scout.

Epilogue.

 the patisserie. (by the lovely kimi kolba)


This summer I turned 30.

It's  a good number.

It feels right to me. Comfortable. An important sounding number that hints at the year, or even the decade, that came before. 

I have wanted very much to tell you about this year. But I got bogged down in the details. Over and over and over again, I came here, and left without hitting the publish button. The details refused to cooporate.  It was a year unlike any other. Here I am anyway. Details be damned.

This year I fell in love with genre fiction again.

This year I wore pennyloafers.

This year I adopted Fergus, who is part cat, part dog, and part cloud.

This year I reserved the hours between 1 and 3 am for watching nearly every Andrew Davies BBC miniseries on netflix.

This year I decided to stop fretting about my less-than-perfect legs, and took 3 inches of the matronly hemlines on all my summer skirts. It felt awesome.

This year I stopped blogging.

Because this year, I opened a restaurant.

No really. 

You read that right.

My husband and I opened a restaurant. 

And nothing in the world can prepare you for what it feels like, when you have, in a seriously weird way, given birth to something like a restaurant. At the swell of pride and awe at suddenly standing in the middle of a thing, that after 15 years in the restaurant business, seemed impossible. Also, the exhaustion. When the blood, sweat (though there is still sweat), and occasional weeping of the opening months were over and done, I saw my husband standing in the kitchen of his own restaurant, and I only felt astonishment. Gratitude.

Then this happened.

Then this. 

And so on.

It's almost September now, and I have gotten better at trying to stand still while this tornado of a life wheels and crashes it's way into every little thing. I am remembering what it was like to sleep, and to see Aaron's face in the daytime. To go to the movies. To pick up more shifts at the bookstore (from which I had to take an extended hiatus). It still looks like mayhem to most people, but to us, it's just life. This year, more than any other, I am grateful to friends and family who helped us keep it together. Who took care of our animals, who listened to our worries, who understood when we could not make it to parties and dinners and gatherings, and invited us anyway. I could ply them with baked goods for the rest of their lives and it still wouldn't be sufficient. 

I know it's weird, to return to this space only to announce its retirement. But looking back, I realize that this space contains a story, told in real time. A story that still needed an ending. We set out for the Pacific Northwest from Southern California just 4 years ago with nothing but a few possessions, an unwise amount of optimism, and friends to help us along the way. And here we are. I can hardly believe it.

I've decided to continue blogging over at Book-Scout. (I will be leaving Scout up indefinitely for links and such.) For all my involvement in the early days of the restaurant, bookselling is still my true love. I hope, after all this time, you'll join me over there. But if you ever find yourself in our neck of the woods, tired and looking for a good meal, I hope you'll come and say hello. We can share a madeleine or two. 

All love,
*Andrea 

 

 

Something New

 1. Untitled, 2. books, 3. Untitled, 4. Untitled

My life can be summed up pretty simply: love, eat, sleep, books. There's work too, but I work with books. A long time ago, I started dreaming of my own little corner of the internet to focus on just that. Books and writing are always on my mind, what after so many years still excite me, keep me going to work day after day despite a lack of pay or thanks. Nothing makes me happier than a good story-time or sharing thoughts on a novel with 9 year old. I am a self proclaimed children's book geek, simply because I refuse to see the demarcation between books for young people and books for adults. It's all relevant. I have stopped myself from writing book-related posts in this space on more than one occasion. But those posts have remained, swirling around in my head ever since. They needed a home of their own. So here's my attempt at something new. Something that will allow me to post just a little or even a lot, every single day... without the constant stress over lack of perspective or the need to be interesting that so often hampers personal blogging. (Books are always interesting.) I hope you'll join me. I hope you'll like it. Whether you have children of your own and are looking for book suggestions, whether you're an illustrator, librarian, educator, or bookseller, or simply a grown up who can't seem to stop haunting the Y.A. section for new reads, I hope you'll share your unique perspective. I don't plan to stop writing here at Scout altogether, but I do know that my new little space and I have a lot of ground to cover, and I will be there often.

Please say hello to, Book-Scout.

All love,
*Andrea

Progress or something like it.

