Re-branded!

Looks like the marketing wizard that brought us "New Coke" in the '80s has a new job! I don't know if you've heard the great news, but the "War on Terror" has been re-branded. And not a moment too soon, I was sooo sick of the "War on Terror," so imagine my relief in finding out about this exciting new change.

For those of you who have not heard, Look for the new "Struggle Against Violent Extremism" (trademark pending, of course) I expect sunnier days ahead. Since "struggle" seems somewhat easier than "war" but I'm a little off-put by "violent extremism"- that still sounds pretty bad. Will former terrorist victims now be re-branded as "violent extremism victims"? Will headlines read, "London was again rocked by subway attacks of violent extremism"?

In any event, I'm glad to see the President and his administration use all the marketing tools at his disposal to combat terrorism, oh! whoops! I mean combat violent extremism. I think this new kick-ass slogan has Osama shaking in his boots. Up in his cave, between planning new attacks he's probably thinking, "Oh no! The crafty infidel marketers have finally uncovered the truth! That I am both extreme and violent!"

Who knows what's happening over in Al Queda's marketing department. I'm sure they're putting in some late nights coming up with their reply, probably focus group testing their new slogans. But let's face it, marketing and PR just isn't their strong suit. Its hard to maintain a good public image when you keep blowing up the public in suicide attacks and bombings. Tends to drive down your positive numbers.

I'm sure the President's new assertiveness in re-branding is providing a lot of welcome relief for the 19 year-old kids in the Army over in Iraq. Maybe downshifting from "war" to "struggle" will soon catch on over there and the insurgents will think twice before planting those explosives- they will say to each other "Hey guys, this is a 'struggle' not a 'war' maybe we should blow up a few less humvees this week."

So, thank you Mr. President! Brilliant work!

March of Boredom and Pub Mustard

Sunday was yet another walk day. No heroic 16 miler. We walked 12. What the walk lacked in distance it made up for in mind-numbing boredom. The husband of one of our walking team suggested we deal with the monotony of the worst of the course, as well the biggest hill of the course to psycologically prepare us. I'm of mixed opinion on this. Actually, I was happy to experience the largest hill of the marathon, which of course helpfully comes at mile frickin' 17!! I'm still mixed as to whether experiencing the crappy part of the course that it will be helpful when I'm actually doing the marathon, or just cause a bout of swearing. My first take on it was "Wow, this will really suck."

We started out at Montgomery Park in NW Portland, and wound down to the St. Helens Hwy. headed for the St. John's bridge. The St. Helen's Hwy. is a busy highway where big trucks blow by you. It is a down-at-the-heels industrial district on one side of the road and a train yard with industrial silos on the other side. There are no nice trees, no shade, no pretty buildings, and lots of trash on the roadside. The buildings are old and junky. Some are out of business and have boarded up windows. And stickerbushes have pretty much taken over. There was a little less trash on the road thanks to one industrious scruffy looking homeless guy we encountered, the numerous beer cans he collected looked like he would net about 20 or 25 bucks. He was riding past us on a bike and had his bags of cans precariously balanced on his head (!) and strapped to his backpack. His system was truly a feat of engineering. Industrious homeless guy was sadly the most interesting sight of the day.

We couldn't even talk really since the trucks and trains made so much noise, and we had to walk single file for much of the time. For the first half of the walk the St. John's Bridge taunts you from a distance. You can see the green spires of the bridge rise in the distance, but no matter how long you walked on the exhaust choked, crappy highway the bridge never seemed to get closer. Eventually, for your mental sanity, you must stop looking at the bridge in the distance and trying in vain to calculate the distance. I had to turn my attention once more toward the road. I set up my own rewards system. I set my sights on the delapidated scrap metal business several yards ahead, once I reached it I would take a few swigs of my nice cold water. In reaching the boarded up greasy spoon restaurant I treated myself to a few slices of apple I had in my pack. I was just enjoying more nice cold water that I rewarded myself with by reaching the grossly leatherized pile of road kill, when I looked up and we had reached the base of the bridge. Thus started the hill, which really wasn't so bad. I reserved the ultimate reward of two Fig Newtons once I reached the top. We headed back down on to the highway and then cut over to an almost equally mundane part of the marathon on Front Avenue. I was told by my walk mates that have done the marathon is that this is where you get Gummy Bears. Its funny how food on these walks become a point of obsession. I'm sure during the marathon I will treasure every gooey bite of the hapless bears.

