I overreact: part the 198546th

Current mood: Chagrined

Ok, so I was mislead. By many factors. And it is better to err on the side of caution where hodies are concerned, but i still feel like a bit of a wanker. Teach me to listen to Portland area news outlets weather predictions. Ever.

When we got home last night there were HUGE FAT snowflakes falling from the sky. All the weather reports were talking about 5-7 inches of accumulation at 500ft or above. Sylvan Hill crests at 750ft so I was thinking... um...I shouldnt leave my kid there and then have a ton of snow keep me from getting back. So I brought her to work with me. And her gamecube.

Needless to say, no such storm manifested. HUGE shock. Ah well.

I feeeeeeeeeeel you, Joanna

Sweeney Todd. Loved it.

Wasn't exactly what I expected, but still quite good. It was songier than I thought it would be. I suppose its genesis as an opera should have clued me in that there wouldn't be much dialogue. The vocals were all much better than I anticipated. And in typical Burton style, the darkness didn't preclude a grim humor of which I am singly fond.

So, though I would not recommend it unstintingly as I have some other films recently, I do think its worthwhile.

Happy Ho Ho Ho~

Mine was merry this year. Instead of opting for the tradition of the last 4 years which amounted to "spend christmas alone and crying at the movies" I went over and had the holiday with my sisters and their families. T'was grand.
We invented a new tradition this year which I am as yet undecided about; hide the pickle. Yes, that's right, we took a tiny shiny replica of a wee koser dill and hung it on the green green tree. Then whoever was able to find it first amongst the piney boughs was the designated present passer-outer. I opted not to look for the pickle and instead focus on my amaretto to become the official couch passer-outer.
I messed with the mind of my small child in amusing ways to make her think I had given her 5 video games for a gaming system nobody had. Then plopped said system into her lap. Watching the arc from disappointment to giddy delight is far too entertaining for me. My poor poor offspring. I totally set her up.
Merry Merry Christmas y'all.

I need buddies!

For Sweeney Todd this weekend...

You KNOW you want to see this film. Come with me please? It'll be fun! We can have adult beverages before and/or after!

Pretty please?

In my whipsawing life little is certain...

except that you should go see Juno. Seriously. This was the sweetest, most hilarious, and lovely movie I have seen in forever. Plus Michael Cera rocks so hard it is hard to believe.

Free Work Schwag

Yet another reason I heart my new job continually. Merry Christmas to me..........

Mice? Seriously?

Seriously.

Mice ate through my console. Mice chewed off the wires that operated my gas flap release. MICE ate through the rubber liner inside my driver-side door (which, to be fair, was covered in chocolate). I therefore hate mice. Even more than before.

Why they are living in the garage at the body shop I do not know. I would think there were better places to scrounge a meal that in a repair garage. Mice are stupid.

I mean, considering the floor of my car is uniformly littered with all manner of taco bell, macdonalds, jack-in-the-box, and burger king miasma, you would think they could find something tastier than my electronic components.

I love Klaus

I do NOT however, love the bastards who have had their grubby little mitts on him all these past few weeks. I finally manage to escape the purgatory-on-wheels that IS the Ford Mucous only to discover some day-and-a-half later that someone BROKE the console in the middle of my car and CUT THE WIRES which operate my gas can flap release.

SO when I pulled into the gas station (typically, on fuuuuuuuuumes) the attendent looks at me like I am a retard because the repeated attempts to open said gas flap are unsuccessful.

Now everyone knows I am usually VERY SKILLED at opening my gas flap. In fact, I rarely shut my gas flap. So I find it very distressing indeed when I cannot do so when and whither I will.

They took it back. Ostensibly they are fixing it. They dropped me off at work, so as of this moment, I do not know how I am going to get back to my car, or thence, home.

Fuck.

I meant to reccommend

No Country For Old Men the latest offering from the estimable Cohen Bros.

I went and saw this film two weekends ago and I am still feeling the creepy-crawlies about it. This is the first time I can recall having literally squirmed out of my seat with the intensity created on screen.

