Recently, I was at the chiropractor telling the masseuse about my experience getting an MRI.
"I freaked out. We tried three times and I just couldn't handle it."
"I don't like anything touching my face. I didn't realize it until I had an MRI, but I guess I'm really, really claustrophobic. At the end I asked for the Valium but the tech said I was freaked out and it wouldn't work. So I had to come back in, with an incredibly supportive friend who was kind enough to stand there, hold my hand, and talk me through the whole thing. With the Valium and her being there, I was fine."
"Maybe you just have a phobia about doctors."
"I told my doctor I have white coat syndrome."
"What did she say?"
"She asked me how I learned about it and I told her, I read it on the Internet and I know I have it, because my blood pressure goes up when I visit her."
"What did she say then?"
"She told me I don't have white coat syndrome, what I have is a flair for drama."
"Maybe you should try hypnosis?"
"I did go to a hypnotist once. He had a sign in the yard so I went up and knocked on his door. He let me in, talked to me for a few minutes, and then took me down to the basement, had me lie on a chaise and turned off all the lights."
"You. Went. Into. His. House. And went down to the basement? With the lights off and laid on a couch?"
"Look, he had a sign in his yard. Obviously he was a professional."
"Obviously. So what happened then?"
"A bunch of strobe lights started going off and he stood over me with this spinning wheel that flashed black and white. After that, I don't remember anything but then an hour was up and it was over."
"You went to his house, went into his basement, don't remember anything for the next hour and now you don't like anything near your face. Was there anything else?"
"I paid him."
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Saturday, March 15, 2014
We're mid-way through Portland Dining Month. With hundreds of food carts, gluten-free options almost everywhere and in a town where every restaurant seems like the bomb (especially the Bomber), I was surprised to learn we HAVE a dining month here, but apparently we do. 100+ restaurants are offering three-course meals for $29 throughout the month.
I always struggle when someone from out of town asks me where they should go to eat. What do you like? Persian buffet, sushi, Peruvian? Do you want to experience the big bank of food carts at 10th and Alder or do you want to stroll through the Pearl District, window-shopping your way to a brewery? Fresh-made pasta or fish and chips?
We were walking out of the hospital one day when some guy and his wife getting out of a car with Nebraska plates asked us where to go to get a good meal. I told him, head down the hill into downtown, there are a million choices and they're all good.
"What about Red Lobster? Do you have Red Lobster?"
I thought he was kidding. No.
"I don't know if there is one nearby," I told him politely. "But there are a lot of places to get fresh fish and seafood downtown." He looked at me skeptically and we hauled our cheesy-garlic biscuits out of there before we died laughing.
I don't think Red Lobster is on the list of restaurants offering discounted dinners this month but you can see the list for yourself here.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
When I first met Neil, I was at a cocktail party at my parents’ house.
My parents have always been social. In the years since they started living full time at the coast, their parties have included even more of the rag-tag group they’ve always attracted: fellow retirees, commercial fishermen, builders, and just about anyone else they find interesting. Gatherings at their house are always fun, and although I still feel a bit like the little kid allowed to politely visit with the adults, these days, at least I have a drink in my hand, too.
It was at one of these get-togethers that I first noticed Neil. “Who is that?” I asked my dad, sotto voce, in the kitchen.
“He’s an old Swede that lives down the street. We don’t really know anything about him. Why don’t you go talk to him, and find out his story.”
A not unusual request. Over the years, I’m often asked to draw quiet people out at parties. I’m chatty, and I’m truly interested in people, so getting a conversation going with someone new has never been difficult.
I walked over to Neil and sat down. “So, you live down the street?”
“I’m retired,” he twinkled at me. Tall and ruddy-faced, he dominated the living room.
“What did you do before you retired?”
“I was a commercial photographer. I worked for Boeing, flying around the world taking photos of crash sites.”
“I also used to write. I had a number of articles in Sunset when I was younger, with photos.”