Hello! It is march! I am sore. No really. This post is brought to you by the sound of a rake not raking. Because it broke.  I would probably be raking right now if not for the fact that the tools can't keep up, so big and vast is the scale of our yard neglect. The minute I feel like a capable home-owner, a little thing like moss comes and ruins everything. Some time in October, while standing in an unused patch of side-yard that rarely sees the sun,  I said to myself, ' Hey, look at that. Is that moss? Huh.' And then walked away. Fast forward to the present day where the moss has grown to kill every single blade of grass and green living thing within a 25 foot radius. It is the Hulk Hogan of moss. I almost want to buy it a tiny little spandex romper. And according to the lawn experts, the only way to make it go away is with liquid iron, and then to RAKE EVERY SINGLE FORSAKEN PIECE OUT. So now we have a barren patch of dirt. Make that many barren patches of dirt. Who knew?! 

This is Oregon and it is normal for plants to grow on top of other plants that grown on other plants, and I really should have known. In my defense, this winter has been one of the wettest and warmest even our (old-school Oregonian) neighbors can remember, and the cherry trees started blooming in February. My apologies to those still snow-bound. If it makes you feel any better, it has rained, snowed and hailed in the last 45 minutes alone, and there's a good chance all the blooms will die. Am I the weather harbinger of doom? A little bit. I have spent every weekend of the last month raking my little heart out, re-seeding, planting fruit trees, covering every square inch of space in peat-moss (by hand), and planning the transformation of this thing we call a 'yard' into an actual garden. A garden, you guys. I am dreaming big.

Whenever I get a moment to myself (which is rare), I fantasize about a cottage garden that doesn't yet exist. With a cedar picket fence. A landscaped slope full of rosemary and lavender and jasmine flowering it's heart out on a arbor. (We live on a steep hill currently covered in patchy grass moss.) Raised stone beds in the backyard for veggies. Flowering plums for the sidewalk patch. Pale pink camelia and hellebores galore. Blue Tolix chairs under the lilac tree, which is thankfully, already there. I know you are thinking, 'Hey, aren't you the one who loves fiberglass chairs and all that?' To which I will say, 'Yes. But not outside.' Cement gardens and perfectly manicured rectangles full of tan nonsense make me sad. Weepy even. My garden dream is straight out of Country Living magazine, complete with peonies, Hunter boots, and spunky dogs. Maybe a pond or two.

I probably should have warned you at the beginning that this little rant was going to be all about moss and green things. But it's more than that. Nobody tells you that when you plant two little pear trees, you begin to see things that aren't there. Things that could be. After you plant the trees and rake the moss, it suddenly occurs to you why on earth you've been so distant from even yourself for nearly eight months. 'You are working too hard. Too much. Your mind is always elsewhere. ' It is bewilderingly simple. Something has to give. These are important little lessons a garden can teach you. Aaron and I are working on an amazing project, a big, hopes and dreams and unicorns kind of project, yet I have been too tired to read through proposals in the evenings, talk about design, pour over photos; I fall asleep at the dinner table. So I am learning how to say no to everything else. How to step away. How to take back time as my own if I want to continue doing the things I love-- writing, planning, walking, kissing my husband, games of fetch. The garden that isn't, but could be. Showering would be awesome. Change is around the corner, and right now I kind of want to make out with it. And have a glass or seven of wine. I'll buy a new rake tomorrow.

All love,
*Andrea    

  

Clap!

Ah February. The month of love. The month of whiskey. A little of both are required to make it through this thing. You know what is also required to make it through the month of February? HANDCLAPS. That's right. Songs featuring hand-claps are somewhat sacred in this house, so in an effort to call a preemptive strike on February, may I present to you the first Scout mix tape ever. Especially designed for kicking the February darkness and self-loathing to the curb. I dare you to watch this and not smile. Now get clapping.
  

(You can click here to open the playlist in a new window at the ever-awesome Grooveshark site.) 

Please feel free to add any of your favorites in the comments below. Because, you know, we wouldn't want to forget Hall and Oates.

All love,
*Andrea 

I am all over the place.

