The County Fair.

As American as an eagle eating an apple pie, the county fair has long been a staple of the rural dweller. The annual haaj takes place in the usual fashion--once landed in the sea of semi-orderly dirt parking lots, we follow the wafting smells of manure and sweet fried things. Folks in cowboys boots and bedazzled jeans fall into step with us on our trek to the almighty gates where some geriatric Kiwanis member, adorned in all their polyester glory,  smiles, whisps away a day's income, stamps out hands (and for the kids, two), and then smiles again.

The gates would seem to suggest some unparallelled heaven awaiting on the other side. I use the term "heaven" here subjectively.

In an instant, the children multiply exponentially and vanish into the shiny, blingy, plastic ambiance. The smarter of the parents tether their children with ropes or leashes. I prefer the sleeker, more effective mode of child-homing known as the wallet.

The wallet contains many features. It offers the promise of greasy treats and raffles and cotton candy. Guaranteed the younglings will not journey out too far from pocket.

The fair itinerary appears to follow some collective modus operandi. Animals first, then food, then rides. Elephant ears are frowned upon in the petting zoo by all but the goats. We arrive as a herd at the barn doors and are ushered in two by two where we are lead through a series of gates and chutes and aisles.  The moo's and baaah's of the animals as they watch us go by compliment the "ooh" and "awww" from the people viewers quite well, though in this perspective, it is not quite certain who is really the observed.

I have never really gotten the hang of the stall walk, that shuffle, shuffle, stop we all do. This usually leads to a bit of awkward bumping into folks and apologizing.  I always end up bumping into an old friend accidentally and we smile and ask how the kids are and then politely depart never having remembered eachother's names.

We all breathe gratefully at the barn door. The sweltering scent of poultry or livestock isn't the most pleasant--especially on the fifth day of the fair. The kids jump and giggle, elbow-deep in cow/horse/goat/pig hair, dander, and filth and are immediately famished.

I do not understand why the desire to eat coincides with carnival rides. To me it seems a bit counterproductive. Nevertheless, the ride tickets and the deep-fried chili-dogs are neighbors.

All of the rides move in a circular fashion is nothing new. Carnivals have been inducing nausea to countless thrill-seekers for over a century. The differences between each ticket-sucking beast is purely nuance.
Here are my favorite rides I noticed at the fair:
1) The Tip-Top (2 tickets). This device resembles a rusted cake with Easter-egg accents. The Easter eggs tip ever so slightly while they spin, swivel AND gyrate.
2)The Sizzler (3 tickets). This one, though it only spins with two moveable axes, comes with the velocity needed for those cool emo haircuts those kids used to wear. It also is a wonderful source for irrepairable neck damage.
3)Round Up (3 tickets). This is the ride where you are strapped to the wall and thanks to centrifugal force, you and your stomach contents are completely flattened.
4)The Tornado (3 tickets). This one is cyclical hell without a foothold. Not that I was witness, but I'm guessing that this ride comes with the widest projectile rate.
5) The Ferris Wheel (3 tickets). If it weren't for my latent trust issues with carnival ride operators, I might have taken this one. Well, that and the fact that the fella usually says "don't rock the seat" every time he buckles you into a seat that rocks. I just don't get it.
6)The funhouse (2 tickets). I can only imagine what has taken place in the funhouse after hours.

The odd thing about the fair is that you return home exhausted, penniless, and stomach content-less. The only token of the fair is a smeared stamp that was previously a cow and now has morphed into some twisted Rorschach and one lonely ticket.

The fair has no use for one single ticket. No. They come in sets of two or three or more.  The single ticket simply goes unnoticed and unnused and sits in your pocket as a reminder that simply one ticket is no good until it ends up a purple grub in your dryer's lint catcher.

But the lasting impressions on the children's faces make up for everything. They fill their Monday's with stories about eating the most cotton candy and other stories about the bright blue stain on the car's carpet. These are lasting....until next fair.

Photos smuggled from Oregon History Project and Reverbnation.

Let's talk about poop: This is why I can't socialize with real writers.

