If only I had known how beautiful you are Mr. Sunrise, perhaps I would have dragged my ass out of bed a bit more often to see you! I suppose it is lucky that I live in the Pacific Northwest, where it gets light late enough in the winter that I had the chance to be mesmerized by the sun pouring over the horizon as I strolled over the Steele Bridge on my way to a morning meeting. It was a clear, cold winter day and the view made me stop and haul out my cell to snap a few pix. I don’t know that I have been more entranced by the vista of downtown Portland, or the Willamette River, than I was at that moment. These are the times that I am exceedingly pleased not to have a car, for if I did, I would have missed this entirely.

MY BIKE
TOM’S BIKE
ENVELOPING A RACK

TUCKING
GYOZA WRAPPERS
IN OUR BACKPACK
AN ICED BAG
KEEPS THE
DOUGH FRESH

THE WEIGHT OF
THE FINE PAPER
FOR HOMEMADE
HOLIDAY CARDS
MAKES ME WISH
FOR A ZIP CAR

As most of you know, we made the decision to move back to Portland as renters, living center city, without a car, plunking our children in their neighborhood public schools. And, we made it through last winter, spring soccer, and various summer camps sans vehicle. We were proud. But, as we all know, pride goeth before the fall.

Autumn arrived, and school started anew for the Zs, who were to be on two different campuses, playing soccer in two different leagues that called for four separate practices during the week and two to three soccer games every weekend. My parents were kind enough to loan us a vehicle when this crazy schedule began, and we planned to use it just until we worked through our various transportation challenges.

We began our brief stint of car possession with earnest promises to ourselves.

“We will only use it in place of the Zipcar. We won’t drive anywhere that we would typically walk, bus, streetcar, or bike.”

We super promised each other. But, somewhere along the way, someone must have been crossing their fingers because we learned, the hard way, that when you have a car at your disposal, when it’s parked right downstairs, you opt for efficiency and forget about walking altogether.

“Just this once, it’s so much faster…”

After less than a month, I am sad to say, we almost had fully regressed to the habits of the car owned. Tom knew we had jumped the shark when he drove the 6 blocks to Hot Lips Pizza to pick up food for the kids one night.

Aghast, we called my parents and asked them to take the car back, posthaste. They couldn’t do it for a few weeks, and we were in a panic. No lie, over that month-and-a-half, Tom and I each gained about ten pounds.

I am happy to report that we are again car free these days. (Although still very appreciative for the loan, Mom and Dad!) Yes, it is rainy, stormy, misty, and awful out, but we couldn’t be happier to be biking, walking, and streetcarring once more. The photos you see here in this post were taken on recent walks going about my daily routine — not moments one experiences from a car. I love the organic imprints left by leaves and rain on the sidewalk, which I snapped on the walk to my gym. And, this bare little tree with its few bright orange leaves still clinging to branches provided a stunning contrast to the driving wind and rain that marked a recent trek across the Willamette River on the Steel Bridge as I made my way to a work meeting. Truly, it was exhilarating!

I recently bought some pants that are a smidge too long, breaking my cardinal rule about never purchasing slacks that need to be hemmed. This deviation then prevented me from wearing a typical work shoe with my new suit in an effort to accommodate the longer leg length. You see, I normally wear something from my collection of Danskos for work (various colors and styles, but no clogs), which I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE. They are wide, comfortable, sturdy, attractive … well, in sort of a man-suit kind of way.

I have dubbed these faves my “nun shoes,” which could be interpreted negatively, but rest assured, it is an affectionate nickname! These shoes were my best friends when I worked in brokerage–valiantly trudging through construction sites, standing up to cold empty warehouses, shedding the rain, and not causing fatigue after a full day on my feet.

Strangely enough, I am used to comfortable shoes now. I am acclimated to not torturing my feet. To actually expecting my shoes to fit and be comfortable…ALL DAY.

This was a lesson relearned recently when I wore the pleather boots, shown above, to prevent my aforementioned new pants from dragging on the ground. I had to dash about 1/3 of a mile to pick up my Zipcar for a work meeting, and I have to say, I felt pretty hobbled. (Our new car-free lifestyle is, well, demanding on the old shoes.) Which is not to say I can’t walk in heels, because I can, but good grief, I was really missing the long easy strides I achieve with my nun shoes. And, I was left feeling…hmmm, maybe less substantial… because I was mobility challenged of my own making. (Thank God a train didn’t come, no mad dashes across the tracks for me.)

If you attend a wedding, you will notice as the event winds down that women’s formal shoes are strewn all over the dance floor and can be found tucked betwixt and between tables and chairs. The ridiculousness! Wearing shoes that destroy our feet…buying shoes in which we can’t walk for protracted periods of time! Footwear designed for sitting. I mean really, as we mince and wince around the city in our stilettos and wedges, can we honestly snicker about barbaric practices of the past, like Chinese foot binding? (X-ray of bound feet shown below.)

EPILOGUE: You would think that my desire to avoid sprinting for a Zipcar in the boots of death might motivate me to get those pants hemmed, right?

Sadly, it didn’t. I am lazy.

The next time these particular slacks entered the professional clothing rotation, I avoided my fake leather friends (which are clearly footwear designed for reclining on a black leather chair whilst pretending to be a Dominatrix) by instead using the college trick of temporarily raising my pant’s length with the strategic application of two-sided tape.

Yep, that meant nun shoes for me. Pain-free strolling on the way to my work appointment.

In truth, I felt very smug with myself as my meeting began. Stifling a contented sigh, I crossed my legs during the presentation to sneak a quick peak at my superior temporary hem job, only to realize that I was wearing the wrong color socks! *sigh*

Sometimes, I think I am a horrible girl!!

