I remembered. I am haunted. I am hot.

I remembered on my way downstairs at work this morning that The Geej used to love playing on my bed when she was a baby. For some unknown reason, the memory just leaped into my brain, immediate and vivid. About 11 months old, she would gleefully throw her tiny body around on the bed for long stretches of time, knowing that either I or the soft mattress and pillows would catch her. Her huge open grin, with gums just beginning to sprout what is now a mouth full of teeth, showing how completely happy this little repeated act of abandon and trust made her. I believe that this is what a child's love for her parent is based upon: the unquestioning belief that you will always be there for them, no matter which way they throw themselves.

***

I am haunted by an eyeless cat I met this weekend. We didn't need to go to Petsmart, but we were shopping nearby, and The Geej wanted to go "see the animals." There are always adoption events on the weekends put on by various local animal rescue groups, and generally there are a fair number of cats, kittens, puppies and dogs you can interact with, and some you can even hold or pet. They had moved the canine adoption candidates inside the entryway of the store because of the heat. It was crowded and unfortunately, for the dogs and for us, it wasn't very easy to interact with or even see the puppies. We made our way inside, and halfway down the main aisle, there were tables with cages set up on them, and in the cages were cats and kittens ready to be adopted. Each cage had a laminated page attached to it that gave the cat's name and some information about it. The second cage held the eyeless cat. Full grown with a coat of long, cream-colored fur, she sat perched in her little fabric hammock that hung from the cage's four corners, quietly alert. She listened and sniffed. I could see the tiny corners of her pink nose moving as she took in every smell that passed her. The Geej looked at the cat and asked in slight alarm, "Where are her eyes?" I read the information page aloud to her: Ophelia. Born with a genetic eye defect. A stray. Part of a feral colony. Repeated infections. Unable to save the eyes. Recently removed. Don't feel sorry for her because she has adapted amazingly.

We stuck our fingers through the black wire openings, hoping Ophelia would smell something she liked and come closer to the cage walls so we could pet her. But she stayed put, interested but not quite sure enough to move from her safe spot. One of the women manning the adoption center said, "You can open the cage and pet her if you'd like." I carefully opened the latch and stuck my hand in, touching Ophelia's soft head and ears. The Geej concentrated on petting her side and back. Immediately, Ophelia began to purr and pushed her head into my hand, lunging into a half-roll upside down so that I could access her chin and neck. Her paws began to knead the air, a sign of comfort and bliss. I moved my hand away so The Geej could pet Ophelia's head too. She giggled with Ophelia's pushes into her small hands, saying, "She REALLY likes this, Mommy!" After a couple of minutes of communion with this blind cat, we closed the cage and stepped away to look at the other kittens and cats. She composed herself back in her hammock, listening and sniffing, her sewn-together eyelids on her beautiful face pointed in our direction.

***

I am hot. This summer has been horrible, and now it is August 1st, which means that we have at least two more months of this shit. I have moved on from being frustrated and sizzled into boredom by the relentless swelter, and now I am just hot and angry. There is no rain, few clouds, and everything is dead or dying. Tempers are short, and the nights offer no respite.

I think back to my last summer in Chicago. A famous Midwestern heatwave sat upon the city like a fat, sweaty old man. People were dropping dead. The city's electrical grid couldn't handle the demand. On my way home from my wonderfully air-conditioned office to my apartment that was only sort of air-conditioned by a couple of lame window units, I noticed that the traffic lights in our neighborhood weren't working. Rolling brown outs. No power anywhere for blocks. I walked into the apartment and was overwhelmed by the stillness and oppression of the heat. My dog lay on the floor, listless. I got his leash and took him on a short, slow walk, after which he drank a bowl-and-a-half of water in record time. I kept thinking to myself, "But I'm from TEXAS, goddamnit! I can handle this stupid heatwave." But the truth was, I couldn't. I was miserable and couldn't bear to be in the boiling house, but also couldn't risk leaving the dog there without care. I took his leash and went to sit on the front stoop of our brownstone, in the shade. Together with our neighbors, we waited for the sun to go down. When it did, the dog and I made our way back upstairs. The air temperature seemed to increase by ten degrees with each step up. After dragging ourselves inside, I had to light a few candles since we still didn't have electricity and had no idea when it might return. The coolest place in the apartment was the kitchen with its hardwood floors and windows at either end that offered a slight hope of a cross-breeze. I took off everything but my bra and underwear and went to lie in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring at the ceiling illuminated by a couple of flickering tea lights. Other than traffic noises through the open windows, the dog's incessant panting from five feet away was the only sound I could hear. I thought, "We are going to die tonight, me and this damn dog. We're going to become statistics." I wondered who the poor soul would be that would find me dead in my underwear on the kitchen floor next to my beautiful Siberian husky. I wondered if my death announcements would focus on the irony of a Texan dying in a heat wave...in Chicago. However, we survived.

