Life On Island

My new home.  Can you see me?

I have now been living on Orcas Island, or "on island," for two weeks. Rather than saying "on the island" or "off the island," the locals here say "on island" and "off island," because folks on Orcas do not like the word "the."

In many ways, it's a relief to be out of Portland. Here is something I learned during the three years I lived there:  if you love sun and dancing and aren't a fan of excessive facial hair or vintage clothing, then Portland might not be the town for you. And if your answer to the question "Ducks or Beavers?" is "Raiders," then you probably don't belong in Oregon.

I do miss giggling when driving past this place, however.

So far, I am in love with island living and am already lamenting the fact that I will only be here for three months.  Orcas has been very welcoming. On the first night, I saw a shooting star. On the first morning, a river otter ran across my yard. I am also delighted by my encounters with intelligent dog owners. When I tell people here that my dog is aggressive, they reign in their dogs and say, "Thank you so much for telling me," rather than saying, "It's okay!  My dog is really nice!" while allowing their off-leash dog to romp merrily towards my dog. Argh. Idiots. Don't those people realize it's even more upsetting when Libby bites a nice dog in the face? 

It's pretty easy to internalize Orcas' laid back style. Before coming here, I had a hard time staying less than 10 mph above the speed limit. On Orcas, I find myself looking at speed limit signs and thinking, "What's the limit? Okay, 35. How fast am I going? 23. Hmm. Well, 35 just seems excessive."  

My current state of utter seclusion seems to be a great fit.  In general, I find that I have much more benevolent feelings towards humanity when my interactions with actual people are primarily smile- and wave-based.

Isn't it nice just waving and not speaking to one another?

However, I believe there may be some pitfalls to spending too much time by myself, and I have begun compiling a list of Signs You've Perhaps Been Alone Too Long, including:

#1 - You become convinced that Pandora is reading your thoughts and attempting to communicate with you via its song selections. You may also find yourself arguing, out loud, with Pandora (e.g., "It's not my fault I don't like that crappy Nickelback song you chose! Why must you punish me with advertising?!").

#2 - You realize one morning that you've been using the same fork for an entire week. You decide it's time to start using a different fork, and when you look through all the available forks and choose a new one, it gives you a little thrill.

Oooo, perfect!  I can't wait to try it out!

#3 - You begin speaking on behalf of your pets and eventually move to creating intricate dialogues between them.

#4 - You can't remember the last time you had an actual conversation with another person. Was it yesterday? Last week? 2008? Even the sound of your own voice sometimes startles you. When you find yourself in a situation that requires verbal communication, you discover that you have lost the ability to have a cliche conversation. Someone asks, "How are you?" and you answer, "There's a painful blister forming on my heel," or, "I'm having extreme PMS symptoms this month," or, "I'm getting kind of nervous about my financial situation." 

I need one of these as a warning to others

However, in general I am most definitely enjoying this state of prolonged solitude, and one of the many luxuries this experience has granted me is the time to read over my journals from the past fifteen years. Here's a selection of my favorite lines thus far:

• Last night I only slept long enough to have a dream that I was having insomnia.
• I wish I could learn from my mistakes before making them.
• Life is funny sometimes. Not ha-ha funny, but blow-my-head-off funny.
• I was such a self-righteous little shit as a kid...um, and still am. But now I'm right.

And here is my all time favorite quote from Mom, also preserved in one of the journals:

"Try not to kill anyone."

:)

You Know Me - I Live To Serve

Here I am!

Yesterday I was hiking with my dog Libby, and we ended up traveling much farther than I had intended.  This sort of thing happens to me on a regular basis, given my utter lack of a sense of direction and extreme difficulty comprehending whatever maps are trying to tell me.  I didn't mind the extended walk, but I hadn't brought any water for Libby, and by about mile 6 or 7, she was panting pretty hard.

Thankfully, we soon arrived at a lakeside, and I stopped so Libby could take a drink.  Libby was definitely interested in the lake water, but it was just out of her reach, so I decided to be a super helpful owner and hold her back end while she lapped up the water.  This maneuvering worked for approximately 2 seconds before my foot slipped and SPLOOSH!  Into the lake Libby went.