Oh. He could have said “I was the CEO of Ford,” and I wouldn’t have been half as interested. A photographer? Crash sites? Sunset Magazine!
We talked for a long time that evening, as he told me the secret to getting published in Sunset (“Anything with kids. They love stories about family activities.”) and about his love of photography (I’m just one more idiot documenting everything with an iPhone, who also collects vintage cameras. He was experienced shooting with 8mm, 16mm and every lens you’ve never heard of).
We became fast friends.
Over the years, I would email Neil when I had something published, or with some bit of writing I thought he might enjoy. He sent me one or two-line responses, like “Good job, kiddo. Keep it up.”
And I’d see him now and then at my parents’ house. He’d been voted in as director of the neighborhood beach club and my dad said he was kept busy with the ongoing litany of complaints from residents. When I asked Neil about it, he just rolled his eyes. “It never ends.” We didn’t see him as much after that, but my parents regularly invited him to dinner when I was visiting.
One time, he said he would have made a pie, but was running late.
“Oh you don’t bake,” my mom and I laughed at him. “Please. A bachelor, living on his own? Baking pies?” He laughed with us, shaking his head.
The next morning, he showed up, pie in hand. “Just so you know I’m a man of my word,” he winked at me.
Another time, Neil brought me a vintage movie camera for my collection. “It’s my favorite.” A Bolex 155 Super 8mmm. “I know you like old cameras, so I wanted you to have this one. It works great. You should shoot a film.” We laughed, knowing it would join my other cameras, gathering dust on top of my old breakdown.
The last time I saw Neil, he was quiet. “He hasn’t been feeling well,” my dad explained. “We haven’t seen him much lately.”
We talked for only a few minutes, and he was definitely subdued. It was clear he was in pain. Before he left, he reached out and touched my face. “You sure are pretty.”
Six weeks later, he was in the hospital. He didn’t want anyone to visit him, my mom told me. He didn’t want anyone to see him when he was sick. I respected his wishes, but was grateful when one of my dad’s friends, who’d known him the longest, went anyway and reported back.
There wasn’t much to report. No good news, anyway. They said their good-byes privately. Neil was allowed to go home, but still didn’t want to see anyone. Because the directive from the hospital wasn’t “Go home, you’re all better,” it was “You can go home now, and prepare for what’s next.” My parents prepared me for that when I naively showed pleasure at his return.
Not long after, Neil passed. It’s been two years this month.
I wanted to write about Neil for a lot of reasons. To try to explain how a young woman and an old Swede became friends. To tell you that no matter the decades that separate us, there are interesting people out there with fascinating stories. Most of all, I wanted to tell you about him because I wanted you to know him, too. Neil. My friend.
Sometimes, I miss him.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Driving to Portland from Waldport is a significant investment in time. It's about three hours from end to end and that's assuming that a. there isn't a wreck on I-5 that shuts the whole thing down for an hour or two and b. there isn't a miserable, ungodly backup at the 205 or that c. you don't stop to get a diet coke, fill up your truck or visit your sister in Corvallis. Even if you don't dawdle at my sister's house saying things like "Woah! Those cookies sure smell good!" it's still going to be several hours' worth of driving.
So when I get pulled over for speeding while driving over the pass, I have to groan inwardly and mumble a few choice swear words. Because no matter what the outcome, my drive has now become three hours and 30 minutes. And now there probably will be a wreck on I-5. And I just missed the window when the 205 is still passable. Worst of all, my sister and her family have already pissed off to church and there won't be any fresh-baked goods anywhere.
The last time I got pulled over, it was in one of the three usual speedtraps on Highway 20. They are: 1. About 6 miles west of Philomath, just past where the passing lane ends at the bottom of the hill and 2. About a mile west of the Ellmaker rest area and 3. One or two miles in, heading east from Newport.
