Products.

The list of products purchased for one little shelter dog, who no one would have missed from the world had we not gotten him (I refuse to say adopted; he is not a child):

• Walking harness
• Leash
• Front-clip walking harness
• Kong toy
• Second Kong toy
• Head halter
• Dog bed
• Kennel
• Doghouse
• Special couch blanket
• Interactive chewy ball
• Container to hold both kongs and chewy ball
• Two toys and one nylabone he will not use
• Citronella spray collar
• A series of 7 disgustingly ugly Ikea rugs for the main level of our home so that he can stop skittering across the hardwoods in terror
• Clicker
• a LOT of treats
• Thundershirt (monogrammed - thanks to John, not me; he loves personalization!)

Sigh. 

The results are in.

The time has come - my SIBO test results are in!

I picked up the phone with great nervousness, and heard, "Hi Emily! It's Dr. M!" She was excited and smiling, I could hear it.

"Hi! How are you?" I said in a big rush, as I locked myself into a conference room at work.

"I'm great, I have your test results and it is so exciting!"

Ohmygodwhatisit!?

So my bacteria indicators are down 80% or more. I still have it - and I knew I did - but it's going away, and it's going away fast. I'm not at all disappointed. I knew it would still be there, and my only fear was that it would be, like, 10% gone or something. But 80% gone! Miracle of miracles! Every single bite of food I passed up was worth it!

However.

It gets weirder.

The latest drug regimen, which Dr. M. wants to see me undergo, would be a choice of either herbal or pharmaceutical antibiotics. Herbals are $200 out of pocket and take 40 days. Pharmaceuticals are $850 out of pocket and take 14 days. She wasn't strongly advocating either way, but the pharmaceutical route - as evidenced by the cost - is a pretty incredible drug. It does not build up a resistance, so it should be as effective this time as it was last time. And it's non-systemic, so it does not cross into the blood and body; it stays right there in the digestive tract. If it does as well as it did in January, and I do as well with the diet as I did the last 8.5 weeks, I could be free of bacterial overgrowth and back on a path of healthy well-rounded eating. And so, yes, I'm a Western science girl at heart - I'm gulping on paying the bill and going for it. Round two shall be more pharmaceuticals.

But this is where it gets weird.

The second drug regimen comes with a new instruction. If choosing the pharmaceuticals over the herbals, one should, for 14 days - and not sooner, nor later - be eating, at one or two meals a day, something(s) from the list of "NO" foods. 

!!!

The highly fermentable foods list, aka everything delicious, will become my friend for 14 glorious days - and on day 15, it is cold turkey back to the SIBO diet. The theory here is that you want to feed the bugs while killing them… draw them out and knock 'em down; don't let them hide in dormancy while you take the pills.

As the calendar would have it, I am headed to Florida to see my mom and aunt next week, and frankly, this couldn't be better timing. I have not started the regimen yet, for two reasons. One, I am afraid I will get sick, like I did last time. It was the flu; I know it was. But what if - what if - what if it was a die-off reaction from slaying bacteria? And secondly, because I am making a list of Portland things I want to fit into my 14 day schedule. Any other suggestions? So far I have what is below, and it may well be two more months before I can have anything this tasty again.

• a slice of berry pie from Lauretta Jean's
• a kati roll from Bollywood Theater
• something from Maurice (brand new sweet shop near my office)
• half a pizza from Firehouse
• ice cream with hot fudge from Salt and Straw
• chocolate blackout cake from Sugar Cube (I've never had it!) 
• Frank's noodles 
• bread from Fleur de Lys 
• a bagel from Tastebud, now at food carts near my office

Sexist and Classist

If you don't ride public transit - and preferably the bus - there are parts of yourself that remain hidden. Parts of yourself you might not even know exist. But start riding it, on the regular, and you'll discover those parts. Oh, they will come out, like it or not.

So I may have already know that I am a bit sexist and a bit classist, but this week on the bus, I realized both anew in two moments where my thoughts bubbled over before I could control them, subvert them into something kinder, spin them into something reasonable. I saw my own truth and there's nothing to do with it but share.