Saturday was much more leisurely. My husband is rowing for a dragon boat team and had a race. I just went and cheered him on and ate a hot dog and some chicken, hung out at the little fair on the waterfront. Allison and I had a nice time and she even got to row out on the boat. Each member of the team picks a nickname. My husband picked "Wotan"- Why? Well, Wotan is the drummer of a rockin' band called "Pub Mustard." Before you wrack your brain trying to figure out if Pub Mustard is one of those one-hit-wonders of the '80s or something, or look for them in the CD bin at your music store, let me tell you about Pub Mustard.

Back when, my husband and his room-mate went out to clubs and were really into the local music scene. However, they apparently got tired of the jaded, know-it-all experts when they would talk to about local bands. Thus, the concept of Pub Mustard was born. They would toss in a reference to the awesome band Pub Mustard and their rockin' drummer, Wotan. I don't recall how many people took the bait and heartily agreed with how awesome Pub Mustard was...or if he and his room-mate ever followed through with the idea stapling up Pub Mustard posters around to add credence to the hype. Sadly, Pub Mustard and their exceptional drummer, Wotan, existed only in the imaginations (possibly aided in creation by alcohol?) of my husband and his former room-mate.

I say, don't let Pub Mustard die. The next time some jerk is holding forth on all they know about music and bands, feel free to interject-- "Yeah, they sound like Pub Mustard in the glory days (Portland in the mid-90s) You know, their drummer, Wotan, had mad skills like John Bonham."

Walking my legs off-- part deux

Saturday was the longest I have ever walked in my whole life, EVER. 16 miles! Of course we met at the insane hour of 6:00 am...I don't know if I could have done it without my walking group. A nice group of ladies who walk at my pace. Some of them are obviously in better shape than I am. Like this one lady who just joined our group because the rest of her group didn't show up. They are obviously the sane group doing something normal on a Saturday, like sleeping until a reasonable hour, grocery shopping, watching McGyver re-runs and tossing in a few loads of laundry. Like I used to do, back in the pre-walking quest days. Anyway this guest lady is 20 years older than me and can basically hand me my ass on a platter fitness wise. I would hate her except at about mile thirteen when I was completely be-draggled and on the verge of swearing in a fashion that would make a longshoreman blush--plus I was falling behind and too ashamed to ask for a slow down. She slowed down and chatted with me and encouraged me. I look at her perhaps as a guy would his war buddy who gave him some water during the Bataan death march during World War 2, though I met her only hours before in the dreary industrial parking lot north of the Broadway Bridge where the walk began. We then meandered about the Pearl district and then walked over the Steel Bridge to the Eastbank Esplanade.

The Eastbank Esplanade is a fairly new walkway along the eastside of the Willamette river. Here you will find all the crazy, clean-living Portlanders walking, running, rollerblading, and biking along. Even at the barely sane hours it was packed with people. I ask myself "Who the hell are these people? Why the hell are they so frickin' happy at 6:45 am on a Saturday?"

The regulars in my walking group know that I'm basically on auto-pilot until 8:00am. I look sullen and grunt at them when they attempt to engage me in conversation. Luckily, they know not to take it personally. About 8:00 I feel pretty human and can chat with my fellow walkers and actually register what they say to me. When I started talking, one lady in our group said, "Ah, Stacy's awake now!"

Talking makes the time go faster, we talk about families, jobs, walking tips, and other odd bits, like the whole Tom Cruise-Brooke Sheilds controversy about post-partum depression. A unanimous decision that Tom is crazy, and what the hell would he know about post-partum depresssion?

As we converse we are making it all the way to the South end of the city to the Sellwood bridge. Here we head up into town through the streets lined with antique shops in Sellwood. We then head through a little neighboorhood nestled between Sellwood and the Waverly Country Club. Ellie, our leader had helpfully written a brief history of this neighborhood in our walking instructions. The neighborhood was established in 1915 with the concept of the homes being as if they were plunked down in Portland after being lifted out of the English countryside. Many of the homes were Tudor style or English cottage style. The lawns were meticously kept, and faithful to the theme even 90 years later, the gardens were gorgeous. Some houses were smallish cottages others were large and stately English manor style. The streets had English names like St. Andrews, Manchester, and Exeter. The only thing that marred the theme was apparently a brief period of architectual disloyalty in the 1950s. A few '50's style ranch homes were scattered about. Why in the '50s people decided the best style for homes were ugly, low-slung shoebox style homes is beyond me. Did it have something to do with the fear of Communism? Were the low-slung houses designed to more easily survive an Atomic bomb from the dirty commies? Was ranch-style the only McCarthy approved design? Would you be hauled before the House UnAmerican Committee if you lived in a beat-nik, commie Victorian style home?