Now my Libby is not a water dog.  Other than utilizing it for drinking purposes, she pretty much wants nothing whatsoever to do with water.  Therefore, she was quite despondent about this state of affairs.  She rocketed herself out of the lake instantaneously and then looked at me with a stony gaze that said, quite simply, "I don't even know you anymore."

Even now, she won't deign to look at me

This was certainly not the first time in my life that an attempt at benevolence had unintended, calamitous results.  In fact, as a wet, cranky Libby and I continued our walk along the trail yesterday, I recalled three such events which, despite the fact that they occurred several years ago, still cause stomach cramps when I recall them.  And here they are, in chronological order:

#1 - Throw Dad's Money To The Wind

When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I was traveling in the back of my dad's convertible with my dad driving and his friend Roy sitting shotgun.  My dad had a check in an envelope and was looking for a secure place to store it once we hit the highway and picked up speed, so I offered to hold it for him.  Before he handed it to me, he said, "This check is for a lot of money.  Be careful.  Hold onto it tightly."  He handed me the envelope.

Because I was a sarcastic little shit even way back then, as soon as I had the envelope in my hand, I said, "So I shouldn't do this?" and waved the envelope haphazardly in the air, intending only to startle my dad but maintain a firm grip on the envelope.  However, the wind had a different idea and immediately whisked the envelope right out of my hand.

Ha ha!  Um...oops.

My dad and Roy spent about the next hour searching the side of the highway for the missing envelope, which, thankfully, they did find.  I offered to assist in the search, but my dad declined, stating that it was too dangerous.  However, in retrospect, he probably didn't want me to "help" because he had just learned that his daughter sucks at helping.  So instead I curled up into a ball of patheticness in the back of the car, thinking about what a little turd I'd turned out to be.

#2 - Get That Batterer To The Altar

In my early-20s, I was the coordinator of a batterers' intervention program.  In that position, I was charged not only to work with the charming men who'd been arrested for beating their partners, but also to have regular contact with the victims of the crimes they had perpetrated.

One day I met with the girlfriend of a man in my program.  She explained to me that her partner was continually accusing her of being interested in other men and stepping out on him.  She said, "I know his ex-girlfriend cheated on him, but I'm not her!  I would never do that, but he just won't trust me."

The next day, that very guy came to my office.  He said that he knew his girlfriend had met with me the day before, and she'd told him it was helpful talking to me, so he wanted to try it out, too.  He talked ad nauseam about the trouble he was having trusting her, although she'd never given him any cause to doubt her loyalty.  I asked him if he remembered what I'd talked about regarding trust during our last group session.  He didn't (what a surprise!), so I reiterated the message:  if you find that you cannot trust your partner, for whatever reason, then you should not be with that person, because you will try to control her, and that is abusive.  I spoke for quite awhile about the fact that he needed to address his trust issues, and until he was able to move past them, he probably shouldn't be in an intimate relationship.

A few nights later, that guy asked to speak during our group session.  I gave him the floor, and here is what he said:  "You guys should listen to Kelly.  I had a meeting with her the other day, and she told me I just needed to trust my girl, so you know what I did?  Yesterday I took her out to Little Palm Island, and I married her!"

Communication breakdoooown!

As one, all of the other men in the group spun around to witness my thinly-veiled, horrified expression. One of them even burst out laughing and then said, "Is that what you had in mind, Kelly?"

A few months later, that guy was arrested, once again, for domestic violence.  Nice work, Al.

#3 - Memories?  Who Needs Those?

A few years ago, my mother, sister, and I took a trip to England to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday.  Throughout our amazing adventure, my mom and I tag teamed taking pictures.  Since we each had a camera, whenever we encountered a photo op, one of us would snap the picture, and that way, between the two of us, we captured all of our fabulous experiences.

On the last day of our trip, my mom's camera lost its ability to focus.  She tried changing some of the settings, but nothing seemed to work.  Therefore, I offered to help.  (Uh-oh - cue The Doom Song!)

I fiddled around with the camera until it asked me if I wanted to reformat it.  Hmmm, I thought, that sounds like a good idea!  Who couldn't use a little reformatting?  So I said - sure!  Go ahead and get reformatted!  

Are you sure? the camera asked.  

But of course! I replied confidently.