Because ungrateful whining is so 2009.
I had a whole post written and ready to publish, about the ways in which I spent the last six weeks pretty much not-coping with the weather. In truth, there was a stretch of darkness and rain so debilitating that the only defense was to press my face against windows every few hours and weep silently, eat my weight in soup, wash sweaters obsessively, and read reputable, yet mildly trashy historical-romance novels (16,000 pages of novels to be exact. Yes. I said THOUSAND.), but then things suddenly got all lovely on me, and the sun made a few appearances. It's still unpredictable, but the trees in the muddy park that I visit every day with the dogs started sprouting pink buds (two months early, at that), and I had to think better of all the lamentations. Dear Universe, Thanks, I GOT THE MESSAGE. 

Because you can't run away in giant floppy paw-feet.
So I've got nothing else. Unless, of course, you count spending part of last week encased in a giant Clifford the Big Red Dog costume. You should know that this is not unusual. On top of regular story-times and book fairs, once a month or so I visit schools with a 'favorite book character' and one of my co-workers who is awesome, but cannot help the fact that he is taller than Paul Bunyan. And so I typically find myself sporting said suits built for persons under 5'10" that smell of everything from male sweat to chewing gum. Now. I'm not sure what happens in the minds of children between kindergarten and first grade (maybe some of the educators and parents out there can elucidate), but please remind me next time to STEER CLEAR of grades one and higher. It will only end in tears. Mine. Or maybe I should just beat them to the punch and pin a large target on my stomach? It will help with their hand-eye coordination. You're welcome, kids!

Because there are funnier ways to waste time.
Everything is Terrible
Three Wolf Moon Shirt  (A comment goldmine.)
What Claudia Wore. (And would you believe this is the second BSC related web-page I've had a crush on in the past few years? Clearly, I have a problem.)

Because it still sounds more like 'strangling' rather than 'playing.'
There is an accordion in this house, and Number 1 is being crossed off the old list! One day I will play it for you. Just not today. Trust me. You don't want that.

 Next up: a long overdue craft-related post. Just when you thought I was losing touch with my inner grandma, the doll-making bug strikes again.  

All love,
*Andrea 

Auld Lang Syne.

Well. That was exhausting. December, I mean. Lovely. But exhausting.

I hope your holidays were marvelous. I am still over at Habit for the next few days, but I couldn't let the New Year slide by without popping in here to say hello. In fact, I have gotten so used to the Habit routine, that suddenly my internal alarms are going off about having already typed more than thirty words. Brevity might be the soul of wit, but it is SERIOUSLY not my strong suit. Which could be the primary reason why that space is so dear to me. A sentence and an image. Sometimes that's all it takes to convey a month's worth of mayhem and joy. I really will miss it.

It is snowing. Our first snow this year. I knew I would be writing here tonight as soon as I saw the first flakes fall. I will never forget last year, and writing to you while snowed in. (Here and here.) We were on the cusp of so many things without even knowing it. I look back on my New Year's Resolution List and can't decide if I want to laugh or cry. Two things I know for sure: 1. I may have failed miserably, but 2. With all that has happened in the last 365 days, I am amazed to still be laughing and loving each day, a little worse for wear, worn out and dusty, but nonetheless whole. And moving forward. That is the important thing. Exciting things are around the corner.

I hate to disappoint, but I won't be making a list this year. Instead, I will finish the unfinished and start something new, whatever that might be. No, I never learned to play the accordion, but I did play the piano. I am more than a few weeks behind on 52 Weeks of Photos thanks to some health issues that robbed me of a few months worth of peace of mind, and a whole lot of willpower. But I will be damned if I let that project go unfinished. I didn't make a purse or a dress, but I made the cutest little doll for my favorite small person, and that felt better than anything I could have made for myself. 

I loved too many new bands to count. We hopped in the car and left the city like it was going out of style. The attic and studio feel like home now, and while that doesn't always mean finished, it means that things are as they should be. There was dancing barefoot in the kitchen, and a lot of it, because dancing is always free and always a good idea. I didn't order soup. I didn't walk across the Broadway Bridge. But I gave a dog, and then another, a home, and they are transformed, and so am I.  

I will be back here in this space after the party over at Habit comes to a close. Until then, I would ask you what your resolutions are, friends, but in the spirit of things, I will ask you instead, what one thing will you let yourself off the hook for this year. (Because it's that kind of year, and I am just going to roll with it.) 