The subtle psychological violence was far more powerful than a typically overblown graphic thriller-gore. The stoicism of the inexorable antagonist more distressing for the veracity of his detachment. The eerie lack of a score far more immediate than any orchestrated tell.

I cannot recommend this film in terms strong enough. So, go see it man.

I fall down alot...

Certainly a lot more than any other adult I know anyway. I guess if I reflect on the matter at any length, I can say I'm not the most coordinated person I know, and its true my balance cannot be said to be the best around, but still. There's something so profoundly shocking and embarrassing about falling down when you are a full-grown adult. It rivals the aching that goes along with it for the next 3 or 4 days.

Life lesson #45387: Just because you hook your finger into someone's belt loop doesn't mean they aren't going to keep walking away.

Right.

I hate Chistmas, kinda

Tis the season I start crying: wha wha wha wha wha. wha wha wha snort.

On the plus side, there is Almond Roca everywhere. Also the smell of pine. And hot lights.

The problem is, i really really really DO buy into the whole seasonal delusion that something magical and beautiful is supposed to happen. And that it requires the expenditure of time and money for that magic and beauty to occur.

My child does NOT want to go to the woods to hack down a fresh christmas tree for only $5. She lectured me about how it was mean to kill a tree that is out in the forest minding its own business providing us oxygen and scenery.

She also does not want to go see Santa at the newly remodeled Santaland at the Historic Meier and Frank building. Screw you, it's still Meier and Frank to me and always will be. This despite my EXTREME nostalgia for this place where I saw the Gingerbread Bear as a child. She doesn't seem to find MY nostalgia compelling for some reason, now that she is too tall to ride the monorail.

What DOES she want? A new Christmas dress and an iPod. Things I cannot afford, but feel extremely guilty about being unable to provide.

I do however look forward to all the singing and yelling. In the car mostly.

When it rains....

someone horks.

Ok, technically, that's not how that goes; except this week, it is.

Because I am a person who avoids vomit and/or vomiting with all the will I have at my disposal.

And speaking of having at my disposal, when I got home from the ER where they gave me Vicodin on an empty stomach, that's exactly what I did. Because the toilet was too far away. Blea-ah.

And today, after my chiropractor appointment made me late for work, I get a phone call from daycare telling me that Aria has "thrown up a little" No-EH! Gramma Bev to the rescue thank goodness.

But I do find it disturbing that every member of my household vomited this week. I hope the trend does not continue.

Crashing Sucks.

I'm fine. My car is munched. It was my fault. Stupid intersection at 14th and West Burnside. As additional punishment, I have to drive a Focus until my repairs are complete.

Splitting headache.

Poop.

Sometimes

it is naught but the nuance of language that stands between me and the brink.I am chased and chasing words and implications; distinctions so fine as to be illusory, when this chimera is the best comfort to be hoped for.

and yet, i am comforted, by these faint and futile particularities. by the refusals transmuted to avowals. by a glance, by clasping, by tones and timbre.

and thus the dazzling dark is pierced.


Current mood: contemplative

The patients in my clinic

Are extra-strength hilarious.

A little old lady I was testing this morning told me "You look like one of those ladies on tv. You know, the ones who sell things?" I can honestly say no one has ever compared me to a QVC lady before, but I think it was about damn time.

Then, just now, I was checking some guy's insurance benefits and told him he'd be eligible again in 2008 and he looked at me and said "Well, when in aught-eight will that be?"



Aught-Eight?


That is augh-some.

Ovaries: Where can I relinquish mine?

I mean, they came in handy when I was trying to do that whole "reproductive" thing, but those days are behind me now, and frankly, apart from keeping the facial hair at bay, I can see no further use for mine.

They do however cause considerable annoyance to me at regular intervals. The ups-and-downs of life are one thing, but the 45 degree turns and screeching halts of my menstrual cycle are quite another. Also, I see no further use for a libido when I have no one handy to make use of it with, besides which the recently evolved habit of drooling over the inappropriately young football playing patients in the office is distracting me from important paperwork.