The first was a packed bus; not quite standing room only but almost. All seats taken and some folks standing. Standing on the MAX light rail train is one thing; standing on a bus is another. It is significantly more uncomfortable. The first 7 seats on the bus, 4 on one side and 3 on the other, are reserved for Honored Citizens - seniors and those with disabilities. The seats flip up for wheelchairs, or are intended for those with limitations.

As we get fuller, at a stop, the bus driver says, "I have an Honored Citizen here, if you are not an Honored Citizen, please give up your seat." And what happens?

The three seats on the left: a dude, healthy, fit, age 32 or 33, and his girlfriend, similarly healthy. Next to them, an older man with a cane.

The four seats on the right: a very heavyset older man with probably developmental delays and three women, between 30 and 40, healthy and fit.

What happens?

Two women on the right start to stand up; one is clearly a fake-out stand up - she is waiting to see if anyone else will go for it. The other woman really was going for it, and she stands, takes hold of a strap, and the Honored Citizen has a seat. And my mind EXPLODES.

The youngish guy? Didn't even flinch. Didn't even think to get up. Chivalry, I've decided, is dead. I glared at his girlfriend with a mix of pity and rage as I left the bus a few stops later and I think my message was received.

The second was a very young mother, she couldn't be a day over 20, climbing onto the bus in the pouring rain with a whining toddler. They got the last two seats, near me, and upon settling it, she pulled out a soda bottle and opened it, then opened his baby bottle, filled it, gave it to him, and his quieted right now. I was horrified. I don't even let myself drink soda, diet or regular anymore; I know it's a chemical and sugar poison for the delicate human body - much less a toddler's! I was also most horrified that it was a Mountain Dew. What trashy parenting, I thought. Mountain Dew! Might as well be cocaine.

Then I saw that it was a Sprite, and I immediately on the heels of my Mountain Dew judgement was the thought, "Oh, well, maybe the little guy is sick. You have to have Sprite when you're sick."

As if my experiences are universal, as if my having Sprite as a kid on the couch with a cold means anything, and as if I know a damn thing about being a mother at that young age, riding the bus in the rain.

Try it: ride the bus for a month. It's a forced mile in both someone else's shoes, and in your most ill-fitting ones. Not bad to see, once in a while.

July 30: Recovery in Pommern.

(As written in my journal that day; grammar and minor edits only. Italicized portions are additions written after the trip.)

My day of rest. I sleep deeply for most of it - with a few little breaks, starting with chamomile tea (oh, blessings on the volunteer who brought it!), dry toast and the other two oh-my-god-I-am-beyond-glad-I-brought-it chicken noodle soup packets.

Today is the first cloudy day we've had in Pommern, and I can feel a rainy day restlessness set in - I wake off and on to hear the kids constantly nitpicking, arguing, sticking things in the fire - and then getting yelled at for it. Joann has come down with a terrible cold - later I learn she is 74!  I get up at one point to brush my teeth and it's enough effort to prompt a nap. I obsess all day, at any point I wake up, about the need to feel better soon - now - faster - there's only tomorrow and Thursday left! We leave Friday for Dar. Saturday night we fly away.

I read a little bit, finally finishing up with Paul, and I am happy to be done with him. At least I like when he says, "The best writers are scrupulous and pitiless observers." I've long known that "not much gets past me" but it is nice to hear Paul speak of that as a common trait among the writerly species.

The smell of cooking fires has already been a little gross to me - and today I can't take it. The smoke drifting in, and the oil I experience as rancid-smelling, though it's probably not - there were fried doughnuts for breakfast, more greens stewed in it for lunch. I've moved back into my little solo room which is great - but it is also closest to the cement-room kitchen, where cooking is half inside and half in the backyard. I think of Kimi and Bradley, and how tired of oil they are after two months in India each time, something I couldn't truly understand before - and now I can't imagine more of this, much less another six weeks. Every wafting wave of smoke or oil turns my stomach.


Mamatony brings in some mandazi at one point. "Eat! You need to eat." I want to scream at her - get that oil-soaked dough out of my face! I say, "Oh, no, Mamatony, I'm ok."