Being around artist-type people terrifies me. I get sweaty-lipped and tend to stammer. This weekend, at the Mazama Festival of Books, I did just that among some of the most brilliant current writers.

This was the Book Fest's second year. After being present for the first, I can tell you that this festival is growing and getting better every year. The minds brought together to discuss the world as seen through today's artistic lens were nothing less than magical.

Mazama is a small town tucked tightly in the bosom of the Cascades. The view of  mountains' cleavage from the valley floor is enough to leave your jaw collecting pine needles on the ground. This glorious sight provided the backdrop for the audible feast provided by an armful of bookwriters.

While taking notes for each session, I realized that I had written "BUY THIS BOOK!!!" next to each author's credits. From discovering identity through travel to finding oneself in confronting violent death, these authors offered their audience more than just a snippet of their works: They offered us glimpses into their psyches and souls and craft.

The artists spoke with tongues attached to well-oiled mindmachines. Each word resonated. But again, these are published writers. They have reached the shiny polished pinacle with their names embossed on the glossy covers of tomes and chapbooks alike. I want a glistening tongue attached to a keen machine mind like theirs.

For now, I just listen.

But as I listened to one of the sessions (from a perch far in the back), a woman came up and rubbed my head then apologised quickly. "I'm so sorry," she said. "You probably don't like that."

"I love it, actually. I shaved my head to become vulnerable, and as it turns out, people are far more gentle that I give them credit for. It is myself who is the harshest, so please, pet me. I really love the intimate affection of connection."

This is what I have rewritten as a response. I really said something like, "uh, that's all right. It feels nice."

If James Joyce were listening, he would have beaten me with Dubliners for my flaccid use of "nice."

During the social hours, I stammered at some brilliant people. "So what do you write?" I was asked.

"Y'see I haven't published anything in years because all that I've done is talk about the toilet habits of children while more or less avoiding my deep-seated personal issues and now I'm just trying to make sense of my seemingly shit-filled existence with real introspection, substance, and empathy. I strive to acheive ultimate vulnerability and thereby flourish in a world that doesn't beg the question, 'number one, or number two?'"

This is what I wanted to say, oh yes. But I really said, "Oh, I've written a novel and a screenplay and a bunch of short stories, but mostly I blog on the internet about being a mom. It's mostly toilet humor."

Image provided by uncyclopedia.wikia.com 

Toilet humor? Yes. That's what I whiddled my writing down to. Poop. At this point the writer's gaze would lift to the crowd around, looking for an opportunity to exit the conversation.

Standing alone within a writhing and bubbling milieu I so wished was mine, I made a vow: No more toilet humor. No more stories that involve the gory details of a mother. I would write beautiful prose...or at least I would write until I got there.

Twelve hours into our book-filled day, I scooped my chitchattering imps into the car. We sighed a collective thanks-- thanks for the beautifully dynamic day, thanks for the brilliant gift of art, thanks for the other children who played so well in spite of the erudite cultural aura hovering just above the valley floor. We listened to the calm the evening gave us. This lasted for a miraculous 45 seconds before-

"I took a poop in the outhouse today. It smelled really good. And the water was still blue!"

My son smiled reverently.

Mark Twain said "Write what you know."

I guess my muses won't be like this forever. What I know will grow soon enough. Until then, there will be toilet talk and all the rest that comes with parenting.

Sometimes growth means taking it all off.

We as a people do a ton of things to be beautiful--not for us, but for others. We are constantly worried about how we look and this concern affects how we feel. But the person that seems to offer us the most critical evaluation of ourselves is ourself.

I think we can all understand this song.

I'm not brave enough to fix it on my own...

 I had to get brave, though. I really did.
I had said I would do it some day. So I did it. And now I feel completely naked knowing that you are seeing this.

No hair, no makeup, no silly smirk. Just me. 

Sometimes fresh starts mean hard lessons. These lessons can come through steps that you never knew were necessary. For me, this fresh start needed to come through giving up vanity and becoming vulnerable and most importantly honest with who I am.

