Life is Art

But here is me this afternoon:

Dishwater blonde / brown with damaged streaks from black-and-green growout.


This evening: Dark red-brown; attempt at rockabilly bangs.

I sort of hate getting my hair done, but am not willing anymore to do it myself (after many, many years of DIY). There is some way the whole process is very undignified - a public shorning, wearing a plastic tent, being forced to listen to the loud nasally RAZR PHONE conversation of the hairdresser. I also do not and cannot enjoy the trashy celeb magazines. I mean, they aren't even "guilty pleasure" fun for me at all. They make me itchy, and I'm already kind of wired. I'd meant to bring my knitting but was late because babydaddy was late in relieving me - so I had to thumb through "Real Simple", the least offensive rag there. Ick.

I did get a nice chilled glass of boxed wine in a "fancy" glass. Wheee!

During their tenure as Tacoma math-rock band nob streator (music here), my husband's good friend and bandmate G. wrote a song called "Sick Desires". This song concerned the struggle with unhealthy lust and at the time G. was a man engaged and, as far as I know, celibate. I really liked the song for G.'s earnestness but it also made me laugh (nervously) every time I thought of it. I guess I felt like I shouldn't know so much about a man's private sexual struggle. It goes without saying he thought it was OK for not only me to know, but any few hundreds of people coming to their shows. He's a pretty amazing guy.

I too have Sick Desires that I walk around unaware of until they are brought on like a nasty case of psych heartburn. This happened recently while at another Mama's house. See, every once in a while I get totally heartsick longing for some kind of perfect, tasteful (meaning: full of crap you buy from All The Right Places), well-tended, "keeping up with the Joneses" kind of domicile.

I am ashamed to admit I feel this pull. It isn't always, it isn't often; but it is there, lurking, waiting to spring low-grade depression on me at any moment (I think I am also PMSing, so by all means I will keep typing out my pathetic hormonal self). This desire does not work with my core values. My core values to date mostly involve surviving and thriving as a family of four with a minimalist view on consumerism (please leave my addiction to Etsy out of this). If I had to sum up my core values with regards to our lifestyle, it would go thusly:

1. A home with a domestic center.
2. No credit cards or credit card debt.
3. Intentional stewardship and justified accrual of material posessions.
4. Creating, not buying.

These values mean, among other things, that I don't want to "chase money" - not by accepting Work Widowhood or taking on parttime work for myself just to "survive" (read: buy comforts). I don't know when I'll work. It will be a career endeavor that feeds my mind, and when the time is right for my family and me. I also don't want to be distracted by commerce - by the thinking of and procuring of the gadget, the throw rug, the pair of shoes. Not by Ikea, Costco, or "thrift store scores" - depending on the preference of the shopping addiction. I don't judge shopping or spending in and of themselves. But if I gave my mental or emotional energy to these enterprises I would be sacrificing the reserves I need merely to feed my family, keep my home, sew, play, write, maintain friendships, and sleep - and remain me - my intelligent, thinking, loving self. It is humbling sometimes to realize that handful of occupations keeps me at a steady jog. But I am proud of my creative efforts, my parenting, and my housekeeping. And, I suppose, at this juncture without the body of work I've built I wouldn't be me.

When I think of the homes I envy (in my worse, Sickest moments) I know I am not willing to make the sacrifices, pony up the cash, or slice up my identitiy to have them. The only homes I've seen that have the center and the well-worn loveliness I will work for are those of old birds like my mom (I say like my mom because my parents house is far too large and too cluttered to fit for me) who have spent nearly a lifetime assembling them, alongside the dish-washing and the laundry and the Family Movie Nights.

In the meantime, I try not to feel queasy when I think of just how un-"tasteful" the home is I've assembled.