So, I just need to figure out where the local drop-off site is. I mean they recycle them don't they? Like Christmas trees?

If you are reaching for YOUR laptop rather than mine in this situation...

I think it's best if we just stay "friends"

One Misty Moisty Morning...

When cloudy was the weather...

I broke out my woolen socks this morning. I'm wearing a turtleneck and hiking boots. It is officially lumpy wardrobe weather. On the plus side this also means I can wear my hideous and hugetastic harvest-gold corduroy winter coat complete with woolen plaid lining and a sash. I got it at Goodwill 6 years ago for $12 and I have never ever loved a coat with such abandon. Also my mittens which fold back in half to reveal fingertip-less gloves. Oh yes, I love them.

So I'm happy it's cold enough for those....


An addendum to this train of thought: cable knit tights. A favorite of school girls everywhere; I need some, yo.

Life in 3-D

Well, o.k. technically, I still don't have depth perception; but that's all about to change...

I had my first round of Vision Therapy last Friday. It was really exciting, and Dr. Nancy had very encouraging things to say about my prospects, but oy vey with the headache!

Basically it all amounts to lots of eye exercises and funny accoutrement. Yes, that's right folks; the return of the eyepatch! Not only that, but also a pair of SUPER snazzy red/green goggles the purpose of which is to try and see the world in brownish instead of what I currently see: 2 of everything in Christmas colors. I really really want to find one of the pointy-bead-topped things Dr Nancy uses for me to follow with my eyes instead of using my finger or a pen. If there is an opportunity for a shiny accessory to accompany any activity, you know I will begin the coveting of it post-haste.

Already I'm noticing changes. This morning when I opened up my eye to look around, it took me a full 2 seconds to determine whether I was looking with my good eye or my bad one. True, I was face down and looking at my nightstand, which isn't far away, plus my vision is always a little blurry after sleeping on my face and the coincident eye-squashing that goes along with it. But this was monumental. I have never been not-sure which eye I was seeing out of before. Heady stuff.

As soon as those headaches ease up, I'll be golden. Well, brownish anyway.

My favorite part of trick or treating...

Apart from it being over that is...

Bestest Pre-Birthday Birthday Weekend EVER!

I like: Shopping, sunshine, being the center of attention, mimosa, my friends, fried chicken and waffle, copulating, going on trips, laughing, soaking, gossiping, drinking, exploring, and mexican food. And my weekend contained all of this.

Oh, yes, that hat? It says birthday princess. Hells yeah.

Had my birthday brunch at Meriwether's on Saturday with all of my favorite friends (less a few who couldn't make it) and had a really awesome time. I blew out my birthday candle with my laughter, so that's always a good sign...

Sunday I went with Mr & Mrs Pencil over to Bend to see David Sedaris give a reading. Which was hysterically funny. All I can say is, I now have th burning desire to learn more about Nicaragua.

Turkish soaking pool and a free show came next. I had no idea McMenamins offered a "Humping Hideaway" in the corner of the pool, but apparently the couple that was in there when we arrived got some sort of memo we missed. Plus, after they got done dry (?) humping in the corner, they changed right there in front of us. I was not expecting to see wet naked ass that night, always a pleasant surpise!

The weather was amazingly beautiful right up until we were headed back to Portland, but anytime it's 65 in late October, I am for it. Took the McKenzie Pass back across the divide, and though a remarkably twisty route and thus not the most time-efficient, incredibly scenic and interesting.

Still have the actual day to look forward to on Wednesday, not to mention starting the new job tomorrow. My thirties are already extra-bonus awesome!

True 'dat

How hard it is, sometimes, to trust the evidence of one's senses! How reluctantly the mind consents to reality.
- Norman Douglas

The Halloween Hoodlum or The Purloined Pumpkin

Ahh family fun!

We went out to the haunted fantasy trail last night. We were treated to dry weather of moderate temperature and a waxing moon to set the spooky-ness at full blast. We got out to Wenzel Farm after dark and the whole place was lit up. Aria has expressed some trepidation about going after dark, thinking it would be too scary to take, but we all agreed it was much more fun at night.

