life – Page 4 – Britt Skrabanek

Yin-Yang and Pop Tarts

Last Friday I was cooped up all morning in my pajamas, a mad writer in the final stages of novel editing. My eyes were burning and I was barely on speaking terms with the English language.

As it was due time to see the light of day, I rode Silvie the bike through bustling downtown Portland and found some surprising tranquility.

There are things about Lan Su Chinese Garden that would normally keep me far, far away. It’s located in the city’s touristy Chinatown and you have to fork over nearly 10 bucks to get in the front door.

But, I gave it a go.

I decided to geek out and take the walking tour.

The tour guide with the cheesy Yin-Yang baseball cap almost made me change my mind, but he had me with his calm demeanor. He even told us we could leave at any time, or wander away and come back.

There were covered walkways throughout, but the rain was a soft drizzle so none of us cared about getting wet. Rumor has it that a heavier rain at Lan Su is nothing short of magical as the rain slips off the ornate roofs to create a beaded curtain effect.

It was incredible to learn the meaning of everything encompassing us—the stories and poetry, the Yin and Yang from floor to ceiling.

Bridges were designed in a zig-zag pattern to encourage the walker to slow down and absorb their surroundings.

At a leisurely pace I marveled at this island of serenity surrounded by noise and grime, lapsing into a walking meditation. Then I began to be awe-inspired by the Yin-Yang connection beyond the walls, in the way the city itself contrasted starkly with the garden.

To finish my sweet adventure I stopped into the tea house within the garden for sustenance. Before you enter there is a sign requesting guests to silence their cell phones. Um…awesome.

For my first ever formal tea experience, I chose the Golden Monkey black tea accompanied by pecan cookies.

Exquisite music struck up next to me and suddenly I noticed the man serenading us.

I purposely abandoned my Kindle in my bag, sat back and enjoyed. There was no need to do anything else but that.

When I left the garden with sweets and tea lingering on my breath, my skin still damp from the rain, and a drunken grin on my face…it all changed. The traffic jarred my senses, and so did the man who yelled at me the second I was on the sidewalk.

“Hey! What’s in that helmet? Huh? What’s in that helmet?”

A homeless man, startling the poor tourist families passing by, had a thing for my bright green bike helmet. I crossed the street and hurried over to my bike. He made a beeline for me.

Sure, it’s noon in the middle of a city. But when an unstable man approaches me, I’m on high alert. I’ve been an urban bike commuter for the past six years. As such, I have two survival plans…

Plan #1: Unlock the bike with a quickness, then ride like hell.

Plan #2: Whack the attacker with my bike lock.

This is my bike lock.

He was muttering incoherent things and flailing wildly while I unlocked my bike as quickly as I could. I realized that I would have to face him head on.

I gripped my bike lock in my right hand and stared at him without speaking.

He looked me up and down and said: “Alright.” He showed me what was left of his teeth as he smiled, then he gave me a peace-offering, which he carefully rested upon Silvie’s handlebar.

The brown sugar and cinnamon Pop Tarts.

In Yin and Yang there are opposites which cannot exist without one another. Fire and water. Male and female. Light and dark.

Perhaps me and Pop Tart Man are another example of this philosophy. Or perhaps, I just scored a bag of Pop Tarts.

I’d Much Rather Play Make-Believe

I never stopped playing make-believe. And, I think it’s safe to say that at this point in adulthood, I will never stop.

Hell, when I put clothes on each day…it’s still very much like playing dress-up.

Last night I stayed up late, past midnight in my old age, and actually finished an entire movie without passing out in my chair. Wild night, let me tell ya!

I’m a bit late with catching this flick, but I watched “Stuck in Love” with Greg Kinnear (love him!) and Jennifer Connelly (love, love her!) from 2012. It’s one of those indie romantic comedy/drama films, the kind that are often very hit or miss for me.

This one was not a miss.

In fact, I haven’t bawled that much over a movie since the time I made the dreadful mistake of watching “Atonement” alone at an early matinee showing at the theater. Without a tissue in sight, let’s just say I barreled out of there with my sunglasses on to hide my red, puffy, snotty face.

Okay, so back to “Stuck In Love”.

For readers and writers, it’s a goodie. A love of books and a struggle with the writing process are both a strong undercurrent throughout. Sure, it’s a touch unbelievable to have a family of writers — dad, daughter, son — who all miraculously get published.

But hey, that’s what make-believe is for.

Kinnear had a fantastic line, which he said during a speech with a knowing smirk.

“I’m not sure what it is that compels a person to play make-believe even when they’re an adult.”

I love that. We writers are the oldest children I know. We continually see the world as a playground, a colorful place to explore tirelessly.