Today while at the Farm I was breaking into a large pile of compost with a shovel, busting it up, and loading it into wheelbarrows for spreading in some kale beds - when suddenly this vile, oily orange stuff pops and oozes out of the middle of the pile (all of which looks like your average pile of rich, loamy dirt). I am fascinated in that too-gross-to-look-away sort of way. Then the smell hits; not quite animal, but vegetable in the most pungent, horrid form. I cannot tell at all what I am looking at - a pocket of squash somehow partially preserved? It splutters and flows and after a while I feel kind of faint. I vow that whatever it is, if I ever find out what it once was I will never eat it again. I also wonder why in the middle of this massive compost pile it has not decomposed. One of our farmers comes over and practically screams like a girl - picking at it gingerly with a shovel he tells me this was "a fish layer" (carcasses of salmon we get from a local shop) and to NOT load it onto the field. No problem, buddy.

After a few more wheelbarrow loads I trade off with someone else so they can have their turn shovelling near the Miasma of Hellish Odor.

Last night: Family movie night watching The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, an indie spoof of an old B-movie. Turns out it was truly hilarious and my children loved it. Nels fell asleep on my chest. Honestly? Loveliest night I've had in a while.


"That would be me!" While I enjoyed the escaped "handless" mutant and wild dancing of Animala (a girl made from four forest animals), the skeleton himself was my favorite. He reminded me of my brother.

I am on the Board of our local co-op Playschool. Last night and the night before we held our Orientation meetings. Attending the meetings were mamas and daddies with a few grandmas sprinkled in. At the beginning of our meeting we are supposed to go around, introduce ourselves and indicate our child's name and class day, then tell the group something special we can bring to the Co-op - a talent, ability, or hobby we share. Well both nights when we went around with this the daddies there didn't say shit besides their name and their child's. If their partners were there they would literally POINT to the wife with this panicky fear in their eye, as if they had taken a vow of assy silence. The couple of daddies whose partners weren't there said stuff like, "Hi, I'm Chris, and my wife is Marta. I don't have ANY talents but my wife has TONS" and everyone would chuckle like, "Ha ha ha, of course we don't expect anything from you when it comes to your child's school development. You're 'just a dad!'"

Every time I see this I am so irritated. And it keeps rearing its head. There is a socially-supported idea that dads don't know what goes on with the kids' day, dads are out of touch, dads are out of their element in the touchy-queery world of singing songs and dancing with their children, etc. This attitude can have huge repurcussions because (among other things) it stunts some dads from finding their way. For example: I have seen an alarming number of dads do the "helpless" parenting when it comes to their child's bad behavior. The "helpless" parenting often morphs to the "authoritarian douche" parenting (a phrase a friend of mine coined so well), all of which is often a rather loud signal to Mama to come bail them out. Rinse and repeat; kids grow up knowing dad is a child inside, Mama grows up resentful, Dad doesn't enjoy his own children nearly as much as he could.

It isn't just the daddies' passiveness that bugs me. Mamas play into it too, big time. I have seen Mamas try to "help" dads just because of the fact they are dads (this pisses my husband off, so don't ever do it to him). One time at Playschool a couple biddies hovered around my husband, holding our then two-week old son. He had to look dead in their eye and say "I'm cool. This is my baby." and make a karate chop motion to get them to back off.

I guess really, when it comes down to it, we are still saying children and their business is somehow demeaning, somehow something only second-class or auxillary persons attend to.

This weekend we had ten people in this house and half of them were young children. Considering we have two bedrooms to accomplish this (the third is a sewing room - sorry 'bout that friends!) we feel pretty awesome.

Our friends arrived yesterday at about 1 PM. We spent the day piling on public transit, riding up to the Farmer's Market, playing at the park, avoiding a few choice locals (always hard to do; it seems *everyone* is Uptown on Saturday), grabbing a bite, then running to catch the bus again. Home for a time to settle down and nap, and then my Prizewinning Fucking Beef Enchiladas for dinner along with a salsa I made from all-Farm ingredients (OK, nothing I cook wins any prizes but a girl has to feel important, even if it involves lying). Ater dinner we went out to a friend's house for a six-family bonfire. It is so amazing to hang out with parents of young kids: have an outdoor movie, a bonfire, drink beer (or not, in my case), chat, and watch our kids run around (some of them naked, outdoors at 9 PM and all) while having grownup conversation (you know, where you say words like "loquacious" and "cock").