"No, no, you need strength. Eat - eat." She pushes it at me. I point at my dry toast and tell her I'm starting with that and soup. She looks at my powered soup very skeptically. I tell her that American stomachs always heal with that kind of soup, and I promise I will eat her food when I feel a little stronger, but I need to start here.


Marie gets me a Sprite from the little pop stand up the dirt road, and it is the best thing I've ever tasted. (She gets me a Coke too; also freaking delicious.) I manage to get up for dinner - a feat! - and thank god Mamatony has included plain white rice on the menu tonight. Although nothing is really plain - there's some margarine or cooking oil in this, I can feel a little sheen. I can't stop thinking about Shelly's Vegan Wrap from Elephants Deli in Portland - something tart and vinegary, with sweet grapes and crunchy apples. I lean against the wall during dinner and am happy to get back to bed - with high hopes for tomorrow.

And because if you're my mother, or happen to be someone else who is wondering... no, I didn't attempt a sun shower. So I've been lying in the same outfit, with the same dried sweat, since 4 PM on Monday, and it's now 9 PM on Tuesday, and I'm just going to ride it out until tomorrow.

Panhandlin'

Sunny weekday afternoon, I've got my headphones in, walking with purpose along a busy sidewalk in the middle of proper downtown Portland. A small gaggle of young, homeless men sit on the sidewalk, nearly on the curb and well out of the officeworkers' way, with a couple cardboard signs in front of them, their black markers out to improve witty panhandling sayings they'll use on tourists all weekend.

One is standing over the rest, observing, and he looks up to see me coming. I set my jaw and keep walking, as he says, "Miss, do you happen to have -" and then he stops. Before I've passed him. He looks down, and now I am passing him by, totally ignoring him, my usual approach.

As I move past him, he says with a genuine shrug, "You know what, never mind. I want you to have a nice day!" It's not aggressive, it's nice and sounds totally natural; he may even be saying it to his buddies, rather than to me.

I don't keep my tunes turned up very loud when I'm walking; I want to hear buses and sirens and possible emergencies that might need my help, so I start to laugh, and turn around, but am still walking. I catch his eye and smile and chuckle. I look forward again and keep walking, and hear him say, "Yeah! There it is! A great smile!"

Crow!!

In the same cursed stretch of road last week, I rode my bike past a crow.

A crow with a broken back or broken wing, or both - flopping around in a circle, trying to lift off in absolute vain. And as I rode past, staring in complete horror with an open mouth at this tortured creature I thought, it is too big for me to run over it and make a difference, and it is circling itself out of the way of oncoming traffic.

And then?

The sound of about twenty other crows, flying in from Hell (I assume) not to save their brother - but to put him out of his misery.

See what I'm saying about bicycling = connection to the neighborhood!? Shit's getting real, people.

Squirrel!!

To, ahem, quote the dog from "Up."

When you ride your bike, it's true what they say - you become newly connected to your neighborhood, and your route, by the smells, the sounds, the feeling of pedaling uphill each vertical foot.

And this intimacy of enjoying your route also means that a lone, dashing, daring, gutsy, inspirational and incredible squirrel - who darts from under a car in front of a bike - is actual cause for genuine alarm. It could really mess you up! Or in this case, it could really mess up the guy in front of you - who almost hit it!

Tales from the road, and my wild urban life, indeed.

Too perfect.

Paid my bullshit arts head tax today. The one that is going to get found illegal, overturned, and I'll see my money back someday soon. The captcha to process my online payment?

MUST PHOULYA

You ain't just whistling Dixie!

Another silver lining

Today I took a hip-hop class and watch out world! I am terrible!

Well, that's not exactly true, but I was pretty anxious - it has been 18 years since I took a formal dance class - and I was pretty intimidated by the "beginner" class participants. What if I taken the beginner-intermediate class!? I may have had to dismiss myself!

But while the choreography was challenging, and my memory for eight-counts could use a little work, the one place I was totally successful was in general fitness. I was sweating. I was panting a little. But I could have gone another hour - and I made it through all of the sanctioned warm-up push-ups and crunches, plus the drop-it-like-it's-hot squats that were part of our routine, over and over again.