All my life I was the girl with the curly hair. Or, most recently, the girl with the mohawk. My hair became my identity--not my identity but the identity I chose to create for myself. I chose to use my hair as a veil between me and the world around me. It's been a defense mechanism whether I was willing to admit it or not. If I had bright blue hair or flaming red hair or dreadlocks, then I defined myself as such.

And this defense was also an incredible distraction. I would squirm in my jeans if they were too tight or tug at my shirt that felt too short and then fiddle with my hair to calm myself. My hair was something I could instantly fix.

And it wasn't my body that was the worst part of the problem. It was my self esteem. I was never good enough for me. I was the harshest bestower or shame.

But now I am me. Just me.

I walk into public places and I squirm until I touch my head. "Is my hair okay?" I'd ask.

"No hair. I am me."

In facing myself as truly me, I am relieved. I am uncompromisingly me now. I just have to square my shoulders and be essential in the face of my shriveling vanity.

I am here now to say "Screw you, inhibition and vanity" and offer people a chance to know me as Rose, the girl, the mom, the person, the mover, the shaker, the force.

That's right, friends. I am a force. I am a force no longer caught up on how I look. I am free to be me--a person with broad thighs and big boobs and unlimited potential and I love it.

Blog from the Safe Room (aka bathroom)

Mother's blog: star date 8675309

I am writing this--perhaps my last living blog--from the bathroom. The spawn have broken the lock on the door. I have wedged a croc in the door to ensure my safety. 

There are twelve more hours until the spawn are loaded onto the school bus for the first time this year. I do not know if I will survive. 

At the beginning of the summer, they were charming. Adorable, even. They smiled at the sunny days and went outside without provocation. 

Then, once the romance of a golden summer turned the lawn a dingy, dry tan, they withered with it. They shrank into the tv room, scarcely leaving except to satiate the whining hunger in their guts every seven minutes. They turned pale, only giggling when the laugh track on their insipid television show bade them to. They drooled. "Snacks" their throats gurgled as try stumbled from the room, lifeless limbs dragging behind them. 

By August, they were trying to pick each other off in elaborate ways. My daughter fashioned a bear trap with combs and scrunchies. My son tried to poison his sister with tomatoes in her cereal. 

Last week, they realized that it was funner to join forces and exterminate the matriarch. 

They played with Legos in my room. On my floor. They took turns giving each other mani/pedis. On my same floor. They made dinner and watched me eat every. Bite. Of. My. Cereal. 

Legos. 

They drew out plans for six business ventures, four full-length musicals, and an acre-wide garden. With chickens. 

My children are trying to kill me. 

There is an electrode kit on top of a rock-tumbling kit on top of an accordion on my kitchen table. There is also a coat hanger sculpture that resembles a tree monster or an elephant or a pegacorn or the starship Enterprise on my love seat. 

The cleanest room is the bathroom. 

This is where I am and where I will stay until they are on the bus. Or need to brush their teeth. Whichever comes first. 

The bus will be here in eleven hours and 51 minutes. 

Pray for me. 

Din Mutha Moves on.

I'm moving back home, folks. I'm leaving OurSalon and Open Salon for my own blog. I just want to be a little autonomous. Can ya dig it?

I can now blog from my phone, which will make it a little easier to shit out a bunch of thoughts on the go. Good? I hope so. 

K.  We hiked today. We took our family portraits today. The children were sweet and helpful and polite an we got one good picture where they weren't killing each other. This is it. 

This is my brood. 

Yup. We are badasses.

This made me warm and fuzzy in that tough-enough kind of way. This is our Christmas card.

Then I saw this pic.

These damned giraffes had our idea. But yanno what? We got a waterfall ::TRRRRRUMP::

The Day I Started Saying "Screw It."

There is a beautifully-written article that is shooting through the internets like a Lichtenberg Figure right now. It may have just changed the way I live my life.  

Rachel Macy Stafford's piece "The Day I Stopped Saying 'Hurry Up'" details how this mother learned to stop rushing her children and began to take time to love them. I was in awe of the article. It was beautiful. It made me want to change the way I parented. 