I am neither stoned nor have I just finished "grinding my axe" - I was merely holding the guitar for someone. I did belt out some songs by The Cult, and everyone thought I was awesome. P.S. they were all drunk.


Last time we did this we had a grownup movie; this time we got wise and busted out some kid action. Nels is on the left: the little dinosaur with the golden curls, snuggled with his sister. Other kids were wrapped up in tarps and blankets, I think.

This morning at 8 AM we hear our friends' family stirring in the next room. Ralph springs out of bed to get dressed and cook breakfast for all (yes, he is that amazing). I lie in bed and watch my children wake, roll toward one another and begin hugging and petting. For a house with this many kids and a late night, things seem remarkably easy. Ralph comments at breakfast those cults with lots of wives and families have a smart thing going. I point out that this is the weekend and thus all breeding adults are available to help with food, kids, bathroom needs, etc.


Handsome is as handsome does, and these days Handsome mostly likes eating pizza and playing jumping games off the couch.

It seems the air changed just in time for the first week of school. My daughter is re-installed in preschool and loves it. She disappears from my view a little more. Ralph brings the children out to the Farm after school; she and her friends there catch a tree frog, debate about what to feed it and let it go. I offer my assistance and she impatiently gestures: "Go back to work!" I realize as time goes on more and more she will need me all the time, but I will never know or be able to count on when she will single me out.

It feels good to work out on the Farm in this fall weather. I realize I will enjoy closing out the season in this way. I am proud for turning in two workdays this week to help bring the harvest in. Today I pull a large bed of weeds with another woman (we have been suspiciously abandoned by the other workers assigned) and in the chill, brisk air we talk about our mothers who are the same age and shared some similar decisions. After break I shovel a large truck full of horse manure with a father of two and we talk about watersheds and engineering. I carry large trash cans of pulled flatleaf parsley with another young mother and we talk about our families: who works, who juggles home life, how we stay in our beloved community and make a living. In the afternoon I sit in a field of strawberries with my son(sun) and the hot smell of his hair is melded with the heady aroma of strawberries and it is exactly the feeling of falling in love.

I strip off layer after layer as the sun heats up. In the Circle Time before our meal we chant. I chant. I am irritated because I don't like chanting, but I've never figured out if it would be disrespectful to abstain. Instead I close my eyes and give over to a different way, a different mindset. I am conscious of the hand of one of the interns holding mine. His is hard and calloused. Does mine feel soft to him? I am not hungry yet so I go out to harvest. I gather zucchini, jalapenos, basil, tomatoes, cayenne, corn, cucumbers, strawberries, sunflowers. I mentally prepare meals for my company that will be here tomorrow.

Driving home and the van is filled with a lull of sunshine and hard work and children who have been running and playing in a barn and on a trampoline and eating their fill of wine-rich berries. Four more workdays of this and I never know what it may bring: tranquility or irritation, the ache of hard-worked muscles or the jittery-ness of a day spent in conflict. No matter what my mental state though, it always brings us food.

You know that organic baby spinach mix you scoop up in bulk, and it's like $6.99 / lb. and you get pissed if there are any slimy leaves or wee yellow bits? Well Mother of Christ today I learned why you pay so much. I was trained at how to harvest it out at the Farm. First you squat down in the mud and lean over the bed of baby greens. Using your left hand you somehow gather up a bunch - without bruising the leaves, while parting the other tiny leaves right against the ground - then you cut into your hand using your right. Holding the spinach leaves loosely, you "tap out" all the knife-shaped tiny leaves - the first leaves of spinach, which spoil quickly in the case so much be removed - I can't remember the name for these leaves. Anyway, you also must keep an eagle eye out for catching the crown of the plant or any weeds. Which are also green and leafy. All this while a "spinach harvesting expert" is hovering over your shoulder and watching your every move and picking on you if you fuck up.

I will have some real respect the next time I see that little bin at the co-op.