I’ll never be the adult who has my shit together. I’d much rather play make-believe.

The Book Decor Workout

Last weekend I stumbled upon a new workout. It’s all the rage with the A-listers in Hollywood. (Not really.)

Here’s what you need to get sweatin’…

Tall ceilings with a daring, unreachable shelf.
Sturdy ladder that will keep you from eating shit.
Insanely heavy boxes of books (lots of them!)
Grippy shoes or bare feet, because socks on the kitchen counter are a safety no-no.
Stretchy pants that won’t split in the private area.
Balance, endurance, and a touch of insanity.

So, anyway.

We finally got around to some more unpacking after a two-week stalemate. Although our new Portland apartment and our old Milwaukee apartment are comparable in square footage, they are night and day in all other aspects.

Our 1930s gem we used to live in came with cute built-ins to solve all of our book storage woes. I showed them off last summer in the Show Us Your Shelves challenge that was going around the bloggerhood.

This sleek building we now inhabit is a different creature entirely.

Every bit of space counts when you’re living in modestly sized digs. Lining entire walls with bookshelves can destroy your chances of having anywhere to sit, eat, sleep, etc.. And while my books are the loves of my life, a little practical furniture goes a long way.

Luckily for us, we happen to have 12-foot ceilings and a solid shelf soaring into our kitchen heavens. Problem solved!

Side of the fridge…

Top of the fridge… (For funsies, I stacked a Hitler biography right above “Poems That Touch the Heart”.)

The very random corner nook with absolutely no rhyme or reason to the book placement…

The Yoga friends breathing deeply to remain calm hanging in their dangerous neighborhood…

The Ken Follett region with my dad’s old guitar… (Fun fact, Ken plays the bass guitar in a blues band.)

And finally the glue holding this whole operation together, the champion coffee table books masquerading as a bookend…

It’s been a few days and even with my shoddy architectural design, we have not had any catastrophic domino effect. My comfy chair happens to be right below that cabinet cliff.

Just keep your fingers crossed for me.

When I woke up the next morning and, with the exception of my back and legs, had long forgotten the Book Decor Workout, I had a foolishly happy moment when I walked into the kitchen.

There were all of my friends. Perched high, their lives in peril but smiling back at me nonetheless.

Any of you book lovers can feel me on this. Until those book friends were freed from their boxy confines, I still wasn’t at home here.

It’s funny how many times we’ve moved and always looked accusingly at the books. The choice to give some up arises, and then we veto it and keep them all. Even the ones that were gifted and we still haven’t read. Even the ones that aren’t our faves.

Because the books make our home. Sure they’re heavy bastards, but they’re simply lovely.

Later that day I unpacked one of the last remaining boxes and guess what I freaking found? Ten more damn books.

Time to grab the ladder and get my book fitness on!

Have you ever tackled a home decor project that turned into a surprise butt-busting workout?

On a completely different note, I was absolutely tickled this weekend when my sweet friend Jessica from Notes of Nomads included one of my recent posts in her “5 Best Blog Posts of the Month” roundup. If you haven’t check it out yet, please be sure to take a looksy!

This Place is “Hideous”

Vista House in the Columbia River Gorge (aka The Looker)

As soon as we passed the Oregon border after our three-day jaunt across the country, cats in tow, our jaws dropped open. The final hours of our drive were alarmingly beautiful.

We kept oohing and aahing over every damn thing.

Look at the colorful train across the amazing river! Wow!
Look at the incredible rams chillin’ on the hillside! Bitchin’!
Look at the snowy Cascades way the hell over there! Cool!
Look at how freaking gorgeous everything is! Neato!

So being the smart asses that we are, we said enough with all of the goofy, pretty talk. To change it up, we now joke about how ugly everything is.

(To avoid this sick humor being lost in translation, I will bold and italicize all sarcastic adjectives going forward.)

IMG_20140406_121444 — Vista House Married Couple Selfies

Last Sunday we took a repellent scenic drive near the Columbia River with Multnomah Falls as the endpoint. The bridges were blah, the hills were drab, and there were revolting waterfalls everywhere.

And bonus, all of this vile nature is a short 30-minute drive from the city for us.

Eventually our road game shouting “Waterfall!” every time we spotted one fizzled out. After the tenth unsightly waterfall, we no longer acknowledged their sleazy presence.

They are disgusting after all.

You can easily spend an entire day on this offensive road, stopping at perverse waterfalls and hiking your ass off. Even though we were like kids in a candy shop, we reined in our enthusiasm and chose to stop at two.

As you can see here, the Latourell Falls are absolutely foul. But, I’m into those legs.

IMG_20140406_122610071 — Mr. H’s Legs and Latourell Falls

Two adventurers were frolicking around the top of the yucky waterfall. They’re a little hard to see, but they’re up there being batshit crazy.