That day and that night are STILL the hottest I can ever remember being, and that's saying something. The Chicago heatwave lasted what, a few days? A week? And then things went back to what was considered "normal" summer weather--warm days, pleasant nights, the occasional rain shower. I'm beginning to wonder if this intense monotony of extreme temperature coupled with drought is now what's considered "normal" summer weather here. And if so, will I be able to stand living here for the rest of my life?

Do you HEAR me, Don?!

Yes, it has been hot here in Austin. Horribly horribly hot, reltentlessly sweltering, and so so SO dry. But right now, out in the Gulf of Mexico, there is a storm named Don a-brewin'. And as of earlier today, this was Don's projected path:

If there is a God, and if that God doesn't hate Texas, we will be getting some rain from this storm and maybe, just maybe, a day or two where it DOESN'T get to 100 degrees or higher. If we DON'T get any rain and relief from this godawful summer, I cannot be held responsible for my actions which may or may not include, yelling, screaming, crying, ripping out hair at the roots, punching kittens in the face, spitting at preachers, littering, and farting on the elderly. Seriously. This rain NEEDS to happen, or your poor Pine Curtain Refugee may have to go to the loony bin and/or county jail.

And then, there's this.

Let's say it's a glorious day in July. Warm, but not too hot. Not a cloud in the sky.

Let's say there's a street fair. It's big. Tens of thousands of people are attending. It stretches on for blocks with artists and food and music and people, people, people.

Let's say it was a long, wet, dreary spring. Longer and wetter than it ususally is. Even in Portland, Oregon.

And let's say, there's a funky gospel choir made up of at-risk African American youth in their white robes, singing loudly and joyfully about their Lord.

What would YOU do in this situation?

Well, here's what THIS guy did:



God bless the freaks.

I'm not sure what this is going to accomplish.

“A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write.”--Virgina Woolf

This is a very well-known quote from a very famous writer. The reason I'm starting with this is because I am one big fat ball of frustration at the moment and can relate to this quote like nobody's business.

Let me start off with the good stuff:

I submitted my writtng assignment for the workshop I'm attending in Portland next month. I hesitated calling it a "manuscript" because it's just a few representative pages of what will eventually be the book (they limited us to 20 pages). But still, it felt good to send it off and sigh a bit because I'm not supposed to work on (at least that part of) it between now and the workshop. Also, some of my classmates have uploaded their  manuscripts on our Basecamp project page, so I'm downloading those and reading them as I have the time.

Very cool.

In the meantime, I'm getting very excited for the trip itself. I've booked my flights, and arranged it so that I have time to spend with some dear friends who live there and their daughter, who I've never met. This trip will get me out of this godforsaken heat and drought (it's been MISERABLE in Austin...record breaking..."hottest spring on record") for a few days. Also, I've got tickets to see Gillian Welch while I'm there. Love her, never seen her live. But the most exciting part for me is that I get to focus on writing and writing alone from July 10 to July 17. Not what laundry needs to get done or what groceries need to be purchased or work or family or anything else. Just writing. How fucking AWESOME is that, y'all?!

Which leads me to this:

Even if I manage to find the time and mental energy required to sit down and write during any given day, I do not have a place to write. BH works from home for the most part, and he has to make due with a small desk crammed in the corner of our bedroom. His work stuff is in our bedroom, our dining room, our bookshelves and even our garage. It's not his fault: He needs this stuff to do his job and the nature of his work and the agency he works for means that he doesn't have an office building to go to each day. And the size and layout of our house does not allow him to have a space he can dedicate specifically to work. In fact, the poor guy can spend the bulk of one entire day in the confines of our bedroom sleeping/working unless he makes a concerted effort to get out of the house. He is definitely hard-wired differently than me because, if that were my situation, I would go insane and/or start drinking by noon every day.

Whenever I work from home (which is infrequent, but does happen), I set up at the dining room or kitchen table. It's not comfortable and definitely not conducive to focused thought. Plus, I always feel like I'm getting in his way or disturbing him, which kind of blows.

When I was eyeball-deep in writing my submission for the workshop, I would have to make arrangements with (the very supportive and understanding) BH so that I could stay at work late and utilize my workspace to write. And let me tell you, it's not very inspiring to sit at the same desk you've been sitting at all day and suddenly try to switch in to "creative mode" and write. Sometimes my fingers would, literally, quit working, as if to say, "Fuck this. You've been typing all day. We're done." I would get so frustrated with my endless string of typos, I'd just have to close up shop. Other times, I'd be on a roll and kicking much ass, but then the office's A/C would cut off around 6pm, and I'd soon grow so hot and uncomfortable that I couldn't think. And so, yes, I'd just have to close up shop and head home.

"Why not go to a coffee shop?" you might be asking in your mind. Well first off, I don't drink coffee, and second, those places are not good for me when I need to focus. Too many distractions.