We did the haunted castle, wandered back through the woods, and ran the pirate ship labyrinth all as usual. Managed to jump out and holler at key moments for the rewarding shrieks of my child. Good times.

Technically, this place isn't a pumpkin patch. They bring in pumpkins and scatter them around the trail, and if you want one, you can pay $4 to take one home. Considering I'd only be paying .19 cents a pound down at WinCo, I was not having any of it. Aria already had a pumpkin patch pumpkin, plus I had one left over from the pumpkin carving party I attended over the weekend. I felt like we were well stocked.

As we were winding up our visit Aria began looking around at the various pumpkin options available. We climbed the final hill up to the parking lot and I told her again I had no intention of paying $4 for a pumpkin when I already had one in the car. So my sister and I walk over to the car and get in, talking about the pictures we had taken and whether they'd turn out. I start the car and hear the pounding of little feet running toward the car. I turn around to see Aria sprinting up to the back door arms full of a gigantic pumpkin. She opened the door dumped the pumpkin in the backseat, climbed in over it and said:
"Come on let's go!" To which I replied.
"Where'd you get that pumpkin?"
"Well, you said you didn't want to pay for one."

Now, I realize that the responsible and parental thing to do would have been to lecture her sternly, make her return the pumpkin, and apologize. So, what I did instead was laugh my ass off and let her keep the spoils of her illicit pumpkin-snatching exploits.

I have a faulty moral compass.

The Songs in Sleep

So, occasionally I will have this weird, but basically cool thing happen: I will fall asleep, sometimes dream, though not always, and wake up with a song-fully formed-written in my head. I have learned to keep paper and writing utensils handy so as to make record of these sleep-songs, because if I just go back to sleep thinking I'll remember them in the morning, I wont.

These songs are always at least as good as what I can write when I am fully awake and engaged in the songwriting process in earnest. Sometimes better. It happened to me all the time when I was a child, but I didn't have the presence of mind or musical language to translate these songs into anything permanent. Sometimes I would wake up crying at how lovely and necessarily transitory they were. Now I have the means to capture them and I'm struck by something else: they're always happy, too.

Anyone who's listened to my body of work knows that this is, in itself, unusual. My frame of mind, intellectual and emotional propensities, and singing voice all lend themselves more naturally to down-tempo minor key songs about... well... that one guy. Even Aria pointed this out to me the other day as I was writing a song. Her grandmother asked what it was about and Aria said
"Probably the same thing ALL her songs are about." to which I replied,
"Oh, yeah? What are all my songs about?" she rolled her eyes
"_____"
Oh. Right. Him. Although, as it turned out, I managed to make that one about a flood instead. Uplifting stuff!!

But last night, in the cradle of slumber, after having some WHACKED OUT dreams, I woke up with the first verse of a song, sweet and cheerful, twirling in my head. So I wrote it down. And I like it already. It makes me happy to sing it. So, I guess I do care if I sleep. There is some good it can do. And I have the Red Paper Flowers to prove it....

America: FUCK YEAH!

Call Me Sabella

You Are A Vampire

You have a real thirst for bliss, and you consider yourself a true hedonist. And you're not afraid to walk alone in life, if it means getting what you truly crave. You truly enjoy entrancing people. Not to mention the ensuing pleasures of the flesh. Your tastes have been called decadent and bizarre. You usually give in to your temptations, no matter how primal Your greatest power: Your flawless ability to seduce and charm Your greatest weakness: Human flesh You play well with: Werewolves

What Kind of Monster Are You?

All we can do is keep breathing...

Which is supposed to help, but sometimes doesn't. No amount of breathing is going to change the fact that things are scary and sad. It might change the intensity of the scary or sad feelings, but they don't go away.

If only, like Hansel and Gretel in reverse, I could follow my own breath forward to unlose myself. I suppose that is what's happening, if only in slow motion. Progress so incremental and elusive to observation as to be mythical.

