We could. Others on the planet think sun is ho-hum but we're extremely grateful, here in the NW.

Our vitamin D levels are pathetically low. As someone who grew up in the NE, where it was rainy and cloudy and effing freezing half the year, this weather is mild and boring. And fercripssake, I'm writing about the damn weather!!!

The dog licked my eyelid this morning. That's how I woke up. I was dreaming about dancing on a stage in a red dress and then a warm wet tongue licked my eye. EWWWW.

However, yesterday, he licked my mouth, which was slightly open. And that's gross. i woke up to a dog tongue in my mouth. When something like this happens, you don't even have time to react or avoid.

My client is here. Gotta go.

Is my car cursed?

This morning: BANG BANG BANG (dog barking) I stagger down to the front door and a kindly neighbor in a chapeau lets me know my car has been broken into, window smashed. Serves me right for leaving my ancient ipod in there. Glass all over the inside, and in the driveway.

I've had my car back from the body shop for exactly 2 weeks. All sides of my car have been smacked, in different accidents (well, the last one wasn't my fault-I backed into some lame concrete posts in the dark on my way to a birth). Actually, none of the accidents were my fault. I hesitate to mention this, but a drunken guy stepped out in front of my car and I, uh, knocked him down. I wasn't going very fast, he was reeling around, accompanied by his more sober friend who insisted that I NOT take him to the ER (maybe he had more on board than alcohol). I checked him all over in my maternal nursey way and he kept insisting he was fine. I felt HORRIBLE. I also recently got a warning from a cop when I tried to go around a car at a crosswalk in a school zone. No, I didn't crash into any school children, thank the lawd in heaven.

Is it time for my children to take away my car keys? Is it the bright blue of my car? Is it some hoodoo that needs exorcism? Smudging? Chanting and singing? What, tell me, what should I do?

Meanwhile, Deb and Felix and I are going to have a puppy class on Thursday. With someone who's WEB site is called 'Sensitive Dog"
Uh-oh.

And here I will officially admit it. I'm reading Tina Fey's 'Bossypants' on a Kindle Fire. Deb got one from work for selling a butt load of vitamins or something. I feel like a hypocrite or worse. ((((however, in my evil leetle heart, it's way cool and I can read in bed in the dark without disturbing my honey with the sound of pages turning.))))

Even so.

I want my poetry book to be on paper, made from trees. And a cover with groovy art. And binding glue and all.

I did it. I went to Nordstrom. I rode the ***light rail***, surely the most beautiful way to travel. And the light rail dropped me off right at the door.

People who shop at Nordstrom DRESS UP to go shopping. Everyone was beautifully turned out. Hair, nails, boots, etc. I was wearing a pair of muddy pants from the dog park, a beret because my hair wouldn't behave and a long raincoat to cover, well, everything. I didn't fit in. The store is sparkly and shiny and clean, with many floors of expensive clothes which I will never buy because I wouldn't pay $175.00 for a dress, one dress. I could buy a buttload of clohtes at Value Village for $175.00, let me tell you. And the clerks are beautiful too. I think they're meant to intimidate the likes of me.

I headed straight for the lingerie department and hung over the counter until a bright young thing noticed me. I told her I wanted the oldest bra fitter on the floor, not someone the age of my child. She brought 'Mary" over. Mary was about 4 feet tall, with a serious chest area. She had a shelf in the front. I imagined her bra fitted with trusses and gears, probably what I was going to be trying on. She let me back to the fitting room and LOCKED ME IN. She complimented my ratty sweatshirt (!). Then she whipped out a tape measure and got busy. She left me alone to stare at myself in the tryptic mirror under the fluorescents. Gawd. Yes, this is what I look like now. Gawd, She returned with an armload of bras. She cheerily told me my size is 36 DD (!!!!!!!) Gawd. Then I tried on a black number that looked like a cafe awning. Could be an umbrella. Or a large purse. It fit. It felt wonderful. Uplift and separate. Yes. I don't want to talk about how much they cost. A bra of this magnitude costs a lot. I bought two.

As soon as I got home, I put on my new bra. I wore it all evening. I'm wearing it today. Imagine, years of engineering have gone into my undergarment. Years! I can wear a black lace bra just like other women. I can. Although I'm not sure I can garden in it.

