I want a new drug

If coffee didn't make me feel like my limbs will fly while I'm having a heart attack I'd be addicted to it too, even though a college buddy forbade me to touch the stuff after spending an hour with me on an iced-coffee high.

But who am I kidding? I've never been committed enough to have an addiction to anything. Of course, I never tried crack or smack, but that's only because I've never wanted to be committed.

Yesterday I asked AR, who was bravely wrapping up Detox Day Two, if she missed the coffee more physically or psychologically. She said: I miss the smell of it; I miss the taste of it; I miss the feel of the mug in my hands; I miss going to get it; I miss drinking it while I read the paper; I miss drinking it while I work. . .

She went on like that for awhile, but I forget what she said because by then I was thinking about monkeys or something. See what I'm talking about? I've got no follow through. I can't stick around for the end of a sentence, let alone become so attached to something that I'd miss it with all my senses.

I guess you could say I'm addicted to AnnaRay. In fact, I think I have said that on occassion, but you know, it was just an expression. And I don't think you could say I'm addicted to TheBoy, because it feels more like he's part of my physical being.

So where does that leave me? I don't smoke; I don't drink (much); I don't eat meat except for fish; I don't eat refined sugar (much). I don't feel deprived in any way, though I do think it's lame that all this healthy living has not spared me from chronic illness. It would be nice if, when I can't remember the word "grapefruit" or when I get lost in my own neighborhood or when the world seems to shift slightly to the left, I could blame it on the drugs.

So maybe I should just start doing drugs. Any suggestions? Prescription pharmaceuticals need not apply.

Owie-owie-ow-ow-ow

On Friday night, I gave up coffee. On Saturday, I learned what medical professionals mean by the phrase "blinding headache." Seriously. Judybat's mother took me to Powells, the best bookstore in the world, and I had a hard time shopping because the words kept blurring together.

Apparently, I had a little caffeine addiction. Or rather, still have. I've hit Day Three of Detox, and my head is still pounding, and I still have no appetite, and I still generally feel like I got hit by a bus. A nice woman did tell me today that I look thinner, but I think she may have been confused by the weird pink tinge my skin seems to have taken on, and this new gray streak in my hair. Again, I'm serious.

Still, I'm being a good dog. I haven't had any coffee, or anything with caffeine, or really anything I've enjoyed, since we had our wonderful neighbors over for dinner Friday. Yesterday at Portland's fantabulous Saturday Market, Judy brought me some fancy schmancy decaf herbal iced tea thingy in the hopes of helping with the headache and giving me a treat. She's sweet, but weak peppermint tea isn't going to do it. Today, I tried some fruity tea stuff, and even allowed myself to put honey into it. Again, disappointment. Apparently coffee is the only thing that will satisfy. And I miss it. Badly.

Limbo

Let me just say up front that I have absolutely nothing to say, so if you're looking something interesting, go here or here or even here. I don't know what it is - end of the summer malaise, end of the family visits catatonia, end of the innocence or what - but my mind is just not in the game.

My sister wrecked my car during her visit and it's been sitting in front of my house with its broken nose in a snarl for a week now because I haven't bothered to take it to a body shop. My scraggly front garden looks like The Day After because I pulled out a bunch of the seasonal stuff in order to plant something evergreen, but even though my mom wanted to take me to the nursery to buy the new plants for me while she was here, I didn't take her up on it because I was sure the new plants would just sit unhappily in their little plastic containers and probably die before I got around to putting them into the ground. A package arrived for me last week and it took five days and much nudging from my mom to get me to open it. Yesterday, I was driving in Anna's car, and I didn't like her preset selection so I hit the seek button, and the thing just spun and spun and spun around the dial till I got home because I couldn't bother to stop on a station.

I am not unhappy. I think I'm just tired. Perhaps I need more iron in my diet. Or a brain transplant. Either one.

Detox

Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. For at midnight, it begins: The long and we hope successful road to getting knocked up and giving TheBoy somebody to kick around.