All love and a Happy New Year,
*Andrea

Feeling the awesome.

 Well. It's December. That joyous time of year when most of the questions I receive in an 10 hour workday will go something like, "I'm looking for a book. I don't know what it's called or who the author is or what it's about, but I think it was maybe ::::motions with hands::::  this big," and I have to forcibly restrain myself from responding with, "Well, let me just get out my handy book-size-ometer and pull that up for you right away!" as the ten other people in line shift uncomfortably and resign themselves to wait even longer. (It should be noted that this, precisely, is the reason I started working with children. Because children do not ask inane questions like this. If you are shopping with a child and these words exit your mouth, chances are they are rolling their eyes and exchanging knowing glances with me. Sure they have a whole other series of bizarre ways of describing what they so desperately long for: highly detailed scenes from a single page of a large and obscure book, cover art, which animals talk and which do not, etc.-- but they are nothing if not specific, and I seem to have a knack for knowing they they mean.) 

I can't bring myself to complain about anything else. Retail in December is retail in December. And it really doesn't matter, because oh my gosh you guys I LOVE DECEMBER. When I asked our neighborhood Christmas tree guy for 16 feet of garland to adorn our 9 foot mantle, Aaron may have been alarmed, but not surprised. These things I have learned about myself in regards to the Christmas holidays: I will want to buy a shiny new dress every year for a hypothetical Christmas party that does not exist anywhere but in my brain. I will talk big about making all of my Christmas presents with scrap fabric and in the end will make NONE presents. I will run out of Christmas cards. I will opt for baked goods as gifts but will put the baking off until the last minute. I will run around making no sense for three weeks, but will be surprisingly cheerful. 

This is all to say that I probably need another December obligation like a fish needs a bicycle (Hello 52 Weeks? at this rate, it will take me 85 weeks to complete.), but I couldn't help but make an exception. Molly and Emily, the amazing women behind Habit, have asked all of their guests from the past year to to join in posting for the month of December.  So much has changed in these here parts since I was a guest-poster in February of last year, and I truly cannot wait to see how it will unfold. Magic, I am thinking. If you ever dreamed of attending a holiday party with all of your best internet friends that lasted for an entire month, this is your opportunity. You should visit. It will be off the hook. Maybe I should buy a shiny new dress?

All love,
*Andrea 

On gratitude.

At some point in my life, I was just a young, fresh-faced, short-haired, joyful little college student. I swear, I have pictures to prove it.  During this time, on an average sort of day,  I stopped at a smoothie place (Jamba Juice? Blenders? Other California-esque juicery?) after picking up a pittance of groceries to stock my tiny apartment kitchen. I got into the car and pulled out of the parking lot, only to be hit by a speeding truck that didn't believe in red lights. I remember nothing of those few seconds that shot me across four lanes of traffic and crumpled my car like a piece of junk mail, except the following: 1. After the airbag deployed, the radio turned itself on, and started blasting opera from the classical station. 2. I was unharmed. 3. I had never seen so much surface area covered by freshly blended smoothie, EVER. Every square inch of the dashboard, carpet, all of my clothing, and the lenses of my glasses were covered with orangey-pink blended fruit. And would you believe, when all was said and done, that I could not stop thinking about the four-dollar smoothie that I would never get to drink? Because I was wearing it. Some sweet, clean-cut grad student came running into traffic to make sure I was okay, to tell me he liked opera, and ask if he could walk me home. While I was covered in FRUIT.  I was completely at a loss as to what to tell him. Yes? No? Do you have a paper bag handy for me to crawl into? 'Musetta's Waltz' warbled from the speakers of the mangled wreck, and that's when I started laughing. 

*                                            

  I recently found myself dealing with some potentially serious health concerns that I won't go into here. Suffice it to say, it was the kind of frightening that makes you never want to hear the words doctor, or test, or medical bill, or think about months September and October ever again. As it turns out, I am healthy as an ox, or perhaps some smaller, less burly animal (a goat maybe?), but what I remember about the whole thing most, is socks. Yes, socks. At every visit, for every procedure, every appointment, I SWORE I would remember that I would be wearing naught but an uber-flattering hospital gown and whatever happened to be on my feet. And every time I looked down, I would see that I had forgotten. Argyle. Polka dots. Rainbow stripes. Holes akimbo. You have some ridiculous old socks? I WAS PROBABLY WEARING THEM. And so I wandered around the hospital, in the stockings of a crazed toddler,  unable to focus on the fear, because I could not stop thinking about how damned ridiculous my feet looked. And for that, I was immensely grateful.