It's snowing here in the land that global warming forgot, snowing on the magnolia blossoms and daffodils and violets.

Fine.

The white dog will blend in.

Then I'm going to take the light rail to the dreaded Nordstrom and buy a bra. Oh gawd. For years I have pretended that I don't wear a bra. But I do, sad things that they are. I buy them on-line or at the cheap-o store. They don't fit. They don't hold up. They are a poor excuse for a real bra, which is what my mother wore. She had real breasts, before the cancer, not two nipples like mine. But menopause brought me the gift of breasts (why now?) and so I'm going to go to the bra place and face the FITTERS and understand once and for all that I have breasts that need encasement and support. I'm going to go. I am. Today is the day. As many have gone before me, I going to march in there and demand the oldest fitter to help me, not some young giggly thing with Coopers ligaments that aren't tired yet.

As my daughter said after her first bra fitting experience, "Mother, it was very humbling."

Before I lose my nerve, I'm outa here.

The picture above is an example of my current back. My chiropractor has a doohickey she staples my shirt to my back with and then it makes a series of ka-chungs and beeps. Then she breaks down the table and bends me in half backwards. I have to go once a week.

Massive rain, hail and floods. I walked to the lake and had puddles in my boots. My socks squished when I walked. The dog was leaping around because he's outside and chasing a ball. Any ball. He looked like a vertical mud puddle.

In the night, some small murder
at my feet
neat package of innards
intestine, stomach, jewel red liver
heart and muscle
in the belly of hawk
who
even now
arcs across the near meadow
on soft wings
such winnowing!
such about to be born!

A wee babe this AM and we almost dropped him. Babies are slippery, y'all. Fortunately his daddy was right there and grabbed him. His mom was standing up so gravity had a go. Big sister slept through the whole thing.

Then I went dancing. I cleaned the house, threw the ball for the dog, put the clean clothes away and NOW I get to have a bath and a lie down. With the Sunday NYT, heaven.

I skip over the bad news of the world and head right for the society pages. And the magazine section and finally, the book reviews.
Why do I read the society pages? Because the NYT started putting in same sex weddings; photos, ceremonies and all. Some day we'll all have the same rights. Washington passed a same sex marriage bill but you know the opposition is gearing up to referendum the thing. Right this very day, from the pulpit there's hate a-brewing.

My love and I threaten 'traditional' marriage. ((flex flex))

I had no idea we were so powerful.

GRRRRRRR !!!!

My little cat has been nudging me all morning to pet her. She sits on my hands so I can't type. She pushes her face into my lap. She's my love cat.

My new life

Wake up at dark-thirty because the dog has to pee/poop.

Go down to the dog park and throw the ball 47 thousand times. Watch the white dog turn, uh, grimy and muddy and brown. Watch the white dog hump other dogs and run after random balls and run in the pack that circles the park.

Listen to the white dog bark with a ball in his mouth.

Coem back up the hill with stairs included. Carry the filthy dog across the kitchen floor and put him right in the tub. Wash off his legs, feet, belly, tail, etc.

Dry him with the endless supply of ratty towels you've had in the basement for just this purpose.

Yell at him when you find him on the couch!!!!!! Bad dog!!!!!

Think about your former life when you could sleep in and there weren't footprints all over the house.

Then dance in your living room with the cats looking on.

All in all, a good day. A trip to the emission station with my trusty Blueberry. Passed. Am I glad I don't have that job. And perhaps there are decent benefits and a union to join. And there is the snazzy uniform.

My therapist is on the fourth floor of the Smith building, a landmark building in Pioneer Square. I make myself climb the stairs, all 543 of them. I'm winded when I arrive at her door. I hope she never moves up another floor. I'll need the servants to carry me up there. It takes me 10 minutes to get my breath before I can talk.

Then to the dog park, in the rain. Muddy dog to dump into the tub as soon as we got home. He's very fond of humping other dogs Great. Dog behavior.

On call. Waiting for the ladies to go into labor.

Because Rebecca just talked about cherry pie on her blog, I'm gonna go take a bath.

Pie is heaven on earth. Like baths.

Then I'll feel less deprived. Of pie.

Pina Bausch

We saw 'Pina" today, in 3D. The dancers moved in DIRT, spread across the stage. It was sweat, beautiful muscles sweating, dirty faces and a woman in a red dress. Go see it. On the big screen. Please.