We're still a few weeks away from my appointment with the high-tech turkey baster, but I decided months ago that I would use today, my 33rd birthday, as the demarcation line between unhealthy, pass-the-friends, where's-my-coffee AnnaRay with new-and-improved, My Body is a Temple AnnaRay2.0.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Now that I'm on the verge, however, I'm having these ugly daydreams about getting the DTs from caffeine deprivation and sugar withdrawal. I'm not as bad as I used to be -- over the past few years, I've steadily cut down on my candy intake, and I've limited myself to one Diet Coke a day, and I've generally started eating more of the healthy, veggie food JudyBat makes. (She cooks because she loves, even if I don't love what she makes.)

All the same, this is going to suck. Living in lovely Portland has made me more active -- have you heard my complaining about the bike ride to work recently? -- but it's also resulted in a serious bump in my coffee habit. There are five coffee shops within a three-minute walk from my office. Life is so mellow here, that most of us would fall asleep standing up were it not for a steady and readily available supply of java.

Then there's the beer. Portland is the microbrew capital of the world. Seriously. Demographers have proven it. We spend our days getting hyped up on coffee, and our nights coming back down on beer. Could life get any better?

But I'm giving it all up. As of tomorrow, I'm eating and drinking to fuel my high-rise luxury loft of a womb, not to feed my soul. No sugar, no caffeine, no booze, no crap. No fun. Except, you know, for apples and bananas and the occasional wee spoonful of organic, sugarfree, saltfree peanut butter. All for Segundo.

It's such a sacrifice, being a parent.

What I did on my summer vacation

By AnnaRay

- Fed the seals. They smell bad, but they're cute. And they beg just like our dogs.
- Cleaned up Stinkypee poop. That smells bad, too. In fact, I was surprised to learn that wet dog smells worse than wet seal. Who knew?
- Frolicked on the beach with TheBoy, even though it was only 75 degrees out, and he was turning a little blue.
- Broke up numerous fights between the nieces and nephews.
- Played with the nieces and nephews.
- Watched 15 minutes of "Hitch," and 45 minutes of the last "Lord of the Rings."
- Re-read the fifth Harry Potter.
- Re-read the sixth Harry Potter.
- Got in trouble with JudyBat for bragging about how quickly I read.
- Napped, although not enough.
- Missed work, although only when the children were especially noisy.
- Failed to worry much about the Yankees. I'm almost past the point of worrying and into a zen place where I merely enjoy the drama. Almost.
- Checked my work email three times.
- Changed 6 diapers and 5 pairs of pee-sodden BigBoyUnderpants.
- Slept in, although not enough. When did 7:30 become sleeping in?
- Failed to come up with anything interesting to post. Sorry, kids.

Family vacation

The Good: Feeding the seals at the Seaside Aquarium, flying kites on the beach under sunny skies, picking blackberries while walking to breakfast, wild bunnies outside our motel rooms, visiting the largest sitka spruce in the U.S., lunch at Camp 18, four cousins running, playing and laughing together.

The Bad: Four adults and four children and no reservations for lunch, no naps, four adults and four children and no reservations for dinner, two wet dogs inside our motel room, four cousins whining, crying and screeching together.

The Ugly: One dog throwing up in the car after drinking too much sea water.

Beach blanket bingo

We're going to the beach. We're taking blankets. We might play bingo. So, there you go.

We'll be taking a brief-but-well-deserved family vacation over the next few days, packing up the twin Subarus and the two dogs and TheBoy and dragging our sorry selves to the ocean. The Pacific Ocean. Which means it will probably be too cold to swim, but at least they have sand to dig in and neat rocks to stare at. And brewpubs, because this is Oregon.

Until we get back, a few questions to ponder:

- Why are bloggers so mean and self-righteous and mean? I don't like to talk about my work here because, quite honestly, it would bore you, but . . . Today, a blogger accused me of making up details of a conversation I reported. Then, hours later, he emailed me in a very friendly way to find out whether I'd actually witnessed what I suggested I witnessed. Uh, yeah. It involved some very highly technical reporting: I stood there. I watched two people interact. I took notes. Ass.

- Is Cindy Sheehan being used? I fear I think the answer is 'yes.'

- Is the Casey-Santorum Senate race the most important one in the country next year? Does anyone out there care?

- Was John Roberts right in recommending that Reagan not give a big Gipper seal of approval to Michael Jackson those many years ago?

