When You Can't Reach Your Zipper

My fingers will grow
More nimble with each inch that
She adds to your waist.



Well, again, things have changed. Again.

I was fortunate enough to spend a week or so on the east coast at the beginning of this month. Aside from having to cough up heartbreaking goodbyes nearlyeveryday, it was fabulous. Fantastic. Wondrous.

Every hour or so I very nearly wished that I lived there still, or again. Predictably, this came in short spurts - most often when alongside a dear, dear friend. Then I realized that I can't stand the humidity. Can't stand it. Haaaaaaate it. Hate it.

But I'm back in the northwest. Surrounded by occasional drizzle, everlasting green and of course the love of a small, fat cupcake/pug hybrid and a slightly distracted, inconquerably generous woman who is pretty much the first thirty seconds of an antacid tablet sinking into water encapsulated in human form. She also just passed her French Praxis. Yay!

Each morning finds me at the Portland Metro headquarters of Waste Management. I'm slowly accepting this. I spend nine to twelve hours a day saying things that 75% of the American public a) only say in ridiculing jest on church bus trips or b) assume can't be said in any seriousness whatsoever unless on the set of a feature film or sketch comedy show. Things like "10-4" and "Copy" and "Over." These are my days. During lunch I sneak an hour or so of culture. I'm soothed by the dulcet tones of the Writer's Almanac, intrigued by a diverting article in whichever reasonably respected magazine I have with me before I dutifully, gratefully, fall into the welcoming embrace of an established work. Currently, Passing Through by Stanley Kunitz (who I referenced in my last "update," odd) which is magnificent and deeply recommended.

My phone has been missing for 5 days now. Funny that, "missing." It describes the physical reality well enough, but is absolutely antithetical to my actual emotional response. Hmm.

Enough.