But even these were carefully kept, and looked brand-new. I wonder if I walked across the expansive, emerald green lawn and peered in the window, would I see a June Cleaver-esque woman vacuuming in heels and triple strand pearls? I half expected to see a law sign in red, white and blue declaring "We like Ike in '56!"

After we left the time-warp, turn of the century pastoral England with a dash of America in the 1950s, we headed back to the Sellwood bridge and walked over it to the west side and headed to back to the Broadway Bridge, many miles in the hot, humid, soggy distance. Here is when I thought I was going to lose it. I was really hurting and hating the other cheerful quick stepped walkers. I began to tell myself I'd been through worse, like natural childbirth. Anytime you're involved in an activity that approaches the pain of pushing a 7 and half pound baby out the opening the size of the dime aided only by some Tylenol 3, then you know you are in trouble.

Anyway, guest walker lady pitied me and help me make it. I went home and soaked the feet, long shower, nap and honestly I felt pretty good, realitively unhobbled, and more than a little proud.

Today I laid by the pool as my daughter and her friend swam and splashed around. I read my book and drifted in and out of sleep as I looked at the cornflower blue, cloudless sky and watched the trees sway in a perfect breeze. My reverie was interupted by another poolside mom who I am guessing was formerly a drill sargent in the Marine Corps. Not so much by her appearance, but rather by her booming, authoratative, fog-horn loud voice. As any mom knows kids when excited abandon all volume control. Girls in particular can emit high pitch squeals understood only by dogs and dolphins. Sgt. Mom had three lovely girls ages 8 down to about three. They would get excited and yell and squeal. Then mom swung into action. By action I mean remaining completely prone in her lounge chair and yelling "Kendin! Kaya! Keegan! You SHUT UP right now!! YOU are too loud!!"

I thought, "Holy crap! I wonder where they get it lady!" I then drifted nearly back to sleep, and nearly leapt out of my lounger when she was at it again "Kendin! you get Keegan out of that floatie NOW! I MEAN NOW!" Although my favorite moment that actually caused me to laugh right out loud, was when she shouted "Kendin, Kaya, Keegan, you girls are too damn loud! YOU ARE DISTURBING ALL THE OTHER PEOPLE AT THE POOL!"

Yelling mom stopped when back up arrived in the form of a junior high age daughter number 4. Who effectively wrangled her other sisters. I didn't get her name (Kayla? Kelly? Kashandra?)

Noticing that I was a nice, crisp red and that new islands of freckles had sprouted up, it was time to leave the pool. I nearly shouted to Allie it was time to leave. But I thought better of it. I walked over to the side of the pool and motioned Allie closer. In a pleasant tone, I said, "Time to go."

Get me out of crazy-town, and Canada trip cancellation

Whew, what a crazy two weeks....Okay, last Tuesday, perhaps the strangest of all days. I decided to walk to a lecture from work to Oregon Health Sciences University. For those of you familiar with Portland, it might be better known as "Pill Hill"- anyway about 3 and a half miles from work, so I pretty good workout walking-wise there and back. I got to the auditorium, and unbeknowest to me, the lecture has been cancelled, so I head out down the hill, and I'm approaching the back of the Veteran's Hospital, and a man in red silk Chinese style pajamas, and a black eye patch seems to materialize from out of the woods, he has a cane and he is elderly. He is pretty wobbly, so I ask if he might need some help and if he is going to the Veteran's Hospital. He says, no he doesn't need help, he just left the Veteran's Hospital to come up and smoke.

Okay. Weird. I keep heading down the hill through a maze of parking lots and back to downtown past Duniway Park. As I'm passing the park a young girl, about 15 comes running across the park toward me and asks, "Do you have a cell phone? Can you dial 911?"

She's obviously alarmed, and I said sure, and dialed the number and started to follow her to the tree line at the back of the park. An older woman and a couple more kids come out of the trees excitedly speaking in Spanish. I look to the girl to translate, and she says, "All of our things were stolen- our car keys, everything!" The excited Spanish speaking continues as I talk to an equally dumb-founded 911 operator. Then, a young man emerges from the woods, he is sweaty and excited and joins in the group, speaking in Spanish, and waving some car keys around. The 911 operator is asking what is going on. I look pleadingly at the young girl who seems to be the only English speaker of the group, waiting for her to translate. She tells me her brother has recovered the keys from the white man who stole from them. The 911 operator gives me a non-emergency number so they can report the theft. I give the number to the girl, and they continue to speaking in Spanish. I say to them, "Well, I think I will be on my way." They take a break from their animated conversation, and almost in unison say "Thank you."

