Neon leg warmers, perspectives on fall, and Londoners.
Once upon a time I used to write here frequently. Things like I Went On A Bike Ride, or I Did Some Soil Science. I reckon the novelty of these have worn off now. I’d occasionally write some real winners of entries: the Class A Cake, the Naked Bicycling, the Church Organ Easter Mistake. But hilarious happenings are not always frequent.
I do believe there is the Mom et al crowd who enjoy whatever I feel like writing, and so here is a little self-indulgent post on my life and recent happenings.
Junk Drawer
Tidbits of note: I am currently making duck soup. Yes, in honor of the Marx Brothers. I saw a double rainbow yesterday, so fiercely bold I could see where her feet stood. I found 16 four-leaf clovers while out in my research plots; I coddled them back to my office and put them in a vase, resulting in a puffy little bouquet of good luck. Also I’m laughing about the most recent food-experiment incident: I made flour-free black-bean-brownies-an already tenuous endeavor-and out of my ridiculous frugality I didn’t put enough eggs in them. Lacking binding agents, they are now Black Bean Spoon-Brownies.
Church organ
Sunday was an especially dear morning at church, just in how it illustrated that my congregation and I have developed a certain dance. I think when I first arrived they gave me three double takes all askance: “you’re not a music major?”, “you rode your BIKE here?”, “your hair is so….not normal”, etc. Now I show up on my bike, from the rain, in horrifying neon green legwarmers. And a church lady exclaims “are you crazy to bike in the rain?!” to which I respond, “I think we’ve established that already”. And meanwhile two other church ladies seem quite pleased by my leg warmers. So we’ve all warmed up to each other.
Then during the service, partway through a prayer, I’m perched on the bench rearranging the hymnal for the next song, and suddenly a rude bird abruptly quacks out from the upper registers. Because I’d just dropped my hymnal on the keys. But Father Priest and I only laugh about this later.
After church as I’m winding my bicycle through the folding chairs and tables in the hall (they insist I bring my bike INSIDE there), in which the small congregation is coffeeing, Mrs. Another Church Lady takes my wrist, pulling me down to her and kisses my cheek. “I love you baby” she whispers in my ear. I take my leave, giddy and sad both; it will be so hard to leave these people in a few months.
Fall
Mr. Calendar says ‘tis fall now, and the weather here has duly read his memo, and has hunched over into brooding clouds, prone to random fits of crying. There’s something about fall that is romanticized, and of which I hear spoken of back east. This is of brilliant tree colors, of a refreshingly bracing crispness to the air, the perky crunch of leaves under foot. Here, however, the only color is a violently pulsating green, and there is nothing crisp about anything. It all has that fresh “just got out of the pool” feeling from all this rain.
For me, fall is one of the hardest seasons. It’s like finding oneself come down with a cold. Once you have a cold, you can wallow in it and take care of yourself; you’re in the self-deserving worst of it. But as you’re in the midst of first noticing your symptoms-of fall-you haven’t yet resigned yourself, there’s just the dreary expectation and the waiting. In fall, you’re not quite yet into the grips of winter where you can go to bed at 9pm, baste in too many chocolate cookies or coffee, and treat yourself to the theatre. In fall you still have the glorious aftertaste of summer sun, the fresh memories of light at 9pm, the residuals of a tan. In fall, if any sparkle of sun does flirt with you, or you blessedly have a clear afternoon, you take this on your knees, feeling totally blessed and not at all entitled.
But: I do have good bike lights and half-way decent raingear, so fall, here I am.
Bike guests
I’ve eaten chocolate macadamia nuts in a hot tub under the full moon, slept in clutter under a stag’s head, eaten homegrown kale and potatoes in a tiny island trailer, sipped morning coffee in a schmancy downtown big-city home. These have all been through my bike-hosting network, through which I’ve been able to crash in the home’s of strangers while on mini bike treks. And now, since I’m in about-to-graduate stationary mode, I’ve been hosting others. About once a month this summer there have been people hefting their bikes onto the porch, eating my Costa Rica rice and beans, and sleeping on the couch.
They seem to be coming in patterns though, interestingly and arbitrarily. In June were two separate sets of French men. I received a phone call from one set, apparently they were trying to find the house amongst the onslaught of anonymous research buildings. “ello? I tink vee are lost in the facilitiTEES” said the rolling voice on the phone.
Then there was the German family, camping in the yard with a baby. And the group of energetic ones from London, about 8 people I think. And the vegan girls. That has been the theme of guests of late: the vegan girls. The single Mr. French Guy who brought me a bundle of asparagus.
The Londoners were especially entertaining. Miss Pink Bike sat on our big wrap-around porch, kicking her legs in delight, and telling her companion, “look Rosie! I’m on a PORCH.” Apparently they don’t really do porches in London. To illustrate the scene of the night: my housemates and I are in the kitchen happily cleaning up from the Feeding, and the Londoners sprawling about the living room relaxing. Mr. India has invented a Bollywood inspired dish-washer loading dance and he and Miss Downstairs are doing this dance, all flippy hands and slapping feet back and forth. Out in the living room Miss London Georgie calls out, “are you playing skippy rope?”
SKIPPY ROPE. I just love the species of English across the pond. (jump rope)
So I take all these various people in, chat a bit, feed them, and then the next day send them on their way. In wild coincidence, though, the universe doesn’t seem to be done then. After saying goodbye and have-a-nice-life, I meet Mr. French Asparagus the next day on the train as he’s heading to the airport. I meet Mr. Florida two weeks later, crossing the street in downtown Seattle. I pass the Londoners on the Oregon coast, me on an uncharacteristic car trip, and them all spread out over almost a mile down the road. I relish the surprise from each one separately, upon yelling something inappropriate out the window, them recognizing who it actually is and then hollering out what a great party it was that night.