Tonight we are watching my girlfriend Abbi's two babes. She and her husband are out for a birthday dinner - hers. I feel somewhat awesome because I actually pulled together a present for her - on time, at that. Thursday: Sophie's first day of preschool.

My anniversary weekend is here and gone and I didn't make time to blog, mostly because I was having a great time. The entire weekend was sponsored by my family, really. We didn't have to think it through weeks ago when my mom suggested we head down there, leave the kids with my parents, and enjoy ourselves. My brother gave us $50 to enjoy dinner and a pampered evening. Saturday we hit a flick (a football movie featuring Mark Wahlberg), the beach, and had a nice dinner together; stayed out most the day. You have to trust me that the football movie was the best option in the little beach town we were visiting.

And yeah, it was romantic. I'm not going to tell you any details about parking in our very first makeout spot ever or our alone time but suffice to say yeah, we got it on (like that Whitesnake video!). Be jealous, bitches!

I am humbled by the amount my family supports our marriage and our wee ones. It feels like they're all pulling for our little foursome. My parents cooked for us, cleaned for us, bought my daughter tickets to go rock climbing at the street festival. They watched the kids both nights - even making a pallet for them to sleep in their room - so Ralph and I could have our own time alone. It was odd; like visiting other people's children. It was the first time in our lives as parents that we haven't felt the strain of responsibility. Of course we have for years now allowed them to help us in some ways; but this was the first time we really allowed it fully, without worrying we were imposing. I hope to hell we weren't because I want to do it again!

Now my husband tells me he read that after 5 years of marriage your chances of death ending your marriage are higher than your chances of divorce ending it (10%). That's a cheering thought! Kinda.

Thank you Sweet Baby Jesus for our family; our marriage; our children. Our two cars that run. Our good health. Another month's rent paid. Thanks that we've made it this far (relatively) unscarred and unafraid! Here's to another 5 and many more Grandparent-sponsored childcare weekends!

It's midnight and I am at a club of sorts with my husband, my brother, and a half dozen friends leftover from a birthday party. This is our third establishment of the evening; dinner at a local Mexican restaurant, birthday cake and presents at the local favorite of the twentysomething set, then finally to this place called BJs where an old friend is DJing and the music is so loud that several of us openly roll our eyes and wince. After about a half hour the temporary hearing damage sets in and it's all good, though.

It would be hard to imagine a scene my brother has less investment in: he doesn't drink, smoke, date (he has a long distance girlfriend), stagger around, or grind on women at random. He also doesn't listen to Top 40 hip hop or club music but somehow, like me, recognizes about half the songs the DJ plays. When he hears me complain he tells me that awful Black Eyed Peas song is at least partial parody. He's seen the video, not me - so he could be right. Personally, I think he's too trusting and optimistic. It is sweet though that both my brother and husband, while completely out of their element, are still here with me and (I hope) enjoying themselves and letting me do the drinking, smoking, and grinding.

There are so many good-looking girls here. There are big ones, small ones, skinny ones, curvy ones. There are wholesome-looking ones and skanky ones and a girl wearing a jean skirt so short and snug and showing so much leg it's a type of well-balanced perfection. I am not used to these kind of girls. In PT what little singles scene we have is dominated by sexy ladies that are earthier and darker in some way but rough around the edges - "like they've seen one too many mornings at the Marina," I quip to Ralph, who laughs because he knows what I'm talking about. But the girls aren't the only thing; I can't believe how different the club scene is here than Port Townsend. I guess you can't call most of Hoquiam / Aberdeen's dancing establishments "clubs" - they are mostly taverns and have been most of their lives - going through various stages of skanky / scariness and at best securing clean restrooms and good bar food. The music is always loud and Top 40 with occasional mid-90s throwbacks that I am ashamed to admit I dance to.

My brother and I see a man way across the dancefloor and we turn to one another. "We went to school with him, right? What's his name, do you remember?" We look back out across the floor and he catches our eye and - to the beat, - spells out his name to us in sign language! "C" - "A" - "R" - "L" - "O" - "S"! I am tickled. Then he starts spelling my brother's name and finally joins us. Later on the way to the restroom I run into a girl I was on the swim team with. I am friendly; I smile. I haven't seen many of these people in years. They ask me what I'm up to. "It's my anniversary. 5 years. We have two kids - 4 and 2!" That about sums it up; no one needs to ask more.