And the temptation is powerful and recurring to keep my breath inside, to trail after it back into myself and hide there away from the light of the truth that hurts me so much that it steals the very breath I mean to pursue.


But instead, mostly, I chase after it out. Though it carries with it noises and meanings that would otherwise stay within, and I'm unsure they should have got out at all.

I wonder what I take in, and what goes away from me further, with each successive breath.

Nostalgic Goopery

I am a sentimental sap. I cry at movies, and t.v. and songs about Michigan. I don't know why, but it has always been so. I become unaccountably attached to inanimate objects, like my 1980 Datsun 510 Station Wagon which I WEPT over having towed away many many months after its practical purpose as a mode of transportation was completely over. I'm not a pack rat, but I do care about holding on to a handful of things that have special resonance for me. And this is more true for books than anything else.

When I was born in 1977 my grandparents gave me (via my parents) a beautiful book of fairy tales as a gift. The stories are dusky without being dark or scary, the illustrations are phenomenally beautiful and intricate, and this book has been the measure against which all things fairy have been compared ever after.

As one might expect, this book, being as old as I am, has seen better days. The cover has come completely off, pages have been missing from Thumbellina since I was tiny, and small rotten offspring belonging to my sister have drawn in it. So, I have been on the lookout for a copy in better condition for quite some time. Being out of print, British in origin, and 30 years old has not made tracking one down an easy task.

Then suddenly this morning, I looked on Amazon and a little tiny bookseller in Grants Pass has one in good condition for an utterly reasonable price. I was nearly beside myself with joy. So.

I'm making a pilgrimage to southern Oregon to fetch it. I loved the last trip I made down south more than I would have predicted, so I'm very much looking forward to making my way down there again. And I like the absurdity of driving all the way to Grants Pass to get a book I already have just for the sake of immersing myself in the past.

This is what internal conflict looks like:

At least according to google image search. Or maybe an upsetting gastro-intestinal event.


But I cant tell because there is no mirror in front of me at the moment to reflect it since it is what I am experiencing at this very moment. The conflict I mean.

Oh my curvy pillow, why hast thou betrayed me?

I bought you particularly to avoid what I am feeling right at this very moment. The pain. All weekend I toted you around, even whilst I slept at a funny angle in my car you remained true and valiant. Why in my own bed on a random Tuesday night, do you fail?

Cause, now... well... owie.

Would you if you could?

With the quiet returned to you, you are no more inclined to try. Whatever recompense once served, doesn't any longer. Once you might have, but now you have come to see the wisdom of this way and it comforts you. No more longing. Lucky you.

p.s. you are the one riding the robot.

Sometimes, fun = ouch.

Ah, the weekend. A time for fun and relaxation, and drinking, and pain.

I decided this weekend was going to be JAM PACKED with fun, so I filled it up to the very brim with activities which included:

~Party in Lyle with campfire, cider, much revelry.
~Trip to Seattle for visiting cousin & general troublemaking.
~Possible trip to hot springs (failed).
~Sleeping in my car.

Apart from my realization that getting to the Olympic Hot Springs from Seattle is like a 3 hour endeavor, rather than the hour and a half I expected, all of these activities turned out to be quite fun. And diverting.

While in Seattle I was treated to a scooter ride. Which was awesome. I love motorcycles, but this was my first time on a Vespa. It was a quality experience. Went out to Discovery Park right around sunset. Drove through Magnolia, which was just stunningly beautiful, and walked out to the lighthouse. The weather was perfect, the sunset golden and pink.

Nighttime called for city-going: a gay bar complete with vintage prison porn circa 1964, naughtiness in a photo booth, street food, the most amazing wallpaper I have ever seen, and the cha cha lounge, the awesomeness of which I can only describe thusly: Underground, festooned with crap on every available surface, lit entirely with red bulbs. Sweet.

And all of this was grand. Plus I got to meet cousin's new beau who is so cute I just wanted to squish his head. Seriously. Grilled cheese for breakky. Tasty.