So, first, I've checked off the "try something new" box for the month - 'cause hey, if it's been 18 years since I did this, we can all agree this is "new" to me as an adult.

And second, the silver lining to spending one's youth off the court, outside the track, sidelining at the game and passing on weight room is that at age 31, I can genuinely say I'm in the best shape of my life, and I don't have to lament that what was possible in my energetic youth is now gone (Big Macs and marathons!). Heck, I can save that certain lamentation for my next decade! Ha!

A thing I did not see on the street while growing up in Montana, which I saw today in Portland.

A woman walking toward the MAX train, pushing a baby stroller. The baby was asleep inside, covered in blankets, and both handles had swinging grocery bags hanging off them. Her hijab was maroon and very tight; so tight, in fact, that she had a flip-phone cell-phone tucked into it, and was chatting away. Take that, Bluetooth!

Forewarned is forearmed.

I have planted some bright red geraniums and little purple-flowered ground cover in the parking strip. (Do you know about the parking strip? It is apparently the bane of many gardeners' existences.) But we live in a skinny house, so with only 25 feet of property facing the street - including a driveway! - I have but a tiny bit of land to work with. The parking strip is the only place for me to show neighborhood pride!

But I'm warning myself - and you - now. The beautiful geraniums, they're tempting. They're a shiny, candy red and blooming away happily, with more buds already to be seen, and part of me wonders, "Are they begging to be picked?"

And if they are, how angry will I be to come outside and see them ruthlessly chopped down or ripped out of the ground? Well, we all know the answer to that: really, really, really angry.

And if all I can control in the world is my reaction to things, then perhaps I shouldn't have set my self up, shouldn't have planted such lovely flowers for all passerby to see...

Only time will tell. But I'll be sure to report back with updates!

Locavore Complaint

If you don't live in Portland, it is handy, before reading this, to know that Fred Meyer is a grocery store that also has a Kmart/Target-like store within it - clothes, garden supply, paint department, home decor, pharmacy, etc. Also, the City banned plastic bags at large retailers, so all grocery stores have paper bags and otherwise encourage you to bring your own.

I hope, I wish, I trust - that there might be some good reason why the Fred Meyer in the affluent, trendy part of town (Hawthorne) offers paper bags with handles... and the Fred Meyer in my poorer, decidedly uncool and un-influential part of town (Interstate) only offers paper bags without them.

Do you know why? Is it a better reason than people with money get nicer things for free? Is it a reason that makes sense, and explains the giving of flimsy, non-handled bags to the shoppers using the nearest grocery store to one of Portland's food deserts (the New Columbia development, a couple miles away, where the highest proportion of city residents are without cars and thus, carrying their purchases by bus, bike and foot)?

Do you know the reason? And is it a good one?

Coda #2 - ! ! ! ! ! !

Ok, the plot thickens.

We've now found out this group of kids pulled a dine-and-dash this week at the 1 of (only) 3 restaurants in my neighborhood.

And the ballroom where I dance? There is a church group that meets there on Wednesday nights. They were stolen from by the same group.

It is on.

Coda #1 - ! ! !

A coda to the theft story... as I was thunderclouding my way back home that night, I was stuck at a very long light waiting for the crosswalk to clear, with another woman. I realized I was thunderclouding her, and that wasn't very nice, so I gave a slight smile. She shivered and said, "It's cold!" I said, "I know! August, it's crazy!"

"Gonna be hot this weekend though."

"Yup, it will be nice."

"Last one probably, of the summer."

"Yeah."

Aaaaand we're still waiting on the crosswalk signal. We're leaning on the sandwich board fro the Zumba class.

"You know," I said, as I tapped the sandwich board, "I was just in this dance class, and four kids came in to join, and one of them stole $20 from the teacher!"

"Well, people need money."

"Excuse me? And stealing is the way to get it?"

"I'm just saying, working people don't have enough. You have to do stuff."

"What?! And stealing is the way to go about it?!"

As she turned the corner out of the crosswalk one way, and I went the other, she gave me a shrug, and a "well...."

I shouted something as I walked away, and I was so upset I can't even remember what.