I have fun dancing. Yes, I do the robot, and later my husband tells me, "It looks like a few bolts were loose!" I am having a good time. I have a couple cigarettes. I dance with girlfriends that I've danced with since we were pre-teen and pre-boobs and pre-boys. I dance with my husband and I sit next to my brother when I don't feel like dancing. My only concern is that someone we went to high school will think my brother and I are dating. I think we get that alot. Especially when he puts his arm around me.

We leave a little after 1 AM and go home to our own space; kids asleep with my parents. Sleeping in tomorrow; no little footsteps or diapers to change or breakfast to arrange. Nice.

Today I cooked for about twenty people on my Farm workshare. Man, I am getting sick of that scene. The vegetables, the fruit, the fresh eggs, the sun on my back and the earth on my hands - all good. The standards of order and cleanliness (or notably, lack thereof), the kid program (or notably, lack thereof), and the supposition that yes, we all want to share our personal lives with eachother first thing in the morning and sing quasi-spiritual songs in a minor key (I want to do neither) - things like that bug me. Some of these issues are just personal preference and snarkiness; others are systemic and I probably have a right to be irritated.

I have fallen into a trap, however. I am normally a pretty upfront person and I never have trouble contributing an opinion or volunteering my advice. OK, put another way: I can be a bossy bitch. But you know? I have put that aside for the duration of this work season and perhaps in doing that I have totally screwed up. There's a reason I have thus far chosen not to speak up on these issues: the Farm is so challenging to me in terms of hygiene (scary), management (confusing), organization (low), and most specifically, the program they provide for the children of workers (this last one is the only true bitch I have; the others are likely from a rather shallow and threatened space) that I told myself from Day One to give it some time. I told myself to hold out, to meet my commitment, and to do my part as best I could. At some point the momentum shifted and I realize I should have said or done something; because I hate aspects of the experience right now and I find myself distancing.

There is the part that is my shit: I cannot believe the level of squalor the facilities are in. I cannot believe there are eight crappily-labeled tamari jars on the shelves, yet if flour runs out no one thinks to make a note for the kitchen manager (a job done as well as possible by my saintly and efficient friend Becca - a mom, by the way, who manages her own kitchen at home of course). I cannot believe the children at this farm - children from 2 to 12 or so - are expected to run around the disorganized facilities for about five hours, unsupervised. I cannot believe when I am cooking for thirty people I have the total knowledge my son is digging around in chickenshit and not only is no one stopping him, no one really knows where he is. Meanwhile - and this is the part that totally gets my fuck up - the very individuals who talk about how "wonderful" the children are and how *amazing* the experience is are some of the same individuals who never once volunteer kid-watching time or cooking time. Today, for instance, what kid duties AND what cooking duties needed to be done for ALL were done by myself and another pregnant Mama. Because, you know, we don't get ENOUGH of that shit in our daily lives!

It's all mixed up; the legitimate concerns with my judgments - judgments that have validity, yes - but judgments with a good deal of anger behind them because I have not addressed the issues earlier. I could have sorted them some time ago had I started speaking with management. Of course, we don't know who exactly that is - the family that seemed to run the program is no longer on site. Do I trust those that remain to effect change? Sadly, I don't. Would I volunteer my own time and energy to building a better program? Absolutely, yes, I would - if I had faith in the leadership to back me up. What about the irritating, fucking smug lipservice to how pro-family this place is? What a fucking farce. Pro-family my ass.

I've thought about writing an exit interview in terms of a letter to whomever is in charge (when I find out who that is) - I've thought about giving a Group Chew-Out speech on my last day. God Knows I have put the time in on all duties and surpassed even my own expectations in working hard at a program that is Fucking Over the Mamas of Young Children - the individuals included here at this Farm because, you know, everywhere else the world fucks them over.