I do believe there is the Mom et al crowd who enjoy whatever I feel like writing, and so here is a little self-indulgent post on my life and recent happenings.
Junk Drawer
Tidbits of note: I am currently making duck soup. Yes, in honor of the Marx Brothers. I saw a double rainbow yesterday, so fiercely bold I could see where her feet stood. I found 16 four-leaf clovers while out in my research plots; I coddled them back to my office and put them in a vase, resulting in a puffy little bouquet of good luck. Also I’m laughing about the most recent food-experiment incident: I made flour-free black-bean-brownies-an already tenuous endeavor-and out of my ridiculous frugality I didn’t put enough eggs in them. Lacking binding agents, they are now Black Bean Spoon-Brownies.
Church organ
Sunday was an especially dear morning at church, just in how it illustrated that my congregation and I have developed a certain dance. I think when I first arrived they gave me three double takes all askance: “you’re not a music major?”, “you rode your BIKE here?”, “your hair is so….not normal”, etc. Now I show up on my bike, from the rain, in horrifying neon green legwarmers. And a church lady exclaims “are you crazy to bike in the rain?!” to which I respond, “I think we’ve established that already”. And meanwhile two other church ladies seem quite pleased by my leg warmers. So we’ve all warmed up to each other.
Then during the service, partway through a prayer, I’m perched on the bench rearranging the hymnal for the next song, and suddenly a rude bird abruptly quacks out from the upper registers. Because I’d just dropped my hymnal on the keys. But Father Priest and I only laugh about this later.
After church as I’m winding my bicycle through the folding chairs and tables in the hall (they insist I bring my bike INSIDE there), in which the small congregation is coffeeing, Mrs. Another Church Lady takes my wrist, pulling me down to her and kisses my cheek. “I love you baby” she whispers in my ear. I take my leave, giddy and sad both; it will be so hard to leave these people in a few months.
Fall
Mr. Calendar says ‘tis fall now, and the weather here has duly read his memo, and has hunched over into brooding clouds, prone to random fits of crying. There’s something about fall that is romanticized, and of which I hear spoken of back east. This is of brilliant tree colors, of a refreshingly bracing crispness to the air, the perky crunch of leaves under foot. Here, however, the only color is a violently pulsating green, and there is nothing crisp about anything. It all has that fresh “just got out of the pool” feeling from all this rain.
For me, fall is one of the hardest seasons. It’s like finding oneself come down with a cold. Once you have a cold, you can wallow in it and take care of yourself; you’re in the self-deserving worst of it. But as you’re in the midst of first noticing your symptoms-of fall-you haven’t yet resigned yourself, there’s just the dreary expectation and the waiting. In fall, you’re not quite yet into the grips of winter where you can go to bed at 9pm, baste in too many chocolate cookies or coffee, and treat yourself to the theatre. In fall you still have the glorious aftertaste of summer sun, the fresh memories of light at 9pm, the residuals of a tan. In fall, if any sparkle of sun does flirt with you, or you blessedly have a clear afternoon, you take this on your knees, feeling totally blessed and not at all entitled.
But: I do have good bike lights and half-way decent raingear, so fall, here I am.
Bike guests
I’ve eaten chocolate macadamia nuts in a hot tub under the full moon, slept in clutter under a stag’s head, eaten homegrown kale and potatoes in a tiny island trailer, sipped morning coffee in a schmancy downtown big-city home. These have all been through my bike-hosting network, through which I’ve been able to crash in the home’s of strangers while on mini bike treks. And now, since I’m in about-to-graduate stationary mode, I’ve been hosting others. About once a month this summer there have been people hefting their bikes onto the porch, eating my Costa Rica rice and beans, and sleeping on the couch.
They seem to be coming in patterns though, interestingly and arbitrarily. In June were two separate sets of French men. I received a phone call from one set, apparently they were trying to find the house amongst the onslaught of anonymous research buildings. “ello? I tink vee are lost in the facilitiTEES” said the rolling voice on the phone.
Then there was the German family, camping in the yard with a baby. And the group of energetic ones from London, about 8 people I think. And the vegan girls. That has been the theme of guests of late: the vegan girls. The single Mr. French Guy who brought me a bundle of asparagus.
The Londoners were especially entertaining. Miss Pink Bike sat on our big wrap-around porch, kicking her legs in delight, and telling her companion, “look Rosie! I’m on a PORCH.” Apparently they don’t really do porches in London. To illustrate the scene of the night: my housemates and I are in the kitchen happily cleaning up from the Feeding, and the Londoners sprawling about the living room relaxing. Mr. India has invented a Bollywood inspired dish-washer loading dance and he and Miss Downstairs are doing this dance, all flippy hands and slapping feet back and forth. Out in the living room Miss London Georgie calls out, “are you playing skippy rope?”
SKIPPY ROPE. I just love the species of English across the pond. (jump rope)
So I take all these various people in, chat a bit, feed them, and then the next day send them on their way. In wild coincidence, though, the universe doesn’t seem to be done then. After saying goodbye and have-a-nice-life, I meet Mr. French Asparagus the next day on the train as he’s heading to the airport. I meet Mr. Florida two weeks later, crossing the street in downtown Seattle. I pass the Londoners on the Oregon coast, me on an uncharacteristic car trip, and them all spread out over almost a mile down the road. I relish the surprise from each one separately, upon yelling something inappropriate out the window, them recognizing who it actually is and then hollering out what a great party it was that night.