Trailer Wife

Drop whatever you're doing. Drive to the nearest bookstore. Buy The Passage by Justin Cronin. It's that good.

I first got interested in the book after hearing it lauded on Fresh Air. Cronin was described as a very literary writer (with moderate success) who had crossed over into the realm of (audible sigh) vampire fiction.

Who is sick of vampires in pop culture? (Raises hand).

But Cronin argues that it's not that vampires are making a sudden resurgence on the literary (ergo, silver screen) scene, but that they've actually never left it. Since the turn of the twentieth century, the world has been obsessed with these bloodsucking charmers. Cronin grew up watching the greats - Legosi, et al. But it wasn't the seductive monster he had in mind for this nearly 800 page tome.

I don't want to give too much away - let's just say that if vampirism was a disease, you don't want to catch this one. I imagine it's the kind of book that Tolkien would write, had he been born in the 1960s, in response to the birth of the twenty-first century. Sure, some of it feels a bit indulgent (Governor Jenna Bush???). And yes, post-apocalyptic life has been very thoroughly imagined in the past ten (twenty, thirty) years. But just go ahead and try not to get sucked in (pun intended).

Pros:
- Beautifully wrought landscapes of waste and deprivation, countered by the delight of the untouched, the bountiful bunker, the future as a dark and dangerous echo of the past.
- Cronin somehow manages to pull of a huge cast of characters, without losing the reader in their navigation.
- Hyperbole of age-old haunts: monsters, the dark, solitude.
- A pacing that is SPOT on. I challenge you to read just one chapter a day.

Cons:
- It's impossible to prevent yourself from casting the movie while you read (opening 2014, Ridley Scott).
- Well, it has vampires in it.
- You have to repress the urge to scoff at the "chosen one, product of fate, everything happens for a reason," undertones. But then again, considering the state of the world right now, that might be a pro.

The verdict: A

I have always been an artist without talent. As long as I can remember, I've longed to draw, paint, sculpt... thinking that if I just work hard enough, art will happen. It never does. In high school, I tried to soothe my artistic frustration with Manic Panic, bowling shirts, and import store purchases. It wasn't until I discovered poetry (John Donne, to be exact) in tenth grade Language Arts, that I felt some relief. But even then, the creative steam I was blowing off had no immediately obvious demonstration. Words must be read, digested, interpreted. As opposed to standing in front of a work of visual art, instantly slayed.

I've never quite got over it - not being able to physically manifest beauty. And that's probably why I've always wanted a tattoo. But I am a strange amalgamation of left brained, steel-trap practicality and flighty, right-brained aesthetic. I knew, basically, what I wanted, but couldn't put my doubts aside long enough to actually pull the trigger: What if the artist bombs? What if my Grandpa finds out? What if I get ink-poisoning and die? What if people see it and assume I'm a misanthrope?

But something happened to me the last two years. Well, lots of things, actually. I decided who I wanted to be, finally. I moved out of the country. I created another person. I plumbed the depths of self-doubt and intellectual ennui. Four of my closest family members died, within months of each other. The strength I had always been lauded for was tested. The stalwart self-discipline always attributed to me disappeared. I wallowed in the misery of it all for a while (as one will), but survived and evolved. I came through it all knowing that, if I can't be who I am inside on the outside, what is the fucking point?

And so... I had a Sitka Spruce carved into my spine. Sitkas are native to the west coast of North America, spread out from northern California all the way up to... you guessed it, Alaska. But the Sitkas of my memories grew in the coastal rain forests of Oregon. A century of logging has left only a remnant of the spruce forests still standing, but they are a long-lived tree that grow rapidly under favorable conditions. They are known for flourishing despite poor soil where few other trees can be grown successfully. The high strength-to-weight ratio and knot-free rings make it an excellent conductor of sound, which is why they are often used to make guitars, violins, pianos and sail boats. The bark is thin, especially in young trees, but the roots are soft and run very deep. They are hardy, adaptable, forgiving trees that can grow to seemingly impossible heights. Need I go on?

A bit on the actual tattoo experience... coming soon.

And just for kicks, here's that John Donne poem that blew my 15 year old mind...

SONG.
by John Donne


GO and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.

If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.

If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.

A preference for Apple products, much like an appreciation for cilantro and knowing which stemware goes with which wine, is how I have come to organize the world into two categories: Those who get it, and Those who do not. Elitist, yes. But effective.

So. The ipad. At first, I was indifferent. I was very happy with my iphone and macbook combo. I used my iphone to listen to music, count calories, keep track of my calendar, etc. The macbook is where I watched TV/movies, edited photos, surfed the internet. But when Sam suggested that having an ipad might be nice for collecting all the books I'll need for grad school in one place, I was intrigued. The book readers on the market had never appealed to me, mostly because of the clunky interfaces and unsexy device options. But once I started doing a bit of research, I quickly learned that life would, in fact, never be complete without owning an ipad.