I looked over to my children who read quietly on the couch beside me on a languid and lazy Saturday afternoon. "Listen up, children," I said. "We will no longer hurry though each day and begin to savor the moments." 

My declaration was met with sardonic faces. I continued in my appeal. "I am guilty of constantly telling you to hurry up, and I'm sorry. From now on we will s-a-v-o-r our precious time together without rushing." 
"And I just want you to know, children, that I love you. Terribly." 

Monday morning arrived like a bee sting. I was determined not to rush the children. Instead of waking the kids to a pots and pans heavy metal symphony like I usually do, I opened the doors to their bedrooms and sang a sun-drenched, honey-sweet song to gently nudge them from bed.

Twenty five minutes later, my voice had all but developed botulism. I crept into my daughter's room and sang, "My darling daughter, the sun is up and it's a beautiful day! How about joining me in celebration?"
My nearly-comatose tweenaged daughter raised a drowsy finger to her drool-crusted lips and  said, "shhhh...I'm sav-or-ing my eyelids." 

Over the next three days I, along with my frenemy and annoying bedfellow Reality, made some rather interesting discoveries.

For starters, those parents who avoid the words "hurry up" probably have more than one bathroom. I learned this as I watched my seven year-old son dancing the watusi in front of the bathroom door while my daughter dawdled. Two minutes later I found my son ankle-deep in pajamas on the front porch watering the weeds below. "Don't worry! No rush! I've got it handled!" he assured me.

My neighbors were assured as well.

And next,  the unrushed parent has probably yet to experience adolescence. In our unrushing, my daughter spent half a day looking into the mirror, staring at the wall/computer/world outside all without actually leaving the comfort of the couch.

On the third day of unrushing, I took a look around my home. Stacked dishes resembled high-rises and the glasses sprouted food-encrusted utensils. Laundry Island, a large, migratory mass of washed or unwashed clothes, had run ashore and exploded all over the living room. I found my near-sleeping son under some fractured peninsula of towels. He was drowsily eating a jelly-drenched sock.

This was the moment that I cracked.
"Alright, everybody stop savoring your life and get your chores done now or I'll...."
Threats ensued. Birthdays were taken away. Dishes were cleaned in a timely manner.

In a perfect world, we would not rush. In a perfect world, size-8 jeans would never need washing and would actually fit. In a perfect world, the house would clean itself, heat itself and pay for itself as well. This is not a perfect world. We do not live in perfection. We live in squalid, cacophonous chaos, friends.
And on these days, sometimes we just need to say, "Screw it. I'm not a perfect parent. Now get your act together, kids. We are late. Again."

But there is a silver lining of consolation. It takes this deadline-driven existence for us to appreciate those days when we can sit back and watch the world pass by. Sometimes it takes saying "screw it" to release yourself from the stressful hell of unrushing to really sit back and enjoy this crazy life.

Family Felonies: How Mom and I stole God.

Of all the things that I had planned to do this weekend, stealing God was not really an option. 

"How'd the weekend go?" I stopped by my parents' house to check on my father and was met with half-hearted questioning. The naturally inobtrusive chap that my father is would have taken a "fine" or a "swell" reply and been content with it.
"I think I comitted a felony," I said, scrunching up my eyes and appraised his most recent soduko puzzle.
He didn't look up. "uhh huh," he mumbled and kept on with his puzzle.
"With Mom."
He sketched in a six and evicted a nearby three.
"We stole God." I tapped at his unfinished square and he swatted my hand.
He sighed a bit, still working his brain over the puzzle. "Probably only a misdemeanor," he said.
What a way to cheapen a mother/daughter bonding moment.
 I have avoided my home town for eight years. There have been a few times where I grazed the outer edges but for the most part I've stayed away. There isn't a long, drawn-out reason for my absence, there's just been no real reason to journey back. It's not the town I was raised in. It's cleaner and fresher with new paint and everything. There are more wineries and tasting rooms than Starbucks in Seattle.
I was born and raised in Apple Country.
But four months ago, my childhood home burnt to the ground. I felt I needed to revisit.