Being the party poopers we are, we stayed safely on dry land. We meandered along the homely road, passing one grody waterfall after another.

We arrived at Multnomah Falls and joined the masses to marvel at this nauseating sight.

After we fetched our chai tea lattes and fresh chocolate fudge from the little hut in front of the falls, we hopped in the car and headed home.

Overall, our day was very plain and uninspiring.

And, while we’re at it…these two really gross me out!

Your turn! What’s the most “hideous” place you’ve ever been to?

The Accidental Spirit Quest

It was 3am and my eyes flew wide open. The silence echoed vivaciously through my empty apartment. I extended my toes over to the right, touched my husband’s warm ankle and found the brief comfort I craved.

The additional two hours of sleep I so badly needed for our journey that day were unreachable, so I surrendered to my restlessness.

Ungracefully I slid off the air mattress, tiptoed across the creaking floors, and turned on our crappy little coffeemaker. The cats rubbed my legs with uncertainty, and though I did my best to soothe them, they were not fooled by my rickety affection.

For the last time I drank a cup of coffee by my favorite window with the beautiful tree, one that I had seen touched by all four seasons for a handful of years. I sat in that bright orange camping chair and scanned the barren room, my eyes full of wonder and trepidation.

So much life had happened there. We laughed, we cried, we loved, we feared.

This place where we had lived for five years had become a ghost, its white walls exuding melancholy, scarred by the furniture that once rested against them.

After Mr. H took the two panic-stricken cats down to the truck, I had to be brave and say goodbye to our teeny home. I turned off the light in the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom and finally, the hallway. I locked the door and took one last look at the faded bronze apartment number.

I slipped the envelope with our keys into the manager’s mail slot and walked out the back door…forever.

Then, it hit me. We were homeless.

Mr. H, Aphrodite and Hazel, Ken Follett the cow, and I were about to drive for 32 freaking hours hauling a trailer. Everything we cherished was being thrust into the unknown, into the elements for three epic days.

And, it wasn’t exactly a piece of cake.

We had memorable weather on that first never-ending day. Snow and rain turned into endless grey skies and fierce 40 mph wind gusts. Golden flat fields lined the highway offering an eternity of boredom.

How we wished for that boredom once we arrived in the Nebraska Panhandle. We had three more hours to go, drawing close to midnight, and we took one more pit stop at a gas station.

It was pitch black and we were exhausted. But, this wasn’t the place to spend the night.

Above the gas station entrance, there was a sign: YOU ARE NOWHERE.

A man with long, filthy fingernails took my cash for my grape Gatorade, then called one of his goons on his crusty cell phone. I stood there, debating over whether or not my 87 cents was really worth it.

He was on something. Scratch that…a lot of things.

Eventually I got my change and we hightailed it out of there.

Soon after the tweaker gas station in Nowhere, Mr. H narrowly avoided a family of deer. Now I truly understand where that “deer in the headlights” expression comes from. I made direct eye contact with the mother as we missed her by a hair.

Though shaky we trucked on, visions of the hotel bed in Wyoming dancing through our fatigued minds, encouraging us to man up and continue.

Then, of course, the blizzard came. It was the worst snow you can imagine, the kind that blows right towards you and creates a psychedelic tunnel.

We were alone on a swerving road on some sort of wintry acid trip, our little home clutched in the hands of Nowhere. Sleeping on the side of the road wasn’t an option. Even in the darkness a generous drop-off was visible.

Those last hours, listening to the squeaking windshield wipers in the front and the grueling cat chorus in the back, were slow torture.

Every mile marker that came up lifted our spirits, little by little. And finally, we made it to the damn hotel in Wyoming.

Thankfully, the next two days were not as dramatic. We had sunshine and awe-inspiring nature to console us the rest of the way.

Naturally, the cats never settled into our movable home.

Aphrodite managed to cut her pink nose, because she kept pressing her face against the door of the carrier while crying out in deafening protest. Even outside of the truck I heard their incessant meows and wondered if I had completely lost it.

When we made it to Oregon, her lush green landscapes looked nothing short of heaven to us. And, I took a necessary moment to laugh at myself.

I had repeated one of those classic human mistakes. I was so focused on the move, the before and after, that I forgot about the middle.

As a writer, I should seriously slap myself around for this.

Though the first and last chapters are important to every story, the pages in between are crucial. That is where the reader is fully immersed, enraptured by the thoughts, feelings, and happenings of the fabricated world.

The idea that life is a journey and not a destination has been spouted off by many people, from Henry David Thoreau to Aerosmith.

When they thought up that brilliance, I bet they were hauling all of their shit across the country with pets.