- Can the Yankees close the gap? Will they ever stop wasting good pitching performances?

- Will I make it through a weekend with my spouse, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, two nieces, one nephew and TheBoy without losing my mind?

Talk amongst yourselves. We'll be back. We love you all. Tip your waiters.

Summer idyll

Portland these past three months or so has felt like some idealized version of summer. The days are hot under deep blue skies, but it's cool enough in the shade for a lazy swing in the hammock. The heat abates with a gentle breeze in the evenings, which last till 9 p.m., and by morning you need to pull the covers up against the chill air coming in the bedroom windows. After dinner, we ride our bikes to a nearby playground, stopping for gelato along the way. Our neighborhood has this Rockwellian atmosphere with kids playing in the tree-lined streets, chalk drawings on the sidewalks, lemonade stands, the jingle of the ice cream truck.

There are fountains for frolicking all over the city and a concert in one park or another every night of the week. Folks spread their blankets on lawns, lay out a picnic and listen to the blue grass or the swing jazz or the symphony. And if that's not enough, there seems to be some fair or festival down at the waterfront every other weekend.

Yesterday, we managed to pack more into one long Sunday than we ever did in a North Carolina summer, (which typically lasts from March until October.) In the morning, we joined 20,000 other Portlanders for the 2005 Bridge Pedal. They close the streets to cars and you get to enjoy the views over the river at a leisurely pace:



We took the 14-mile route, which crossed six bridges, (there was also a 24-mile/8-bridge route and a 34-mile/10-bridge route,) because this was AR's first real ride. At times, the pace was a little too leisurely, as the crowds were thick,



but we had a great time. There was virtually no whining - The Boy got a little squirmy in his seat on the back of my bike during the slow bits, but AR was a trooper, even on the hills, and vowed that next year we would do eight bridges.

The ride ended right at the entrance of this awesome food festival, and I must say whoever planned that deserves a medal. We got in for free with our Bridge Pedal vests and walked around sampling tasty morsels from the various area restaurant booths as jugglers performed to the beat of some funky jazz trio.

But wait, there's more.

Early in the evening, our street was closed to traffic so we and the neighbors could have a block party. (There's some serious solidarity in Portland neighborhoods all over the city.) I set up a table in the middle of the street in front of our house, and by the time I came back out with some chairs the potluck dishes were already piling up. A couple people brought out their gas grills and there were coolers full of beer and our neighbor 2-doors down, who plays in a Celtic band, brought his guitar and played with one of his bandmates for most of the evening. To top it all off, someone had arranged for a fire truck to come, and the crew hooked one of the hoses up to a hydrant and shot a column of water into the air so it poured down on us like rain. YEE HAW!

My people

My mother and sister and nephew and nieces are coming to stay with us next week. I've been looking forward to their visit all summer and was worried it wouldn't happen, what with my grandfather sort of but not really on his deathbed and all. But they bought their tickets last week and I was getting excited until a disturbing thought set up shop in my brain. "What could be more high maintenance than a visit from my mother and my sister and my sister's three kids?" I asked AR. Her answer was even more disturbing: "A visit from your mother, whose foot is broken, and your sister and your sister's three kids."

Here's the thing: My mother, who is funny and smart and one of my favorite people on the planet, comes with a lot of baggage. I'm talking literal and figurative baggage, even without the broken foot.

My mom likes stuff. She likes to be surrounded by stuff at all times. When she comes to visit, she brings a lot of stuff with her, and when she gets here, we have to go out and buy more stuff, and when she leaves, she trails some of her stuff behind, so we're left with random bits of plastic treasure, bargain books she's sure someone will want at some point so she'd better get five, heads of iceberg lettuce wrapped in paper towel, and lots and lots of pillows. I think she needed five pillows the last time she was here, but I suspect the broken foot will need one or three of its own, so we're off to Bed, Bath & Beyond again.

Also, while I love and respect my mom, I can't help but roll my eyes in a particularly bratty fashion when she says things like "I need a jigabite memory card." And while I'm sure that in some part of her brain she's aware that I'm a capable and responsible adult, she can't help pointing out a dust bunny in the corner and saying "when you sweep a room, you have to remember to close the door and sweep behind it."