I would like to rejoice for just about everything this year that wasn't calamitous. There has been more upheaval and uncertainty than I can even wrap my brain around. But would you believe I cannot stop smiling? If I've learned anything at all, it's that life is as hilarious as it is trying.  If I had one wish for the coming year, or for you, dear readers, it's that every time you think you're a goner, you will find yourself covered in smoothie, wearing argyle socks, and laughing. 

Happy Thanksgiving.

All love,
*Andrea  

  

But we are both still wary of mustaches.

At heart, she is an even smaller dog, trapped inside a small dog's body.

  
I've written at some length about Bradley (the first small dog) and our ongoing plight to help him overcome a multitude of fears stemming from a terrible past, but it occurred to me the other day, as June lost her shit over an inanimate object yet again, that I've never talked about small dog number 2 and her somewhat bizarre phobias. At first we thought it was just big dogs. Okay, I thought. Easy-peasy. Nothing that a little basic classical conditioning couldn't fix. (Thanks, Pavlov!) Eventually, we started realizing that men also set her into 'bark and hide' mode (cower is a good word for it), in particular, bearded men. So we made her read the Portland street style blog and let her know that she was SO in the wrong city for that kind of fear, but to no avail. And then one day, she cowered at a man carrying a chair. And then one with an umbrella. And then one morning Aaron had to dress up in a black suit and tie to go to a business meeting and wore his glasses at the request of his wife (who thinks he looks extra special cute in them)... girl took one look at him, and GREAT HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN MY BEDROOM, PLEASE DON'T KILL ME, AAHH!!! Or something to that effect. Because I don't speak dog.  It took us twenty minutes to coax her out from under the bed so she could smell him and get a few belly rubs, at which point, she went back to being her usual silly, happy self. 

It became pretty clear that her problem wasn't with men in general, or even beards in general, but accessories. ACCESSORIES people. Do you have any idea how many accessories one encounters on a daily basis? It is incomprehensible. So far we have worked through (and she is fine with) beards, hats, umbrellas, bikes, skateboards, wheelchairs, bags, and thanks to one incredibly sweet man who put his walking stick down on the ground so she could smell it and gave her a treat (after which she proceeded to wag her whole body and lick his face until he probably regretted the action), canes. It's very easy to get frustrated though, and I have to remind myself  that she really has no idea what the hell any of this stuff is. If you spent your entire life locked in a cage, cut off from the outside world and others of your own kind, churning out puppies by the dozens, you'd think that skateboard was a harbinger of death too. So we press onward. And after 8 months, I think we're finally reaching the end of the 'list of unknown accoutrements.'  God forbid anyone should walk in front of us carrying a grand piano or something. But since we don't live in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, I'm going to call this a win.

Garden Fail.

We have reached that point in the season where the weather is doing nothing but making an already untidy yard look more untidy, rendering us generally stir-crazy, and also reminding everyone just how much we suck at owning a home. Thanks Weather! Gone are the reds and yellows of maples and apple-trees, the quiet disarray of delicate, dry foilage strewn about the lawn. In their stead you will largely find guilt. Guilt and mud and decomposing leaves. I have not even planted the dahlia bulbs currently sprouting in my basement. In fact, I'm not even sure when you're supposed to plant the dahlia bulbs that probably should not be attempting to bloom in your basement. Now? Two weeks ago? Never? 'Oh that? That's not my yard. That's my mulch-pit,' I will say to the neighbors, as my future self sips a martini on the porch at 10am, in my pajamas, sunglasses, and silk dressing gown. Because that's what's going to happen if it does not quit raining for longer than 15 minutes every two weeks. I will have to stop caring and turn into Joan Collins in order to maintain a modicum of self worth. On the bright side, my basement will look lovely at mid-summer.

All love,
*Andrea