Readers, meet my new bike! Well, I should say, my new used bike. I love my new bike. It is so awesomely fabulous, I would still adore it, even if it spent the rest of its life sitting in the downstairs bike storage space…which it won’t, I assure you. This baby begs to be out on the open road…and I feel compelled to park my wide ass on that equally wide seat. In truth, I was really bummed I couldn’t ride it to my lunch appointment today — I didn’t have my accoutrement together, such as lock, helmet, etc.

I plan on using this little gem as a fun, commute to in-city work appointments, mode of transportation. I do believe that I need to get a little white basket for the front (yes, I mean “need,” not “want”). I haven’t spent a lot of time on it, but it is a kick to ride. It’s an instant age regression. Sitting so upright…no gears…a big fat cushy seat…pedaling backward to brake. Love it!

Learned something interesting at the bike store today. Our sales guy said that the way thieves are popping kryptonite locks these days is by using the tiny jacks from tiny cars, such as the Mini Cooper. If a bike owner wants to thwart said robbers, it was recommended to us that we buy a lock with the smallest opening needed to affix our two-wheeler to a bike rack. The goal is to prevent them from having enough space to maneuver the jack into the lock, because if they have enough of an opening, they can pop it. The smaller and tighter the fit, the better. Who knew?

No really! I’m serious.

I have had the tea set pictured here since 1998. It was my paternal grandmother’s, and it became mine when she passed away that year. All of the pieces are white ceramic with painted dragons on the plates, cups and teapot. But today … just today, as I was washing out the cups to make some Chai for myself and my homebound family, I noticed something … there was what appeared to be a white relief image of a face in the bottom of the tea cup.

It is very faint, hardly noticeable. (As you can see in the photo above, you can’t tell it’s there at all.) When I angled the cup around, it became more and more obvious. Then, I held it up to the light and the face went from a faint negative image to a very clear positive depiction of a woman. To see it in more detail, you can click on the the three thumbnails below. The first picture is the white relief made more visible by adjusting the image. The next displays the positive image when held up to the light. The last is her peaking out from underneath some Chai!

Fascinating, the things you don’t notice, for years, under your own nose … or lips … or tea.

We figure we have a lot of future fodder related to:

1. Did our sabbatical actually help us accomplish any life changes?
2. Sharing our experiences related to starting up a business.
3. The difficulties and joys of re-entry to living in the US.

And besides, Futból says we have to keep on writin’, so what else can we do?

Observations:

• It is a blend of behind-the-scenes and concert film genres and it worked well.
• It was riveting to see him, and everyone else, at work…it was clear that Michael was very skilled at the business of entertainment. There were a lot of musician references about how unusual it was to work with a pop singer who knew their stuff! (A sad commentary on the state of the music industry, of course.)
• He has really big, rather masculine hands. Given how emaciated he was at that point in his life, I expected thin effeminate hands…
• There is a 24 year old Australian-Greek guitarist who solos with MJ for two songs during the movie and she was really rocking! Her name is Orianthi Panagaris, and she can fly on the strings and smack hard on some chewing gum at the same time. How does she do it?
• My heart broke for everyone who was in the show and never got to actually perform; and frankly, I feel he let them all down. I’m pleased there was a movie so their hard work can be rewarded and recognized.
• Costume-makers discussed plans to create clothes for the show that would involve a meld of textile and technology, the likes of which had yet to be made. Unfortunately, we never got to see any of them!
• The cattle call for the dancers’ auditions was crazy. A blessing to all artists who put themselves out there for rejection time and again.
• And lastly, I came away saddened that the aspects of his life that made him such a talented entertainer (a pushy and abusive stage father and a childhood spent honing his craft) are the very things that led him to hate himself (evident in his body and facial dysmorphia) and hastened his death. You get the sense that the only place he was truly home was on stage.

If I had to reduce my cleaning cabinet down to one substance, it would be vinegar. It cleanses like a charm, isn’t poisonous, and has medical benefits as well!

Just in the last week, I used it to remove smeary kid fingerprints from the underside of our dining room table, which is etched glass (horrible design) and to wash some shirts to remove odors.

On the medicinal front, it cured my toe fungus!

About 3 months before I I had knee surgery last year, I somehow managed to bruise my right big toe, which led to my nail bed being susceptible to fungus, which I figured I picked up at the pool. *sigh* After a zillion hours of online research and a visit to the podiatrist, I was told that none of the home remedies would get rid of said fungus. Instead, the doctor told me that the drug Lamisil was the answer.

(Just so you know, Lamisil is evil incarnate. After 4 days, I had to stop because it gave me a funny taste in my mouth, I literally couldn’t sleep, and my joints hurt, blah blah blah. Death in a pill.)

Stopping the drug brought me back to square one, at which time I recalled the podiatrist saying, “…maybe some of the home remedies would work, but they’ll take 6 months to a year, and I don’t think people really stick with them.” Right then and there, I swore I would be the one to see it through. I filed down the surface of my entire infiltrated nail so it was very thin and then I taped a white vinegar-soaked cotton ball to my big toe for 20 minutes every morning and every night for over a year. (This digit was dubbed “cider toe.”)

While I missed the occasional day, I really rocked my schedule, for the most part. Now, this was not easy during all of the traveling we did last Dec/Jan/Feb. For instance, while we were in Nono, Argentina in the middle of nowhere at an estancia, there was nary a place to buy more vinegar when I ran out. Ian, dear brother that he is, went to the kitchen and asked for a container of vinegar to take back to my room (he’s still mad about having to do it). Anything for the cider toe!

I am happy to report that my home remedy and stubbornness worked — I stopped the cider toe regimen about 14 months after starting, and my nail looks perfect!

All Hail Vinegar.