And that is precisely how I erased all of my mom's pictures.  Every.  Single.  One.

Shut up, Nelson.

In conclusion, folks, if you ever find yourself needing assistance, and I offer to provide it, be afraid.  You should probably save yourself the headache and just take a pass.

Longing For Simplicity

After my final class at the kickboxing studio I've been attending for the past couple of years, the head trainer stopped me to say goodbye and wish me luck in my future endeavors.  He asked where I was moving and what I was going to do there, and, wincing in anticipation of his follow-up question, I told him I was moving to Orcas Island to finish the book I've been writing.  And then, of course, he replied, "Oh, really?  What's your book about?"

Ugh.  I have grown to dread this question for two reasons:

1. I suck at talking about my writing, and
2. That's a very personal question, and I shouldn't have to answer it for any rando who happens to cross my path.

So I gave the trainer my "you're-a-stranger-who-has-no-right-to-ask-me-that-question" answer, which is:  "It's about laughing at human tragedy."  His response was simply to stare back at me in silence, blinking, which got awkward real quick, so I decided to offer him a longer, even crappier answer to that question.  When I finally blundered to the end of my rambling, incoherent explanation, the trainer informed me that he's also writing a book.  I asked what it's about, and he replied, "T'ai chi and qigong."

Oh, really?  How Zen of you.

Okay, consider me green with envy.  How I long for an answer like his!  T'ai chi and qigong?  Seriously?  What a marvelously simple response!  Why can't my book be about t'ai chi and qigong, or puppies, or World War II, or something else I could say in 5 seconds or less?

My current book topic issue is much like my employment situation has been for the past 15 years.  That pesky "What do you do?" question has plagued my existence due to the fact that I've never had a simple response, like, "I'm a dentist," or, "I'm a lone cowhand."  No, my answers have required multi-layered, complicated explanations involving social justice theory, federal funding issues, nonprofit business models, and brief lessons about foster care, mental illness, domestic violence statistics, and best practices for human behavior modification.  Whenever I found myself at some sort of gathering with my sister and someone asked us what we did for a living, my sister would say, "I'm a fourth grade teacher."  And then I would sigh, hand the person a large glass of wine and say, "Have a seat.  This is gonna take awhile."

What is particularly annoying is the knowledge that, for the most part, people only ask questions like "What's your book about?" and "What do you do?" to be polite, not out of any true desire to know the answers.  And yet, those questions historically have caused me to spiral into an abyss of frustration and anxiety.  Therefore, I think I might start lying.  That seems like a good self-preservation strategy.  When someone asks what my book is about, I'll just give the first, simple answer that pops into my head. 

"It's about dirt."
"It's about Pluto's fall to non-planet status."
"It's about six-toed cats."
"It's about a dentist who falls in love with a lone cowhand."

I think I need this book

At least now I have an easy answer to the question "What do you do?"  I can say, "I'm a novelist."  Except that simple answer will then lead to a series of complicated questions.  Hmmm.  Maybe I'll just say I'm unemployed.  That usually serves as a good a conversation killer.

Yes, just like LOL.  I hate you, LOL!

Big Girls Cry Annually

Two weeks from now, I will leave Portland to live on Orcas Island by myself for three months. While I'm excited about this opportunity, I think it's very likely that I will spend the first 24 hours on the island just bawling my eyes out. This would be a timely occurrence, not only because I'm experiencing a huge amount of change and loss right now, but also because I believe I'm due for my annual cry.

My husband is an excellent and well-versed crier. He cries when he's sad. He cries when he's happy. He cries when someone else is sad or happy. He cries when he's sleepy, startled, concerned, or simply feels like crying. I really admire his ability to engage regularly in the healthy, cleansing ritual of shedding tears. I, on the other hand, cry when I yawn or cut onions. Even when a situation is definitely cry-worthy, instead of crying, I find myself thinking, "I should totally be crying right now."

Over the past few days, I've experienced several endings that could or perhaps even should have been cry-worthy. I haven't cried yet. Occasionally I feel sudden, overwhelming emotions begin to flow over me, but my brain kicks in with the message: Yuck, negative emotions! Abort! Abort!  And then I stop thinking about whatever circumstance is creating the emotional reaction. I am certain this is an unhealthy practice. I'm probably going to have a brain aneurysm.