The yard and all of its memories had vanished into the cracks of time and withered and died with the fire. There was nothing left of my childhood home. If it weren't for my darling son who followed me around the property saying, "are you gonna cry? Are you crying yet? Doesn't this make you wanna cry?" I would have been crying.
Everything seemed so small. The yard was tiny. The garden space was tiny. But the view. THAT was still miraculous.
Among the debris and ashes and destroyed flotsam I prepared for my final parting sighs. A rock caught my eye.
"Oh my God."

It was god. It was my father's unfinished sculpture from sometime in the eighties. It had plagued the garden and taunted with his partialness. The phantom of the garden. The unfinished god (btw, god has a semi-handlebar mustache not unlike my father's own).
I knew what I had to do.
That evening, over coffee and chats with my mother, I let it slip. Well, not even.
"I went by the old house, Mom." I said non-chalantly, "I saw God."
Without a breath, my mother turned to me. "I saw him, too. Let's steal him."
What transpired was nothing greater than amateur.
In the early morning sun, I pulled up to the house--or charred crater--and walked casually into the yard. Nobody was around. My son followed and carried a large pink towel and sang, "you're going to jail!"
I felt like the model/burglars in The Great Muppet Caper, except I was wearing a skirt and flip/flops and had a child dangling from my waist threatening to sell-out his own mutha. Pretty close, anyhow.
I skipped across the lawn (which somehow got much smaller) with the grace and agility of Miss Piggy sans Frank Oz. Once arriving at God I deflty flung the towel over him and whisked him from the premises.
But first I had to damned-near throw my back out while heaving the stoic bastard. Apparently, my father had taken it upon himself to apply Hemmingway's "Iceberg Theory" to art in its many manifestations. I centered myself over the unfinished effigy and--
::Thud:: He flopped over. Onto his face. I tried to drag him, waddling him across the yellowed lawn on his face. Bits of dirt filled his one nostril.
My son looked down at his sweaty, breathless mother. "Wow. You're not so good at this, are you?"
I heard a car pull up. I looked to my son. I wanted to kiss him goodbye before I was sent to the penn, but he looked so darned smug, I wanted to do something else.
My mother poked her head into the yard. "It's a heavy sucker, isn't it?"
We waddled and cussed God into the back of my car somehow, and as we wiped the bird poo from our hands, my mother and I experienced a moment. It was a quiet one. We shared a collective sadness for our history as mother and child together. In those ashes she became a mother and I, her first born, became who I am today.
We smiled and agreed that felonies were exhausting and deserved brunch.
Over brunch, many fellow diners may or may not have heard our conversation.
"We committed a felony."
"You say that like it's a bad thing. We shared a moment. It's bonding." 
"Whatever. Felony."
After returning home and telling my father, I drew back the pink towel and revealed the nearly-lost vision of God. I felt like an awkward, mom-like Indiana Jones. Or a relic snatcher--one of the bad guys who says things like, "this is how we say 'goodbye' in my country" and are all very sexy yet still find joys in wearing "house bras" in public. Ooh. Moving on....
My father looked at his work. I think he smiled, but he'd never fess to it. 

I waved my arms triumphantly. "But, JUST LOOK, DAD! I BROKE THE LAW!" I was still a little pumped from my exercise in badassery. 

A good father would have let me feel the thrill and then go through countless sleepless nights worrying about the fuzz coming over to arrest me. Teach me a lesson or something. Maybe even pray for me. 
Instead, he gave it to me--the truth. "Your mother called [the owner of the house who had made it a rental and didn't give a fig over the leftover yard art], and she said it was all yours and thanks for taking it for free." 
Crestfallen, I looked at the bird-crap-encrusted diety in the back of my car. Apparently, I can't even be wildly delinquent if I tried.
So, if we didn't break the law, did the whoe bonding experience even count? I've been rolling this thought around in my cranium for the last few hours. Does being bad make my mother and I more connected? We certainly don't get this kind of bonding at a soccer game or quilting or something of equal or greater mundanity.
Whatever. We have a moment. We were rebels. And we yelled "more, more, more!" around eleven a.m. today, and I guess that'll have to do.