I love so many things about the program*; I want to know if I can stay on - not just through this season, which I am almost done with - but on next year. Or if I will end up saying, "So long and fuck you very much!" and no one really will ever know why it "just didn't work out for me".

* And there are the lovely moments. Today, my husband came out to bring me food I'd left behind and as soon as he entered the sun room / kitchen / office / rumpus room (yes, it's all one fucking room, and a huge fucking mess including random bird wings and things in the dehydrator and liquids in mason jars with masking tape and if you clean anything up someone is sure to wander inside and ask you if you threw out their whatever - urine or echinacea or whatever they were saving, unlabeled, in the common area) - anyway, as soon as my husband entered the room he was assaulted (in a good way) by one of our "comrades", topless from the waist up and doing office work. Ralph knew about our sole female topless worker but this was his first actual sighting.

Now I know I should be "above it all" and no one should notice that we have a topless filly prancing about the Farm but - sorry, I grew up in the US of A and my knee-jerk reaction to free-range boobies is that they are either funny or sexy or both and the fact my husband got an inordinate amount of joy (more than, say, a bare arm or the sight of a pair of knees would give him) that's good enough for me. I honestly feel like he got a bonus; kind of if I would have seen a couple of kittens juggling or something. Her breasts are that nice and really, we should be seeing more of breasts in real life, in general.

Yay boobies! You may say you want no more press than any other "non-sexual" body part, but you will always be special to me.

So, my husband is getting all freakishly "bike culture" on me. OK, maybe not; except that he bikes to work, bikes home, takes the kids on any errand he can think of that is remotely bikeable (this is hauling 70 lbs. of kids PLUS a bike trailer and up and down many steep hills), and constantly comes up with "fun" bike trip ideas (often involving miles and miles in the sun). I love it that he's so active; when he runs or bikes more often he's less stressed - he gets a hot(ter) body, gets randier and more relaxed; not to mention he is a great example for the kids.*

Me, I'm somewhat less athletically-minded. Like a few other pursuits in my life, my physical activity waxes and wanes and I give it up or take it on with a pretty noncommittal attitude. I have a crummy bike; a Walmart special that technically has "gears" that when you change them on a hill (which is how it works, generally) squawk and chunk and jerk the bike and you're all sweaty and weaving and have this vague fear your fucking chain is going to come off and someone is looking at your wobbly ass. Because of the lameness of my bike with regards to hills my husband has been bike shopping in my stead for some time now. He has found a few bikes that were good deals (i.e. free or a couple bucks) and brought them home only to find all-in-all they were worth no more than my current POS. Luckily one of our local bike talents has taken a shine to either my family or me and is now assembling a good bike for a reasonable cost; I look forward to purchasing it.

In the meantime I know Ralph would like us to take more bike trips as a family, so today I suggest to him that instead of an evening family walk we bike downtown to rent a movie. I know this means a horrific bike back home; they don't call my neighborhood Castle Hill for nothing. Ralph (joyously) packs the kids in the trailer, finds my helmet, and tightens my seat (another "bonus" of my bike - the seat will shimmy back and forth which isn't cool in any way). We bike down; a great talk, the trailer open so the kids feel the wind on their faces. I truly love biking (downhill or flat-stretch!) next to Ralph; our kids like to hear our voices and egg us on and for the most part allow us to talk.

We quickly hit the movie store and pick up a few kid films and hop back on our bikes and I am contemplating pretending my tire is flat so I can walk up the hill (I learned this trick from my brother a few years back) but for some sick, sick reason I start trudging my way up the slope. "What's the point," I think to myself as I grudgingly put my clanky wreck into pussy-gear. Pedalpedalpedal and I am moving the speed of ass. Breathing becomes arduous. I tack back and forth, but do not stop or even curse God's name. The hill goes on and on. Ralph, I can tell, is gaining some respect for me - after all, I haven't biked in weeks with large in-between time. I finally get far enough up the hill that I know I will make it, but far enough away from the summit I start to wish I'd never been born. Tack, wheeze, wobble. Thank 8 pound, 6 ounce Baby Jesus it is dark and my public humiliation isn't too visible.