Eventually, however, I know I'm going to cry. It's been quite a while. At this point, I probably have about 2 gallons of stockpiled tears waiting to come out. I know how my annual cry cycle works, having gone through it enough times. For 364 days, I stoically face adversity without shedding a tear. But on the 365th day, something minuscule happens (e.g., I stub a toe; I spill my coffee; I see one of those dog food commercials where the dog and the kid grow up together and then the kid goes off to college and the dog sits on the front porch, waiting for him to come home), and I bawl like a baby for hours.

Ow, my toe!  And everything else that's happened for the past year! 

At the end of this ordeal, I'm left with a pounding headache and a feeling of extreme relief. Thus, the cycle begins again.

I've had quite a few periods in my life like this one, wherein I make the decision to discard the majority of the stabilizing elements of my life and start all over again. The first time I did this as an adult, I called one of my friends and told her, very calmly, that over the next month I planned to systematically drop everything in my life, pack a bag, go home to my parents, and go into crisis. She responded with a lot of support and encouragement, then remarked, "By the way, only you would plan a crisis."

I suppose I'm doing a similar thing right now - scheduling an appointment to cry in the not-too-distant future rather than just crying in the moment like a normal person. Although I realize this is bizarre behavior, I still find myself comforted by the knowledge that, once I'm on Orcas, I'll have a full day set aside to dehydrate myself via the violent expulsion of ten million tears.

Going to Orcas this fall is the fulfillment of a dream for me. I get to live in a gorgeous, magical environment and devote three months of concentrated time to completing the novel I've been working on for the past year. My observation as a human being in this world is that it is a rare thing indeed to experience the realization of a dream.

That being said, I am trying not to read too much into the fact that the calendar on my wall features the following image this month:

Eep.

How To Kill Romance In One Easy Step

The summer I turned twenty, I experienced my first potential summer romance.

I had never in my life believed in romance, at least in the way it's peddled by pop culture.  Even though I smiled when Crocodile Dundee climbed over all of those kind, helpful New Yorkers to reunite with his love interest on a subway platform, deep inside I knew that kind of stuff was complete and total bullshit.

However, at the beginning of the summer I would turn twenty, when I met a very cute boy, we exchanged numbers and then started spending all our free time together, my ideas about romance, or at least the storybook "summer romance," began to change.  And when he did things like surprise me at work with a picnic lunch, write a song about me and sing it to me over the phone, and invite me to walk on the beach and watch the full moon rise, I began to think that perhaps rom-com, sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet type romance actually did exist in this world.  And, embarrassing as this is to admit, I felt simply elated about the possibility.

The night that particular concept went supernova in the life of Al was the very night the boy asked me to accompany him to the beach to watch the full moon rise.  Imagine it, folks:  a Cape Cod beach late at night, an enormous, gorgeous full moon shining in the sky and reflecting off the water, plucky foxes running hither and thither between the dunes and the waves - I mean seriously, it was a fucking postcard of romantic bliss.

A backdrop of romantic perfection!  What could possibly go wrong?

And then this happened.

The boy spread a blanket on the sand for us to lie on.  We stared appreciatively at the moon and stars for a bit, and then he leaned over and kissed me.  After a few moments of idyllic summer romance kissing, he pulled back, looked down at me and quietly said, "Do you know who you look like in the moonlight?"

Holy shit! thought I.  Here it is!  My uber-romantic moment!  What is he going to say?

Allowing myself to get swept away in the moment, imagining the vast array of lovely females from whom he could choose to make this the most glorious experience of my life, I gazed up into his eyes and asked, "Who?"

And then he said this:

"Al from Happy Days."

Al.  From motherfucking Happy Days.  Yes.  That is what he said.

To add some context, here's me the summer I was informed of this remarkable resemblance:

Posing with a mannequin at the leather store where I worked

And here is Al from Happy Days:

Shmerbing around his diner, as per usual

Please tell me you don't get it, either.

However, at the time the boy made that statement, I was so far gone in my romantic fantasy world that I thought I must have misheard him.  So I smiled up at him and said, "What?"

