Ann Patchett buys a book store--Colbert Report

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Carolyn Hax--Crap Tsunami

"Crap tsunami, well said. It offers an answer, too: What can you do except scramble to the safest possible     place and wait it out?

Since sewage isn’t actually lapping at your foundation (at least, not yet!), you can get a little more creative in the way you define “safest possible place.” I can’t say this enough: Strip your life of everything that either doesn’t matter or can wait for later. Spare from the ax one or two activities that have a renewing effect on you, and make them your refuge. Spend your remaining energy on giving and receiving love from those whose time is running out.

Also, take faultless care of yourself, based on the holistic trinity of sleep, exercise and healthy diet.

For your emotional state during this time, I offer two of the most enduringly useful pieces of advice I’ve gotten from people during my worst times:

1. Find a steeple to chase — i.e., use a fixed point in the distance as the thing that keeps you from losing yourself and keeps you moving toward a goal. It can just be, “Take great care of my mom,” or, “Stay close to my spouse/partner/best friend,” or, “Make it to my annual beach week.”

2. Know that everything external eventually passes. That includes bad times, good times, bulls, bears and every one of us.

In other words, steady yourself, then trust and live by the laws of change."~Carolyn Hax

They Say the Oregon Rain . . .

I won't go into the historic details of the story of this favorite song from my teen years. Other folks have already covered it (very well) here and here and here.
Often (on a rainy day) in the Spring and Autumn I'm transported back to the time spent cruising around with my buds in crime, with 62 KGW AM blaring on the car radio. We all thought we harmonized beautifully and nailed those high notes in the lonely and emotional refrain. (Like one of the chroniclers in the links above, I do wonder why a movie was never made. Great material for an indie!)

They say the Oregon rain will get you down,
But I hunger for the freshness of its sound
The wind, the sun, the things that I have known before,
Now seem like faded ghosts, like shadows on the floor


I live in Oregon, Oregon's my home ...
I love the trees, the hills, the places I have roamed ...
I long to be there, I long to be there with my own kind!


Let me roam endless hours on my own ...
Take me home, back to where green trees grow ...
I feel so lonely and forgotten in this place ...
I'm losing hope, my mind is troubled by disgrace ...


I live in Oregon, Oregon's my home ...
I love the trees, the hills, the places I have roamed ...
I long to be there, I long to be there with my own kind!


I've painted pictures on the blank walls of my cell ...
I've walked through countless dreams no mortal words can tell
I feel how lonely and forgotten I could be ...
My heart is crying out to those who hold the key ...


I live in Oregon, Oregon's my home ...
I love the trees, the hills, the places I have roamed ...
I long to be there, I long to be there with my own kind!
I long to be there, I long to be there with my own kind!
{refrain} I can't go home ...
~"Blackhawk County" 1974 Monmouth

Why do you ask?

Someone at work today, who rarely shows any interest in my private life, began asking question after question. My spidey senses were activated and I felt like I was their assignment.

Why did this send an alert to my brain? I had a high school acquaintance who would regularly "interview" me (I thought she was chatting me up and yes, I spilled my guts). Later I'd discover that she had traded my information like currency all over the school. As a result, I'm a fairly private person depending on the share level of our relationship.

Maybe it makes me an odd duck, but I learned long ago that we go to work to do our best and earn a living--not to make life long friends. If I spent my time being social, I'd never keep my focus or get anything done. I'm either in drive or neutral.

So now, unfortunately, I'm on alert and waiting for a shoe to drop. Oh how I hate that feeling . . .