I don't really have anything bad to say about my sister, except that she can't understand how I can live without television and paper towels, and I can't get over the fact that she changed her name and wore a veil at her wedding. Also, when we're together, we tend to regress to about 13 or 14 years of age. Fun!

The nephew, 7, and nieces, 5 and 3, are a delight, except when they're sulky or screechy or whiny or nasty or a danger to themselves and others - but that was only the one time really. Also, they're really really loud.

"So what's family without a little agita?" I ask AR, but can't hear me. She's already retreated to her dark, quiet room.

What is it with you breeders?

First it was "man dates," and now this.

Maybe my problem is with the New York Times style section -- that's a distinct possibility, given how it pales in comparison to the substance and literary flair on display every day in the WashPost or, for that matter, the Times A section. But I think I'm really bothered by what seems to be the underlying theme of both this story and the recent NYT piece detailing the shocking news that straight guys can hang out together without being, you know, gay.

The message seems to be this: You can be attracted to another person, dazzled by them, rendered speechless by them, and even, in the case of one woman quoted in today's Times, "have such a potent crush on woman that she became sweaty in her presence" without at least having a passive, snake brain urge to have sex with them. (Sweating doesn't signify some sort primal urge? How about drooling, then?)

I'm not saying I disagree with the notion that you can be kinda, sorta in love with your friends. (That is, in fact, kinda, sorta the story of my life prior to age 32 or so.) But this comes awfully close to another line of reasoning I keep hearing from those kind, forgiving Christian folk who argue that my spouse and I are going to hell. Just because you're attracted to someone, the thinking goes, doesn't mean you have to act on it. This whole gay thing is a self-control issue, not a question of genetics.

See why I might be a little sensitive? Now I'm certainly not one to talk about crushes and whether a given infatuation is or isn't sexual. Mine are. But then again, as JudyBat would not hesitate to point out, I'm drawn to a particular kind of woman: Live ones.

It just strikes me that there's a little bit of sophomoric fear involved here. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

This week's theme: selling out

I'm one of those snooty, white collar intellectuals who considers "This American Life" pretty much the height of modern American storytelling. So I was more than a little disturbed when I read that Ira Glass was trying to create a TV version.

Now I've found out something even more troubling . . . He lost 30 pounds for it.

Why? Here's what he told the LA Times: "I decided I needed to lose weight. Because I have seen the people on the TV, and they tend to be very thin."

Let's count the ways this is wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Actually, no. Let's not. It's too upsetting.

The lost weekend

Since she hitched her wagon to my star, (to borrow a phrase from Tony Soprano,) AnnaRay has endured much and adapted admirably. She happily eats tofu, for example, and has learned to like black beans. Also, she will on occassion, after much verbal prompting on my part, tell me what she is thinking.

The big thing, though, has been her acclimation to the cacophonous freak show I like to call my family. Not that her side is freak-free - is anybody's really? But her people like to keep it quiet. So, while AR loves to visit my crazy family, after two days with them she needs to spend a couple of hours in a dark, quiet room.

I, on the other hand, have it easy. When her folks come to town, there is no fighting, no yelling, no crying, and only a small amount of cursing that is usually directed at the current administration. It's all very pleasant. Or so I thought.

This weekend, AR's mom came down from Washington with the Once And Future Stepfather, and AR's brother came up from California with his long-time lady friend. If you have been keeping up with this blog, you're aware of the ongoing drama among these players, and you might think this would make for an awkward visit. But it was lovely. Everyone got along fine. I found it completely exhausting.

It turns out that I have a low tolerance for facade maintenance, just as Anna can only take so much emotional exhibitionism. At some point, I noticed high ball glasses gathering around the sink and beer bottles piling up in the recycling bin, and I had a small epiphany. I finally understood the secret to getting through a weekend like this and sought my quiet room in the bottom of a coctail glass. I managed to maintain a low-flying buzz for most of Saturday, a feat I'd only attempted once or twice before during my heady college days. I found the numbness to be quite pleasant, though in the end, it was no less exhausting.

Come to think of it, what Tony actually said was "I told you not to hitch your wagon to my star."