Without a hint of remorse, the boy replied confidently, "Yeah, I don't know if it's the shadows or the moonlight doing something weird with your face, but you seriously look just like Al from Happy Days right now.  It's pretty strange."

And that is the exact moment when romance disappeared from my life forever.  Poof.  Just like that.  I looked at the boy and said, "Oh.  That is strange," then stood up and began walking down the beach in the direction of my car.  I don't really remember what the boy did, as he had been instantaneously compartmentalized into the "Dead To Me" category of humans in my life.

Seventeen years of accumulated anger and sarcasm later, I pity the poor fool who would dare to ask me if I know who I look like in the moonlight.  Even if that sad sucker had planned to say something complimentary, he would be faced with a terrifying glare and the furious, rapid fire response, "I don't know, Dick Cheney?  Alfred Hitchcock?  Tom Petty?  Fuck you, too, buddy!"

Stupid illusory romance.  Hmph.

Al from Happy Days, my ass.

The FAQ Soiree

That's me in the red

One of my favorite things about getting older is the fact that, as each day passes, I give less and less of a shit what anyone thinks about me.  I find this state of mind to be tremendously liberating and fabulous.

Now that I am rapidly approaching my 37th birthday, I finally feel completely comfortable identifying as an antisocial introvert.  Several years ago I thought I was ready to begin openly self-identifying in that way, but when I tried it out with a friend of mine, she informed me that my proclamation was "a real asshole thing to say."  After receiving that feedback, I decided I should continue attempting, or at least pretending, to be a quasi-normal individual, readily able to tolerate regular fraternization with fellow members of my species.


However, apparently now I am officially old enough that I can't even bring myself to care what my friends might think, because lately I've found myself making statements (out loud, mind you, not just in my head) such as:

• No, I don't want to go to that festival/parade/gathering.  There will be far too many humans there, and I hate humans.
• No, I don't listen to talk radio.  I don't want to hear people talking.  I just want them to shut the fuck up.
• No, I don't want to go out.  I would prefer to stay home with my dogs and stare at the wall.
• Stop making sounds.  Seriously.  All of you need to stop making sounds.  Immediately.  Thank you.

Ah, yes.  It feels great.

Quite naturally, then, I am not a fan of parties.  In fact, when I hear the word "party," particularly when being invited to one, I tend to have a mild panic attack while simultaneously becoming extremely irritated ("WHY would you invite me to a party when you KNOW it's gonna give me a panic attack??").  Sure, it's a different story when the party involves some sort of activity, like dancing or roping cattle, but when the event is labeled simply as a generic "party," that's when Al's heart palpitations begin in earnest.

I would merrily attend this party, however.

Unfortunately, parties happen all the fucking time.  People love parties.  They seem to live for creating and attending these panic-attack-inducing events.  I envision them cackling evilly and sticking pins into a voodoo doll resembling me whilst engaging in their complicated party-planning endeavors.


Small talk is, in my humble opinion, one of the most tragic components of non-activity-based parties.  I find it both painful and pointless, which is a dastardly combination.  Therefore, since I understand that parties are going to continue existing despite my protestations, I have recently come up with a party concept that would eliminate small talk.  Under the conditions of my party model, those gathered would have no need to have dozens of similar, introductory conversations in a row.  In order to avoid the p-word altogether, I will call this new model The FAQ Soiree.

Where's the soiree at, yo?

Here's how it works.  You receive an invitation.  If you RSVP with a "yes," the host then sends you a short questionnaire to complete and bring along with you to the soiree.  The questionnaire could include, but is not limited to, the following inquiries:

1. What is your name?  If it is an unusual name, please provide some background information (i.e., cultural significance; hippie parents; etc.).
2. How do you know the host(s) of this gathering?
3. What do you do for work?  What do you enjoy about your work?  What sucks about it?
4. Are you from this area?  If not, what brought you here?  If so, what's kept you here?
5. What do you think about this weather we've been having lately?
6. What is your opinion about [latest political thing going on]?
7. What is your opinion about [latest random celebrity gossip]?
8. What is your opinion about [latest national or international tragedy]?
9. What did you think about [current blockbuster movie]?
10. Do you have children?  Pets?  Do you like them?