So maybe these kids were sent by a relative, parent or guardian to thieve.

And in the sputters of my anger, I should have turned around and said, "Need money? Maybe you could try teaching dance classes for money. Or sure, just tell teenagers it is OK to steal. You know what lady, you deserve the bad day it looks like you're having and I'm sorry you're such a miserable asshole."

Tell me how to heal this.

At Zumba class tonight, 4 kids showed up a bit after it began, and stood in the back of the room. One was little, 7 or 8, with her older sister, maybe 14. They were tapping their toes. The teacher invited them in to be in the ballroom with us.

The older sister seemed to have a very sweet boy with her, who was crushing on her enough to dance Zumba with us! And the 4th one - maybe 13?, maybe 14? hard to say with boys that age - sat in the back, in the lone chair in the ballroom. Which is right behind the computer where the music is played from.

He watched, he laughed when we tried to get him come dance. I admit, my inner control freak wanted to give them the boot - what if they got hurt and hadn't signed a waiver? What about how they didn't pay, which is a loss to our amazing teacher? But I let the part of me win who respects authority - and I let the teacher, or more senior folks in the class, make the decision.

They left as we did our cool-down stretches.

I got a round of high-five's from my classmates on the 15-pound weight loss I'm now up to, combining Weight Watchers and Zumba.

And then I walked out, and picked up a water bottle that had fallen on the ground.

And another woman picked up a wallet that had fallen on the ground. She flipped it open, "Whose is this?"

And I looked at the ID. "That's R's. That's our teacher's wallet."

Sure enough, the kid in the back kept his eyes on us while he fished out her wallet and stole $20. He left her ID, her credit cards, her health insurance card - which is pretty important for a cancer survivor turned Zumba instructor.

I am enraged. This foments distrust in my neighborhood. This foments fear of teenagers, roamin' around in packs like they do. This encourages a really nice teacher, who was embracing the experience of letting some kids come dance with us - one of whom could certainly benefit from a good cardio class even at a young age, as she was rather heavy, and see that working out can be fun - to become hardened and wary.

Look, I don't care if he needed the money (and I don't believe for a second he did). I don't care if he has parents at home who ignore him or no parents at all. I don't care if he is teased for being a slow reader, a bad football player or too feminine. He came into our little fun workout world and stole money. And for the cost of $20, he sent home a room full of women with negative feelings, increased distrust and a reminder to not be kind, open, loving, or soft with the rules once in a goddamn while.

And don't you dare tell me our teacher could have made a better decision and not let them in, or made them sign their names, or not let him sit in the chair. She could have. But that comes awfully, awfully close to victim-blaming. And to use a more typical victim-blaming line: a short skirt did not a rape create. This kid stole. End of story.

So tell me. How do I heal that hurt? Sure, we students could pay our teacher back - but that's not the real loss, that's not her real pain, and if I come across that kid in my neighborhood, he better be fucking ready.

A first time for everything.

I am a person who wears her hair in a ponytail, or bun, or sloppy bun, every day. Every. Day. On my wedding day I did not; on M.A.'s 30th birthday I did not. If requested for an event, I will straighten and wear it down. I will then take a lot, a lot, a LOT of photos on these occasions, to trick you - and everyone on Facebook - into thinking I wear it down regularly.

Part two of this story: I am trying to live more in tune with my intuition. On items big and small, I'm trying to stop and check in with the soul, the spirit, the perfect little human voice inside me (that we all have), and hear what it is I should do next. Do I sense someone is in a bad mood and I should leave my question until after lunch? Done. Should I watch this documentary rather than read ten more New York Times articles, and allow some comfort and cuddle in my life, rather that sitting at a screen for even more hours? Done.

Or this week... should I go get my hair cut? On the way home from work? On a whim? Without worrying it to death for weeks? Perhaps at a walk-in salon on the way home, on this fine sunny Tuesday? I think I should. I think today is the day that I explain what I find so challenging about my hair, and explain that I wear it up everyday because I get too hot and sweaty, and because it gets too triangle-y and poufy, and then trust a professional to cut it as they wish. Let a little control go.