Life with a Puppy

!. Forget sleeping in. Puppies need to pee/poop at 6AM. Or earlier. And you have to run to the door. Otherwise the poop may end up on the rug in front of the door.

2. Puppies have more energy than a room full of two year olds. Puppies jump three or four feet into the air. Straight up.

3. Puppies think that cats can be convinced to play with them. Even if they're hissing and growling.

4. Puppies run around like goofballs. One guy today called my puppy a 'knucklehead". He was right.

5. Puppies will eat anything. I mean anything. You spend a certain amount of time digging bits of detritus out of their mouth.

6. Puppies bark at cars, people, dust, shadows and absolutely nothing.

7. Puppies can make you laugh until you're weeping. In the back yard. In your pajamas. In the rain.

I'm sorry to have forgotten to post this but today is my fucking birthday. And if I transpose the numbers, I'm 26. And I look every inch of 26, let me tell ya.

We went to Whidbey Island where there is a magic dog beach (where we met a puppy almost the same age as Felix) and we threw the ball about a million times and Felix fell around and lept into the air and generally made a fool of himself. Puppies are effing funny. They're us when we DIDN'T CARE that we were goofballs with dirt and sand on our faces when we fell backwards onto the beach. The sun was shining, it was freezing and there was a bit of snow. The nice people with Oscar (the odd couple) told us to go to Gordon's on Blueberry Hill for dinner so we did and it was a beautiful sunset over a wee Puget Sound bay with wine and salad and chocolate decadence with a candle in it.

Perfect.

It was a perfect day and I'm grateful for my children and Milo and my whole family and my honey and everyone else who loves me. I had two glasses of wine and I can't feel my toes and I don't care.

Kiss kiss.

Felix Matisse

O dear what a week it has been. We lept into puppy parenting as soon as we returned from Kauai.

So.

We drove up to Canada to pick up the pup and I forgot my passport. So Deb continued on over the border while I cooled my heels in Blaine in a motel. For two hours. Then I was asked to leave ( I guess my time turning tricks was over). They let me sit in the lobby until Deb returned with the pup, who had thrown up in his crate. It was a pleasant drive home, with the smell of puppy barf wafting through the car.

Do you know that puppies are BABIES? They cry. They pee on themselves. They poop on the rug.

They're hilarious. Felix has been trying in vain to befriend the katz. Hugo is permanently insulted that we brought a 'thing' into the house. And we are feeding Felix and fussing over him too. Hugo is the house king, not some dumb baby dog. Felix doesn't care that he looks a fool when he hops across the lawn. He and Hugo will never be friends. Never.

Meanwhile, we've had another baby wave, three in the last 24 hours.

Even on vacation, I delivered babies in my dreams.

Um, this is where we were. And this is the beach where I SWAM WITH A TURTLE. Actually, I swam into her. It's possible. She was just there and I backed up but not before smacking her (gently) with my hand and saying (whoa) into my mask. Then I swam around and above her while she ignored me so she could snack on green stuff that grows on coral. O and there were fishes, all colors and an eel and more fishes and monstrous waves and really bad hair from salt water (who cares) and now I'm back with the katz and tomorow we pick up the puppy and the house will be in an uproar.

Three births in 48 hours, off to Atlanta at 3:30 in the AM. Sheesh. Way too tired. I threw a bunch of underwear in the duffle, my computer, ipod, headphones and an apple. Gawd. O, and two pairs of boots. Gotta have boots, don't I?

Where is my retirement? Where are my servants? I need a cool cloth on my head, a cuppa and a lie down.

Diet

I tell you
I wanted a cookie
one with butter and sugar
a special crackled surface
with bits of submarine and cheddar
not too tasty!

You brought me a burst appendix
radishes with the red rubbed off
a broken minesweeper you said was an heirloom
after they washed off the graffiti
you moved into the solarium

where you ravished the wild hyssop
bottled virulent sunsets in vinegar
brokered manufactured beeches
fletched mice and their harvest mouselings
sunk in the mire

I asked for honey
you proffered lapwings
I craved blunt icing
you fled backhand the arboreal spread
we played hide the sickle

the grass bled green
toads winked in your slippers
I limped back to the big house
with a pan of glisten
welts on my thumbs
and an appetite for rancor