At the soiree, you will not be permitted to huddle in tight clusters with people you already know.  Instead, you are expected to wander around until you come into contact with an unfamiliar soiree-goer.  At that point, you will exchange and review one another's FAQ sheets.  That way, you'll know all the random bits of bullshit that people deem necessary to know about one another when first meeting, but without having to ask or answer the same dumb questions over and over. 


After completing this process, you and your partner have the task of thinking of something to talk about that has nothing to do with the basic information you've just read.  You may choose to talk about something on a large scale, like:  "In the race towards ultimate enlightenment or ultimate destruction, where do you believe humanity will arrive first?" or something on a small scale, like:  "What do you think is going on with that spider over there?"  Since you will already know, for example, that your new pal has three kids and likes them just fine, instead of asking whether or not he or she has kids, you could ask something more interesting such as:  "Do you think a child's first word carries any long-term significance?" or:  "Do you think your kid would make a good President?  Farmer?  Psychic?  Police officer?  Why or why not?"


I believe that the FAQ Soiree would be the perfect remedy for party blahs.  Random gatherings could go from this:

to this:

This shark is totally smiling at you

I know, very random.  But I did a Google Image search for "fascinating," and the shark picture really spoke to me.

Girls Gone Weird

Speaking of strange behavior...

Last week I went camping on Orcas Island.  I like camping for many reasons, one of which is that I have the opportunity to be slovenly and unhygienic, and it's totally socially acceptable...at least in my mind.  Not all women believe this, however, which I discovered when I entered the campsite bathroom on my first morning.  Here is what awaited me:


a.  The bathroom was packed with women.  PACKED.  And the women weren't there only to relieve themselves, which was why I was there.  They were there to engage in elaborate beautifying rituals involving dozens of products neatly arranged in gigantic, brightly-colored, plastic receptacles.  All of the women (except for me) had these handy crates-o'-product and were meticulously utilizing each and every substance and device found in said crate in order to maintain the same standards of beauty expected of them in their non-camping lives.


b. Two women were blow drying their hair.  This means not only that they'd taken showers (another thing I enjoy not doing while camping), but also that they'd brought blow dryers on their camping trips, because they care that much about how their hair looks...when they're camping.


c. While I was standing at the sink washing my hands, I saw something strange out of the corner of my eye.  When I looked over, I noticed that the woman next to me was having her face attacked by one of these:

Looks like some sort of speculum, but apparently it's for your face

I stared at her for awhile before it sank in that this woman was curling her eyelashes.  Curling.  Her.  Fucking.  Eyelashes.  In a campsite bathroom.


Okay.


This experience reminded me of something I saw several years ago while camping on the Colorado River.  One morning about three days into the camping trip, I was wandering down the beach on which we'd camped the previous night and noticed two of my fellow campers sitting on some large rocks by the river.  Their legs were bleeding profusely.  At first I thought they'd slipped and fallen on the rocks while trying to get out of the river.  However, upon closer inspection I noticed that their injuries were self-inflicted, because both women were shaving their legs.  Yes, indeed.  In the Colorado River.


Now even though this occurred in July and the air temperature was in the 90s, the water temperature was in the 50s or 60s, which meant that these women were shaving severely goose-fleshed skin with freezing cold razors.  The results were horrifying.

What a beautiful scene!  I think I'll remove a layer of skin to celebrate it.

However, despite the blood flow, both women continued methodically dragging their razors up strips of skin, immediately transforming their flesh from white to red with each swipe, until they'd finished the job.  They weren't crying, screaming, or even wincing.  They simply shredded their legs together with placid acceptance, as calmly as if they were doing something totally painless and normal like brushing their teeth.  I suppose, in their world, torn-up, scabby legs are preferable to stubbly ones.  And that, my friends, is a world I never hope to visit, much less inhabit.


My dearest female companions, please hear me.  The next time you go "back to nature," consider leaving the plastic beauty boxes and razor blades behind.  Give yourself permission to be purely ferocious outdoorswomen, like this:

This is how I like to imagine myself when I'm camping

And if any of your fellow campers question why your eyelashes aren't curled, your legs aren't shaved, or your hair isn't perfectly coifed, feel free to reply disdainfully, "Um...hello?  Because I'm fucking camping."  Then go take a shit in the woods and tell them all about it.