And guess what? I have worn my hair down, with the new cut, for two days IN A ROW. And I mean: all day. From leaving the house before 8 AM all the way until bedtime - through work, through cooking, through driving with the windows down. This, my friends, is a good haircut. Quite possibly my first one.

And no, I can't post a picture now; it is currently post-Zumba-workout hair and won't do justice to Ellie at Bishops salon on Alberta. Who was unknowingly a wonderful part of my let-it-go-and-let-intuition-guide-the-day day.

Seasonal

In Portland, every restaurant serves things local, sustainable and seasonal. Even the local fast food chain! (Remind me to go get some Walla Walla onion rings, by the way...)

But sometimes, even in the middle of berries and green garlic and new fingerling potato side dishes, you want a Brussels sprout. So learn from me - it's not just the tomato in January that is awful. It is the Brussels sprout in July, too, that is all food porn: looks good but never delivers; the right color but you can't touch it without getting in trouble.

Nope, not a surprise.

Despite this article calling it a surprising trend, it is in fact NOT a surprising trend to anyone who lives in the central city of Portland... nor to any of the comics visiting during the Bridgetown Fest. Is this a surprise to you?

(Non) Judgmental (?)

Alright, stand-up comedy. I get you now, in a way I did not before.

On a base level, I see an outer shell made up of neurotic people-pleasing, masturbation jokes and a supposed-or-stated lack of self-confidence.

I see a next layer composed of searing human observations, confessing to one's own foibles and/or finding universality in a highly specific situation.

And then I see a next layer, only in the minority of comics, that draws in the audience, one at a time, into different jokes, to total immersion with the performer... whether it's in laughing at ourselves, illustrating an injustice/prejudice, or just feeling like s/he is your oldest, bestest friend up there on stage, telling a story you were there for, and how you absolutely love reliving it.

That likability is a double-edged sword - and I enjoyed walking the sharp edge. As an audience member, I want every comic to be great. I want to like them and walk into their world, whatever it might be. (It's of value to me to "like" someone... by which I do not mean I always must agree or be of a similar disposition as the other person. It is, rather, an appreciation that they are authentically themselves, and I like nearly everyone who can be authentic. It's the fronting I hate, and so perhaps I will find myself drawn to more stand-up; after all, it doesn't really work well to fake it all on stage. The performer has to be as fallible, funny, lazy, ambitious and complex as me and mine.)

So I don't aim to be judgmental; I aim to be open to whatever they've got. But, well, I AM me, I am human, and I am paying good money to be entertained or thought-provoked. So of course I'm judgmental in my seat, with a piercing gaze for great callbacks, new takes on the common themes, and that amorphous, floating, undefinable ability to meet the exact vibe of the room.

I went to shows last week with 500+ in the audience, and one as small as 25 in the audience. To subtly adjust to the time of night, the drunkenness of the crowd, the comic who went just before, even to the shape of the room and volume of the mic, was fantastic to observe. Scratch that; it wasn't wholly observing. I, too, was part of the balance. In one room, I was one of only two women in the audience; my tittering laughter in the third row, in a clearly female voice, was one small ingredient in the show.

It was a great experience. Will I do it again? Ask me when I'm not so tired! But it served as a reminder that I do best in immersion. To see over fifty sets in three days was the way to go for me; I often say I do things, I say yes to things, purely to add a notch to my Experience List. So I have a new line item on Things Experienced, and in case you have the chance to see the following folks, don't miss 'em!

• Ron Funches (he's a Portlander and killed both sets I saw).
  
• Moshe Kasher (I saw him thrice, and every time was grand).
  
• The brilliant Chicagoan (and Thunder Cat!) Cameron Esposito.
  
• Zach Sherwin/MC Mr. Napkins (the aggressive bee!!)
  
• My regret is only seeing him at 1:40 AM... but he still brought the house down at that hour, Mr. Kyle Kinane.
• And Andy Peters, who should not have been funny to me by all rights, but I was holding my face because it ached from laughter.
  

When the sun comes out...

During an Oregon winter, I notice two things...

It's 5:20 PM and not pitch-black! We're movin' on up!

And yowza, you can really see the dust in my house with all this direct, natural light...