ups and downs of twelve day work weeks

i found myself in a truly atrocious mood this last monday and tuesday. i was crabby, cranky, not sleeping well, exhausted, body sore, and just not into hanging out with friends, or even erik really. at the end of wednesday, my first day off in a good long while, i glanced at my calendar and realized that i had just worked for twelve days straight. i suddenly felt justified not only for sleeping in until almost noon that day, but also for being such a mess. twelve days was about five more than any sane person should ever agree to. i'll try not to make that mistake again.

to make things clear, i really love my jobs. i get to make coffee two or three days a week, steaming and swirling and stirring up drinks for about half regular customers whose faces i now recognize, even if their names still escape me, and half visitors who have been reveling in the oregon sunshine and mcminnville's sweet little downtown area that has been looking especially spic and span this summer. the other days i work, i am literally surrounded by books, answering questions for my fellow readers, tracking down hard to find books for excited customers, and recommending titles to those who happen to share my interest in memoir, nature writing, or food lit. i have no idea how i had the good fortune to land these two jobs. i take at least three applications from hopeful teenagers every single shift i work at the bookstore. i'm not complaining.

the downside of this is the reality of having two part-time jobs: very little time off. i'm the go-to person at both of my places of employment for covering shifts and last-minute calls of desperation ("can you come in today at noon??"; text received at 11:30). most days i say yes to these requests, figuring i need the hours anyway and for the most part enjoy what i do. long runs like this last one though, tend to end on a sour note. like the three people who came into the bookstore tuesday that i just could not make happy, or the poor woman that evening whose chai was not hot enough, too sweet, too milky, and i just couldn't get it right. by the end of that day, i felt like sitting down for a good cry. time for some time off.

i'm learning also that it is important to structure my time off carefully. too much lazing around the apartment, and i just feel gross at the end of the day. i take my time getting up, make myself coffee or tea and toast, sit down with a book until i feel like doing something. work on some small productive project for a while (we are still unpacking and arranging after all), and then make myself a nice little lunch. i also work hard to get out of the apartment those days, even if it's just for a little trip across the street to the library for more reading material.

*

today it is a little gray and gloomy in mcminnville, and i'm welcoming the need to wear flannel and a sweatshirt for a day or two. the world is a little less bright and overwhelming, and it feels good to linger over dinner and cuddle with erik until we both fall asleep. it reminds me why i look forward to fall all year long, and also why summer is always better with the occasional rain shower to help wash the hot and hectic days clean again.

happy july.

b

noticing lately...

old men wearing suspenders and plaid
the way evening light falls
bird silhouettes on power lines
the smell of rain-dampened roses
busy traffic on 2nd street
the smooth feel of new book pages
stationery and the promise of letters to come
the slow unfurling of my baby lettuce plants
craving black, milky tea on chilly mornings


*

i've been living without internet recently. i don't get to start the day with a convenient, unfamiliar poem (courtesy of the writer's almanac), and a quick perusal of my favorite blogs, but otherwise i am enjoying the freedom of an internet-less home. instead of compulsively checking my email or otherwise wasting time online, i have been reading a lot, slowly moving in, making summer plans, going to bed early, hanging out with erik, becca, and steve. i find myself calmer at the end of the day, and less tired in the morning, without the distraction of endless possibilities that the internet offers.

as erik and i slowly get settled into our little house, one of the major projects i've been working on is making it feel less apartment-y and more homey. this has involved numerous trips to goodwill, st. vincent de paul, and the restore. recent exciting purchases include a heavy wooden desk/work table, a big bookcase (which we painted bright orange and yellow!), and a sewing machine. my mind is overrun with possibilities of curtains and blankets and creative wall art involving old door and window frames. perhaps when i get better at arranging my days i will start in on those projects, sticking at first to necessary things like mending belt loops and torn pockets. i'm looking forward to finding a rhythm that allows for bread baking, writing, and visiting with friends. until i hit my stride though, i'm grateful for the extra hours the lack of internet provides.


b

slow morning

the past few mornings, i have been giving myself time. i don't need to be anywhere, and even though i have plenty of things to do, my body thanks me for the extra hour or two of quiet before i begin the day.

this morning, i stumbled across a handful of lovely blogs. i love these collections of other people's snapshots and musings--everyone needs a little inspiration. i would like to start recording my inspirations in a simple way, as these do.


http://gracefullady.blogspot.com/
http://greenolivesdesign.blogspot.com/
http://www.hearblack.com/
http://folkloricblog.blogspot.com/

also: listening to this song.



b

hello june

walked across a stage.

earned first tips.

secured housing.

packing packing packing.


b

Think, after so many times, how/nothing is pure or completely/lost.

Landscape

Josh Booton

I love you, she said, meaning

why do you always have to be

like that. And he, turned

to the window--the loose tunings

of telephone wire, the half-drawn shades

across, a woman or man naked

from behind--thought,

after so many times, how

words mean more or less than

they mean to, are made up

of other words, agreements

for flux or inflection

or whole lives. So that

hotpot means that morning in Prague

when she burned her arm

and he mimed fire,

with his hands, to the young pharmacist

who gave him Astroglide

and her a scar, strangely the shape

of Czechoslovakia, to remember by.

Or why those nights,

he home drunk but happy,

she would listen to him

in the dark, taking off his clothes

and the whole evening--

the tipsy tables and forced jokes,

the brief signatures of smoke;

how the waitress called him

honey across the bartop's honey shellac,

the mile home--and think: watermelon.

Think, after so many times, how

nothing is pure or completely

lost. Each word to usher

the world in, each world

to make the words less sure.

Until there is nowhere to stand

except at the window

looking out on cars for miles

and think: desire.

Nowhere to turn but to her

through the black-earth scent of coffee,

the country blues from another room.

I love you, too, he said.

i miss poetry.

b

colorful things

sunshine

citrus

canned goods

swatches

haight st

flags

camas

carrots

sky

b

hood canal

hood canal

outside the window bank
small blue waves pass on their
endless way too and from
the end of the canal
brushing unknown depths

and here we three sit
each lost between pages
scrabble tiles scattered across the floor
the table set for dinner
later we will play games
maybe drink a beer

but in this moment
the silence between two songs
on an old scratched CD
we sit on the edge of the water
and that is more than enough

on the water

small worlds


lena lake hike

at the lake


cabin

mt. walker hike

view of the olympics


perfect calm

last evening on the water


b