Now, let me just say, I mean no disrespect here. If you drive these roads more than a few times a year, you'll notice the speedtraps yourselves, without me clueing you in. And I am not anti-police, either. But like all of you, I get frustrated when I get bluelighted, and sometimes, I just have to have a little fun with the young bucks who pull me over. To wit:
The last time I was pulled over was just outside of Newport, at speedtrap #3 listed here. The officer, who looked to be about 22, told me that he while he could give me a citation, instead, he'd give me a long, boring lecture about racing around switchbacks (one of my all-time favorite pastimes) and oversized deer and basically the whole history of the pass.
Because, he went on to explain, I just want to make sure you're safe.
That's why I'm not going to give you the citation.
Uh-huh, I said. Well.
It's for your own good.
Yeah...I think I'll take the ticket.
I'll take the ticket.
You will not take the ticket. You'll listen to the lecture.
I thought you were giving me a choice.
No. I'm not giving you a choice. Now, just listen.
And I did.
Cheryl: Did they start giving tickets to women? When did that happen?
Monday, October 29, 2012
In order to do laundry, I have to walk outside and around the building to get into the basement. This presents a variety of different hazards, including a. not wanting to risk getting soaked, so never doing laundry when it rains and b. a testy sensor light that never seems to turn on when I need it to, then blinds me with a glaring light after I don't need it anymore and c. unforeseen events that could only occur when you have to trek any distance carrying more than your body weight (I have a tendency to let the laundry go for about six weeks at a time). To wit:
One day, I am scrambling up the steps carrying my clean laundry when I glance over into the neighbor's yard and happen to spy a pair of my underpants. There are several questions that you'd probably like to ask and I'll try to get to them in order of importance:
1. How did they get there? I'm assuming I dropped them on my previous trip to do laundry. It could have even happened the time before. But that's really the only explanation I can come up with.
2. How did I know they were my underpants? Well, they're these little lacy...never mind. They were mine, OK?
3. Why did the neighbors just leave them there, probably for several weeks? Your guess is as good as mine, but I never see them in their backyard and also, I think where my underpants landed was out of their line of sight from the inside of their home.
4. How did I get them back? This presented the biggest problem. Although it was apparently quite easy to drop them into my neighbor's yard, retrieving my underwear proved to be a bit of a challenge. Because I dropped them over a rail from the top of the steps, they were quite a distance away from anything I could grab by reaching over or under the railing.
This also presented a second problem. Just how badly did I want my underpants back? I mean, I have a lot of underwear. It's not like losing a pair is going to force me to stay home from school. Which presented an unusual conundrum, namely:
Is it in poor taste to drop a pair of underpants in your neighbor's yard, and then just leave them there?
I thought hard about that one, readers. Because although it seems rude, and probably not what you'd want to find in your yard, I worried so much about how I was going to get my underpants back that I quite honestly considered just leaving them where they were. I even took a vote, and had my friends weigh in. Although some friends were firmly on the side of "eh, just leave 'em there," several people piped up and told me I should plan a recon, to recover my underwear in the dead of night.
So that's what I did. Just past the stroke of midnight, a bit before my bedtime, I cautiously opened the back door. Easing the door closed, I padded softly down the stairs, never taking my eyes off my neighbors' windows. God, what if they wake up? What if they find me creeping around their yard in the middle of the night in my old plaid wool bathrobe and even worse, what if they happen to catch me right at the moment I pick up my underpants?
I worried and worried and stared at the yard, casing it as if I was a jewelry thief planning a Tiffany's heist. Finally, I took a deep breath and without breaking stride, ran around to the back alley and crept into their yard. Slowly...slowly...slowly...I can almost grab them. Oh! I didn't quite realize they were under that structure...It's going to take a bit of maneuvering...I got them! Whew. I straightened up, twirling the little scrap around my finger. Nothin' to it, I thought with no small amount of relief. Why, I could probably break into any store anywhere. In fact, I could...
Peering up, I saw the neighbor's little dog looking back at me. Making that little noise that for many dogs, precedes a loud barkfest.
And then I ran.