I head back through the city, and by this time its getting late, so I go into a restaurant and order a chicken sandwich. I don't what was going on, but I felt a little sick. I then felt really sick- so I jumped up and bolted from the table to the bathroom to puke. Anyway, I suppose I created a commotion because as I came out of the bathroom, a couple waiters were outside the door looking at me suspiciously and asking if I was okay. I felt like saying, "Well, other than the one-eyed veteran smoker in the silk pjs, the robbed Spanish-speaking family, the 911 call, and the puking, well, yea, I'm okay." Of course, I didn't say that, just "Fine." I then paid my bill and left. Mercifully, I was close to work and could use that bathroom unbothered. After using the bathroom, I left work and locked the main door. I yanked it and jiggled it because sometimes the lock doesn't quite catch.

Then a large man came out of the hotel door from across the street and yelled "Hey you f*****g
bitch, what the hell are you doing?" Glancing quickly around, I realize I'm the only woman on the street. The only thing that raced through my mind was "RUN!" - which I did.

Before you think that running is an over-reaction, the "hotel" across the street is actually a residence for people newly released from prison. And, my boss let me know that recently, one of the worst sex offenders in Oregon history is now living there. He's a big guy who rapes people at knife-point. I kinda wish he hadn't told me that. See, the last four years I've been comfortable across from the hotel, because I told myself that it is only for the wrongly accused, or the non-violent offenders, or hookers with hearts of gold....you know, the kind of "nice" reformed type of criminals you see in the movies reside at the hotel. It really burst my bubble. Hopefully, Mr. Rape-at-knifepoint is on the road to reform and I have nothing to fear....and truthfully, I've never had any real problems with the folks across the street.

Once I got home that night I nearly kissed the floor. My good exercise walk turned out to be more than I bargained for...

Then, I was supposed to go to Canada, to pick up Allie, but my sister brought her down to my folks place in Bend. So, it was a great couple of days to visit in Bend, hang out with the kids. I took the kids to the movies to see "Herbie: Fully Loaded"- you might remember Herbie the little VW from the Herbie the love bug movies from the early 70s. This was an okay, typical Disney feature. Cute and the kids seemed to like it.

Of course, my walks frought with danger had to continue even in Bend. I went walking a long a path across the river from my parents place, and my sister called my cell phone. She asked where I was and I waved, and she said "I can see you and there is a cougar about 60 feet below you by the river."

I decided to walk on. Cougar, whatever!... I drove back from Bend today, with my girl to bring her back home. The drive- uneventful. Thank God!

becoming the social butterfly and master of change

A holiday weekend, and I was actually social...My Allie girl is still in Canada. I am leaving Friday to retreive her, and I'm very excited about that. I will visit my sis and my niece and nephew. Thankfully my sister was fine with the birthday gift I sent my nephew. It was a gun-thing that shoots little green nerf balls. I saw it and thought- little boy. projectiles. perfect.

But, I digress...without having to worry about a sitter I am growing accustomed to the freedom to go out to dinner! not to rush home after work! spend the day hiking, shopping, hanging out! All of which I did this weekend. Weeeee....

I'm now off to do some walking. I need to become even more dedicated to my walking quest, since now I'm a mere three months away from D-Day, marathon day, the date which will live in infamy....(oh, I also watched a crap-load of the History Channel during this age of freedom) Every time I think of it, the more I want to eat cupcakes. I believe I have a touch of self-sabotage, or of fear, or just a simple desire for cupcakes...perhaps it is that simple. I have been accused of overthinking by some people (hello, you know who you are) But I think it speaks to a larger issue of the difficulty of change. Especially in my line of work, I see a lot of people seemingly hell-bent on destroying themselves. Not in a small way, but in a huge logic-defying way that is addiction. I don't know anymore about why people become addicts than I did before. But what I do know is that addiction tends to be a way of coping with profound brokeness. A way of living life that masks pain, escapes reality, evades responsibility. It becomes a safety net. In a bizarre way, it is normal. We all are hard-wired to crave what seems like safety. Even if "safety" means a self-destructive mode of escape. Luckily, people can and do change...but it is not easy.

In a very small way I feel like the walking the marathon thing is a change for me. I realize that it is a change as I negotiate the decision to walk everyday. Of course, I am the master of a thousand reasons not to do it. Somedays, I succeed in not walking, and somedays I succeed in eating cupcakes (my ratio of success here is quite high!) Many days, I succeed in doing my walk.

I think we all have levels of brokeness, our challenge is filling in the cracks with the right things.