Don't get me wrong. The slow-but-sure devolution of the paperback troubles me deeply. There will never, ever, be a substitute for the dog-eared, doodled and highlighted hard copy. But for quick reference and easy access, the ipad can't be beat. So that's one thing.

After we received the ipads in the mail a month ago (angels were singing in the background to mask the jangling echo of our empty bank account), I disappeared into an ipad-app-filled, blissed out, dis-associative fugue. When I finally came out of it - about ten minutes ago - I decided to share my fav apps with the world. It's like The Good News, only way more interesting and less clogged with religious hyperbole.

1. Netflix. It's what gets me to the gym every morning... wireless streaming of Dexter and obscure documentaries while I elliptisize.

2. Epicurious. Pools bajillions of recipes from gourmet magazines and high-end cuisine sites into one gorgeous interface. Sortable by ingredient, dietary consideration, season and occasion. Complete with reviews and beautiful photos. Last night I made Grilled Marinated Lamb Chops with Balsamic Cherry Tomatoes, and Barley with Toasted Cumin and Mint. I know!

3. iBearMoney. Spendy, for an app, and time-intensive to set up, but for A-type spreadsheet hags like me, bliss. Manage your checking, savings, credit cards and budget in one place with transaction register, bill payment scheduler, and even a way to download bank information for reconciliation. LOVE.

4. MyNetDiary. Even better than LiveStrong (which I used before). I can now track food/exercise/details on both my macbook, iphone and ipad, which limits my excuses for slacking on the diet considerably.

5. GroceryIQ. Ultimate listing devise. Allows you to track prices over time, shop by aisle, and search through history to find items.

6. Zillow. Even though we're not even close to looking for a new house, this app is such a voyeuristic pleasure. I LOVE looking at houses, and Zillow allows you to scan in real time, see photos, and drool.

7. NPR. How cool is it that you can use this app to tune in to any NPR segment you missed, search by topic or keyword, and send favorites to friends. It really plays on the intersection of written and verbal news, stories, pop culture and old-fashioned talk radio.


There are several more I could add here (NYT crosswords, BBC News, Scrabble, ABC Player) but you get the picture. Yes, it is basically an oversized iphone. But it is so damned convenient! Reading, browing and watching TV in bed has never been more comfortable. And when I'm not using it, I plug it in and set the photo slideshow - instant digital photo frame.

And... my upper-middle-class, tofu-eating, The Wire-watching, recycling, 5k-running, farmers-market-patroning, Stuff-White-People-Like-reading, liberal, Obama-loving, over-educated-ass, quinoa-recipe-hoarding status is secure. At least until the next release.

Tattoos have served as rites of passage, marks of status and rank, symbols of religious and spiritual devotion, decorations for bravery, sexual lures and marks of fertility, pledges of love, punishment, amulets and talismans, protection, and as the marks of outcasts, slaves and convicts. In almost every instance, the indelible imprint of the tattoo communicates what the tattooed desire in their souls: autonomy and identity.

It is a subject fraught with controversy and judgment - after all, by permanently marking your body, you are saying: dear world, here's a target, take aim. We all hear Grandpa's speech ringing in our ears. "Tattoos are a permanent reminder of a temporary feeling." But I disagree. At 32 years old (oh good god, I just wrote that), I've decided that I am finally old enough to own my decisions, no matter what anyone thinks of them. Turns out, that's kind of a big deal. I could write an essay here on why I decided to get a tattoo. But it comes down to this: it is the external symbol of internal decision, a constant reminder (to me) of where I've come from, and where I am going.

SO.

Here it is. The story of how this tattoo came about? Stay tuned...


"There is no perfect beauty that hath not strangeness in the proportion."
Sir Francis Bacon - London, 1639

Peanut M&Ms and Thomas the Tank Engine videos on iPhone.
Pike's Place Market.
Seafood Chowder.
Not having to pump my own gas.
Humidity.
Julie's enormous TV watching chair.
The smell of green.
Old, old friends made new again.
Color books.
Micro Brew.
Happy Hour and peanuts shelled on the ground.
Powells' City of Books.
The Street Car.
Choo Choo!!!
Making dinner with my sister.
Sipping wine in the trees.
Nordstrom.
Competent colorists.
Cart food.
The Willamette River.
Doggie dookies in plastic baggies.
Roses, roses, roses.
Cousins.
Beloved members of my not-so-natural family.
Brand new babies.
Impossible smallness.
OPB.
The Cobalt!!
Tiffany's.
The high desert.
More roses.
Not being able to make it through three words of a birthday toast.
My perfect, rosebud, 30 year old sister.
The Dodge compound, Bend Oregon.
Trader Joes!!!
Impulse tattoos.
Mary's Peak.
My dirty girls on Taylor Ave.
1 million piece puzzles and philosophy.
Gravlox, Gewürztraminer, and God.
Elephant ears.
Recreating 25 year old moments.
More Choo Choos!!
Babysitters.
4 courses at Portland's Restaurant of the Year.
Vesper Martinis.
Watching movies with overfull glasses of red wine.
Not exercising.
Not taking phone calls.
Puppy kisses.
Goodbye forever to really bad habits.
The need for larger suitcases.
Lettuce wraps and diet coke.
Getting through airport security with no photo ID.
Gracious airplane seat-mates.
The smell of open fires and twilight.
Clean sheets and a house filled with flowers.