Finally; home. I am awesome. If I don't think about it too much, I might even do it again.

The coolest part is that I recently re-started smoking regularly (another habit I take up and put down at random); I know the more I exercise the less I will want to smoke and the more I will feel OK with the occasional drag.

I'll say it again: I am awesome.

* Did I mention the bike he rides is a Freecycle score and almost as old as he is? No snooty boutique gear needed for this man. He fucking rocks.

Last Sunday found us at our friends' for a 4 y.o. birthday party. A plethora of pictures were taken by Molly Bennett, friend to our hostess and Seattle photographer extraordinaire.


I'm not sure how she does it, but Sophie is a total boy-magnet. Archer is just a few months younger but clearly smitten.


One of the birthday gifts was a tube of plastic bugs - right up Sophie's alley.


As Ralph said, "When we left, there were people with no pants on. Because Nels charmed them off."


There was this one toy - it was shaped sort of like a sex aid and had something to do with the Fantastic Four. Sophie was allowed to wrangle it without challenge for some time. Note looks of envy and wonder on Archer (middle) and Riley (right).

Ralph and I just got back from Talladega Nights. I haven't laughed that hard in a movie in a long time.

** spoilers ** (don't read further unless you don't mind 'em.)

In no special order, the scenes where I just about pissed myself:

* "'cause of the gayness"

* The grace scene at the dinner table. 8 lb, 6 oz Baby Jesus in golden fleece diapers!

* The two-knives-in-the-leg scene.

* The couger. Following his every move with it's head.

*The kiss between Ferrell and Sacha Baron Cohen which was hilarious, strangely moving, and somehow - hot!

* The fact Ricky Bobby's house was actually haunted, but they don't mention it ever again.

I live in a town that is physically beautiful, relatively small, predominantly Caucasian, liberal, with a strong financial backbone of hidden wealth, retirees, and some tourism. I love it here. But - it's a bubble. Sometimes I ask myself: is it right to live in a bubble? Am I confining myself to my "comfort zone" or is it proof I have sought out the resources I need for raising my family? Should I seek out where I feel comfortable and supported? Or should I move just to prove I can - even if that means uprooting my family and the community I've built?

I moved here in 1999 directly out of school - in fact, I hadn't even completed the last few credits of my degree - for an engineering job. I retained the job and loved it; I fell further in love with the town. I begged my then-boyfriend to move to this lovely burg; after a couple years he finally did. We were married, had babies, I eventually quit the job, and then we tried to figure out who was going to work. Although single-earner prospects looked dim in Port Townsend, we stayed on (through a year of financial near-ruin that has been difficult to recover from). We are established here now, more or less. I have a love / hate relationship with the town and inherent culture itself; but the geography, lifestyle, and my group of friends is fiercely dear to me and I would be terribly sad to leave.

One of the complaints you will hear from some of our residents is that there is not enough diversity in Port Townsend. By this they mean: not enough racial diversity. This is an oft-voiced concept by the middle-class or educated elite I run across in conversation. I don't need to detail the cultural enhancements we'd get from a more ethnically diverse culture: the music, customs, sights, sounds and smells of a true "melting pot", which we do not have in terms of skin color and associated customs. But dig a little deeper and you will find the individuals loudly clamoring for diversity moved here, or continue to stay here, for the homogeny of belief and culture they found in Port Townsend: for a small town that enjoys many geographic beauties; a very nice co-op filled with organic produce, much of it locally grown; an artistic community of prolific talent who mysteriously have enough means to be a decidedly non-starving; a thriving Unitarian church of lovely, if somewhat intellectually snobbish, philanthropists.

What are these individuals who claim we need "diversity" really asking for? From those I've talked to, I haven't been too impressed with their motives. Recently at a party I challenged a friend who claimed this desire. Racial diversity means cultural diverisity and different values; was she willing to be stymied in the grocery store by a throng of individuals on their cell phones speaking loudly in Korean? Was she willing to "suffer" ghettos (of which we currently have none in town)? How about being neighbors to a family that lived with a pile of old household items in the yard - because that was an acceptable livable norm in their culture of origin? Did this desire for "diversity" extend to right-wing rednecks? Finally my friend said, "Well, I want more people like me who share my beliefs and such but are, you know, racially diverse."