My new mantra

We've got a full house this weekend: My mother and the Once and Future Stepfather are here from the Great North, and my brother and his lady-friend are up from SoCal. The OFS drives a very swanky Volkswagon SUV, complete with leather seats, cool red interior lighting, sensors that beep if you're too close to another vehicle, machine guns for those nasty traffic jams and a GPS thingy that tells you how to get anywhere you might be going.

The GPS is amazing. You type in your destination, and this efficient-sounding woman who apparently lives in the dashboard guides you: "Prepare to turn left in 500 feet," or "Take the second left," or "Make a U-turn, dummy!" She's even smart enough to come up with new directions if you miss a turn or opt not to listen to her very specific instructions. And every so often, she pipes in with my new favorite Zen mantra, "Continue to follow the road."

That's a rule to live by, isn't it? Work got you down? Continue to follow the road. Fight with your spouse? Continue to follow the road. Getting tired trying to peddle your bike up that last hill on the way home? Continue to follow the road. I like the implication that goes with that, too, as if she's really saying, "Continue to follow the road. I'll give you more instructions later." Or, "Continue to follow the road. We'll figure it all out eventually." Or even, "Continue to follow the road. As much as you might wish it, you're not actually in control here. So relax. Chill. Stop worrying. Just keep driving, and we're sure to wind up someplace interesting. Until then, how's about a nice cookie?"

Through modern technology, I have found inner peace.

Oh, $#!%

Oh my god, I may never work again. What if I can never get another job? I'm screwed.

Work shmirk

Yesterday, The Boy and I spent the better part of the afternoon in the hammock, eating kiwi and bananas and singing the alphabet song. I'm pretty sure I don't ever want to work again.

On to more pressing issues

I have a serious question related to current events, national security, our relationship with the rest of the world, etc. Here it is: How does John Bolton eat/talk/sleep/do anything with that huge honking 'stache?

I'm serious. I do not understand mustaches. I need some help getting this, on an intellectual level. Are there any experts out there? You know, menfolk? Or ladyfolk with menfolk? Myself, I have very little experience with such things, except for my own unfortunate facial hair. And there's really no comparison there.

Any assistance y'all can give me on this subject would be great. It's not that I don't see the appeal of a nicely groomed lip ornament, but I have to say I don't quite see the point, what with all these modern razor doohickies they make now.

Among my questions: Doesn't food get stuck in there? Doesn't it get hot in the summer? Wouldn't that kind of shaggy growth be outlawed in some countries? Are we risking an international incident?

Thank you in advance for your time and patience as I attempt to wrap my brain around this one.

The grass is always greener ...

I've been meeting with some folks over the last couple weeks - a couple editors, a web site director - the kind of folks who could potentially give me a job. They don't actually have any openings right now, or even any filled positions for the type of work I do, so I guess it's a little odd that I called these people up out of the blue and asked to speak with them, but they were kind enough to meet with me anyway.

My timing couldn't have been better. The paper hasn't been doing much with their affiliated web site, but they want to do more online and have just started a big drive to figure out how to do that. Let me reitterate: they do not have a job for me. There is no job. But you can see how I might get a little excited about the prospect of getting a job with them.

Here how it all plays out in my head:

I have got to get a job. I love The Boy, but I have got to something with my brain that does not involve potty training, counting to twenty or figuring out what to cook for dinner. Preferably, something that pays well. But who will hire me? My skills are outdated and atrophied. I may never work again. What if I never work again? I have got to get a job. I am going to call these people right now and see what I can do about getting a job. These people are interested in what I have to say! I could be of some use to these people. They might actually hire me. I might get a job. But The Boy might not like going to school every day. And how will I get him there and still be able to bike to work? There won't be any time to cook dinner. Maybe I like my schedule now: The Boy and I hang out, go for a bike ride, play in a fountain; he takes a nap; I do a little writing. Maybe I don't want a job. Oh god, what if they offer me a job?!

This is where I start to think a lobotomy could actually prove theraputic. Do you think Blue Cross would cover it as treatment for being a complete spaz?

I don't think it will come to that. I had an excellent meeting at the newspaper, and while they didn't have a job for me, it looks like there may be an opportunity for me to do some contract work. All I have to do now is figure out how to get the work done during nap time.