Things I am almost ready to buy.

We've had a solid week of thunder clouds and cool weather. Not that I'm complaining. I have missed rain more than I ever expected, living in such a dry climate. It will occasionally pour on the outskirts of Fairbanks, but rarely in town. Tonight, while lying in bed, we heard the thunder as usual, but it was followed by a rare, drenching rain and hail storm. We were so charmed we jumped out of bed and into the gale. Everything in Alaska is extreme. Extreme cold, bluer skies you've never seen, mosquitoes the size of fruit bats, and when it rains... well, you get the picture.

NaBloPoMo prompt for today: You've just been given a million dollars. You are not allowed to keep it or give it to anyone you know personally. What do you do with it and why?

Easy. First I would hire a private investigator to identify 20 smart, strapped, college-drop-out single mothers, and write them each a check for $50,000.00.

NaBloPoMo prompt for today: Do you owe an apology to anyone? Why?

Dear High-School Age Christie,
Where to begin? First of all, I'm really sorry about those blue faux snake skin flats you wore every day of tenth grade. Especially when they were paired with the tuxedo ruffled silk shirt in the exact same shade. (shudder) And that spiral perm in 1991 - there was no excuse for that. I apologize for all the Mariah Carey, specifically the hours upon hours of "Music Box," that almost certainly ripped a hole in the atmosphere above the house on Elmore street. The really bad poetry, the white princess dress I wore to the sophomore winter formal, the streaks of green Manic Panic to the front half of my spiral permed head - my bad. Two words: Gordon Muscutt. Groan. But most of all, I'm sorry about the lack of direction, the epically bad decisions, that one spring when I taught abstinence to middle-schoolers because all of my friends were doing it, quitting the softball team the first time practice wasn't canceled due to the rain, for not applying to colleges as far away from Lebanon Oregon as possible. I feel really bad about not learning how to properly pluck eyebrows. Bowling shirts, babydoll dress and $3 china flats - yikes. For not learning how to play an instrument or speak a foreign language or how to properly parallel park, I hope you can forgive me.

Love,
2010 Christie

I've been calling Gusser "Verbal Kint," lately, after Kevin Spacey's character in The Usual Suspects (a favorite flick of mine). This is partly due to his still-wobbly gate but also because of his suddenly exploding vocabulary. Because I want to safeguard the memory of his sweet enthusiasm for communication in anticipation of the teenage years, when he will be rendered mute by antipathy and hormones, I've catalogued his new words below.

Dutt - truck
Busssss - bus
Boat
Cow, Moo
Jabah - giraffe
Choo Choo
Meeeen! - airplane
Nimmy - his buddy Timmy
Peese - please
Ka Ka - cracker
Da Ba La - strawberry
Ah wide - all right
Elmo
Shelby
Rare-mee - our friend Jeremy
Zaco - a neighbor's dog
Eemoo - we have no idea, but he says it A LOT.
Weddy - ready
Shoot - shirt

Many more I can't remember. When we were ichatting with Auntie Heidi and her two yorkies the other night, Gus strung together a few words for the first time. "Bye bye puppy Heidi!"

It's been a week since Auntie Julie left, and Gus is still pointing toward the basement door every few hours to say, "Ew-joo?" As if Julie has just been taking a very long nap in our subterranean guest room. I realized I hadn't given a recap of her trip, and in hope that it will compel some of you to travel to the arctic for a similar reason, I offer the following:

Day One: Breakfast at Sam's Sourdough Cafe, trip to Santa's House in North Pole, University Campus Tour, Alaskan king crab feast.






Day Two: Lunch at LaVelle's, tour of downtown, drive to Ester Dome, Taco-eating contest at home.




Day Three: Fairbanks Farmer's Market, lunch at The Cookie Jar, ice cream at the park, movie (Robin Hood, terrible), sweet potato fries and drinks at the Pump House.





Day Four: Afternoon at Pioneer Park with train rides and popsicles, dinner at Silver Gulch Brewery.





Day Five: Mother Moose story hour at the library, drive to Delta Junction, Alaska Salmon Bake dinner (all you can eat salmon, halibut and crab), a round of mini golf.




If we weren't going to see her in a week, we'd miss Julie a lot more. But we had a great visit, and can't wait until February 2011, when she will bring her wife back for the Ice Art Festival!