Ponder the implications behind that statement for a moment; this mindset seems to want the status or claim of a "diverse" community so they can satisfy themselves they have met some sort of Progressive standard for themselves. This person is not, in fact, too terribly interested in experiencing culture clash but merely wants the progressive accolades of a heterogeneous culture without the pesky "work" of living in it.

Another example: this summer I was working alongside a young matron raised in the South. I overheard her discussing how horribly racist her homestate was. "People were offended because we had black friends," she says, her voice ringing with righteous pride at her enlightened attitude. I'm thinking, OK, so you hated the oppressive bigotry you experienced in the Deep South. So you move to a town with half a percent black population. What a great solution!

These individuals who so loudly voice a desire for diversity - as if the rest of our burg has somehow failed in their inability to ship in our brown-skinned fellow earthlings - will they enjoy Mexican gang activity or women who wear burqas and believe themselves under the total headship of their husband? Do they realize that being brown-skinned often means being economically disadvantaged; being poor often harbors the institutions of fast food (which we keep out of our town), Walmart, and affordable daycare (our programs are generally high-cost and lofty in ideals, calling themselves "schools"). No: please give them rather the Mexi-cart food at the Farmer's Market, the quaint ethic remnants of henna dyes sold at our co-op. That is truly where they are comfortable; that is what inspires my bitterness and skepticism for their ideals. These same people scorn the Poor White in town, those who venture to WIC and have too many grubby babies wearing pilled-up footie pajamas and buying formula - these families are eschewed as quasi-Untouchables by the so-called "pro-diversity" elite classes in town.

This brings me to my next point: what diversity do we have in our burg*? We have social class diversity: besides the independently wealthy / comfortable we have government jobs (the second-largest conglomerate employer in the county, I believe); many tradespeople, artisans, and service workers - boat-builders, carpenters, landscapers and a large flock of those who seek seasonal employment working sometimes three jobs as waitress, bartender, and barista biking to work, sometimes saving up for travel in the off-season. We have WIC and food bank families and a severe meth problem. Despite a relatively high cost of living and lower relative poverty rate we, as a township, truly are not a Shangri-la of comfortable Birkenstocks and biodiesel cars.

This brings me to my frustration and confusion, because most of the people who have expressed desire for this "diversity" are doing little to nothing about the issues of our citizens of lower social and economic classes: job security, lack of health benefits, co-parenting as a community, elminating the scourge of meth. I don't even mean supporting these people financialy or with helping hand programs; I mean comingling. Individuals in my peer group have claimed to me that our social set does not segregate or disallow the - to put it plainly - white trash moms to come to our playgroup; for some reason they just don't (anyone experiencing the shivers of Queen-Bee speak?). Why don't they, I wonder?

I am not trying to villianize the residents of this town or the circles I inhabit. Many of my peers truly do have a spirit for adventure and a desire to experience new people and cultures. I do not blame them if they forget to occasionally look within see what they can do in the here and now of Caucasian liberal homogenous culture. And I do not believe we should categorically shame people for self-segregating into a group that supports ones goals or lifestyle. There is a legitimacy to seeking likeness in ideals, diet, and lifestyle values. Particularly for those aspects of our lives we feel shaky a bout and need support in: the vegan, the born-again Christian, the career mom; one who feels marginalized in their current culture. This individual has the right and should seek out those who can support, who can understand, and who can provide guidance. In the case of the individuals I'm mentioning here, they truly believe they want a more diverse culture; but paradoxially their quest for support in lifestyle choices has led them to a burg of likeminded clones - whether they like to admit it or not.

* As of the most recent Census data the racial makeup of the city was 93% white, 0.6% African American, 1.3% Native American, 1.3% Asian, 0.2% Pacific Islander, 0.9% other races, and 2.5% from two or more races.