And as if to add fuel to the fire of my frustrations, I frequently torture myself by going to Open Houses on the weekends--exploring homes for sale in parts of town I'd like to live but have no means to do so. Almost without fail, the houses I tour have a study. Usually nothing fancy: just a room with a window and a door. But a place where (were it OUR house) BH and I could contain our work and creative lives and separate ourselves from the distractions of home and family.

Usually, after I have seen one of these houses that's larger than ours, with more storage than ours, with a better layout than ours (including a study), and a kitchen that can accommodate more than one person cooking at a time, I go home and get depressed. I pout over the fact that I'm a hard-working, well-paid 42 year old woman who should, at the very fucking least, have a "room of my own" in which to seek the solitude I so desperately crave and the creative space I so badly want. I imagine that, if I just had a room, I would be able to carve out and committ to the time required to do some real writing. That I could become one of those people who writes daily. But the reality is that I am hardly better off than the generic woman Ms. Woolf describes in her 82 year old essay, and this makes me very, very sad.

So will I appreciate the time I get to spend at this writing workshop in July? More than you will ever know. It will be worth every dime I've saved in order to pay my way and I will soak up each moment like a sponge. And when I return home after living in a dorm room on an idylic college campus for over a week and spending my days and nights focused on the craft of writing, then what?

I have no idea.

Saturday Night Soccer in Austin

BH is a big soccer fan. Not only does he enjoy watching it, he plays as well. So all summer, we've been talking about checking out an Austin Aztex game. And this past Saturday, we finally did.

This season's games are being played at Nelson Field in NE Austin, but next season, they'll be moving downtown to House Park.
The attendance was 2,611, so there was plenty of room to sit pretty much wherever you wanted to.
We were all treated to a beautiful sunset and cooler-than-it-has-been-in-a-long-time temperatures.
The Geej got an Aztex tattoo, and BH talked to her about what was going on on the field. She actually sort of got into it. But when her attention DID wane, they had a handy bouncy house set up in which to bounce yourself silly. They also had a place where you their corporate sponsor, AMD, had set up two back-to-back big screen TVs so kids could play a soccer video game in case, you know, real life just wasn't doing it for them.And for some reason that I'm still not quite clear about, the Aztex mascot is a chili pepper named, wait for it, Sgt. Pepper. Um, okay.


One thing I was VERY impressed by was this group of SUPERfans located in the southwest corner of the stadium. They had horns and drums and basically went freakin' NUTS for the entire length of the game. Very entertaining.

By the way, the Aztex won--for the first time in 2 months!!


We had a really good time. I recommend the Aztex games for a good dose of easily accessible, inexpensive, small-town fun. However, unless you eat hot dogs or like those "nachos" with the canned "cheese" poured on them, then you're going to need to make other plans for dinner.

We went to Magnolia.

The Aztex--who are ranked last in their league--will play their final game of this season next Monday (Labor Day). They'll be playing a team from Portland, OR--the best team in the league. It's going to be a blood bath, but it should be entertaining!!

Scenes from the summer

Punk/New Wave Karaoke Night with the girls.

Watching the Geej perform her role as a Turtle of Barton Creek in "Bella the Bat."

A minor leauge baseball game in Frisco, TX.

Sibling kitteh lurve.

The view and a salad from a WONDERFUL dinner at the Southwest Bistro in the Hyatt.

My utterly futile daily battle against bedhead.

Some horse lips flapping in the breeze while traveling down IH-35.

Staying cool by any means necessary.

Trying like Hell to keep the plants in our beds alive.

More salad. (This one's an heirloom tomato salad with olive vinagrette that I made.)

Keeping cool at the Hill Country Hyatt, in San Antonio.

Sporting a tattoo and braids because that's what you do when you're on vacation.

Going to Sea World on a day when there were no crowds or lines, which meant you got to ride this thing three times in a row with your fearless five year old.

Seeing the shows at Sea World. (Check out my mom's sweet purple hat with sequins on it! And is it just me, or does she look like she's about 40 rather than her real age?)

Eating more salad. (This one was a sumer squash, corn and shrimp salad, once again made by moi.)

And meeting this guy.

There. I feel sort of caught up. The Geej is now back in school (Kindergarten), and I am praying temperatures below 90 and rain on a daily basis. And so it goes.

The Geej has started swimming lessons!

Yesterday was her first lesson, and we'll be going every Monday and Wednesday until the end of the month. And unlike my first swimming lesson, which was preceeded by a traumatic "chili bowl" haircut and during which I cried like a gigantic weenie, The Geej was excited, brave, and had a blast.

Well here, I'll let her tell you all about it, just like she told BH last night:


And the best part? After the lesson as we were riding home she said in a very self-satisfied tone: "I'm SO GLAD I know how to swim now!!"