And then, came the consequence for all this fun. I began to notice my inner thighs and sacrum were emitting a crescendo of protest as the day went on. True, I'd been pressed into the metal frame on the back of the scooter for a while, but it hadn't hurt at all at the time, and even though I had to spread my knees enough to straddle the driver I didn't feel at all strained on the ride.

Well. Now. Apparently, I'm not as flexy and bendy as I like to think. Who the hell would have thought I needed to stretch before getting on a scooter for chrissakes? I suppose I'll know better next time...

I am a fucking cream puff!

Everybody knows I like to pretend to be all tough and cool, but that I am all goopy and smooshy in the middle.

And someone called me caustic today. They meant it as a compliment, but still. I'm not caustic. I mean, I'm not going to take your skin off or anything.

Am I caustic? Seriously?

This scares me

But in the best possible and most interesting way.

Word to Emma on this one



http://www.ted.com/talks/view/id/162

The Best Game Idea EVER!

The only thing I know about this is its name: Super Monkey Poop Fight. Yet I stand by my claim with no more than that to go on.

Boo Scary Boo

Aria went to the pumpkin patch yesterday. She selected what has to have been the smallest gourd to be found on Sauvie Island. What's more, she doesn't want a bigger pumpkin. She likes them compact and tidy. Perfectly round and symmetrical. And, she doesn't like to carve them. Instead she drew two faces on either side of the pumpkin. Comedy and Tragedy meet Halloween.

But we are not yet done pumpkin patching. Oh, no. We will go out again next week to enjoy one of our few consistent holiday traditions of any kind: The Haunted Trail at Wenzel Farms. Though there is a somewhat less-than-stellar pumpkin patch at the end of said trail, we've discovered that's not really the point.

A few pumpkins are scattered on the ground (which I am willing to bet are imported for the purpose) and you're free to help yourself if you want to carry one back past screaming animatronics and through the pirate ship labyrinth. Instead the fun comes from tromping through the woods past an array of little stone buildings draped in cobwebs and lights, through narrow child sized tunnels dark and close, accompanied by Edgar Allen Poe being blasted over the speakers cunningly disguised behind faces carved into the tree trunks.

One chooses to overlook the fact that this same trail is clearly used at Christmas as well, and sometimes the efforts to disguise the friendly Yule elf-folk as menacing Halloween goblins is not as complete as one might hope, and that the haunted castle which greets you upon arrival is much more impressive on the outside, since once you get in, it basically amounts to a wide 360 degree spin to look at glow-in-the-dark masks attached to the walls.

We overlook this because it's fun to. It's nice to have a tradition, it's enjoyable to wander through this cutesy-quaint little slice of scariness. And even if Bambi doesn't make a convincing zombie deer, I find it hilarious that the attempt has been made.

Plus, at the end, you get candy.

This weekend

I'm going to the forest. I'm soaking in the hot springs.
There is nothing you can do to stop me.
So there.

I love being the boss of me.

I am obsessed with Todd

I feel I must explain. I have an extremely boring job. I have calculated the time necessary to complete all the tasks assigned me as somewhere around 2 1/2 hours. Per week. I have to be here to answer the phone, and that is my primary function overall, but other than that, my time is almost maddeningly my own. I have internet access to a certain extent (no myspace or youtube) and have tried to devise various methods of edutaining myself all damn day.

I discovered that the internet filter that thwarts certain online activities seems happily to allow pretty much every google module I try to access. Hence, this blog and my new favorite web plaything: iGoogle.

I have my favorite blogs up there (word to Lyza and LOLSecretz), my news from the BBC, Wiki, weather, a game of hangman, a sticky note to myself which tells me to breathe and smile, my calendar, and various other time killers all arranged into a pleasingly readable format. And I have applied a theme to all of this goodness.

And that's where Todd comes in. You see, my theme is the Teahouse. It depicts the activities of a little Japanese fox during the course of his day, which is timed to coincide with Pacific Standard. So each morning, Todd sits out on the dock and does his fishing for the day, then at about 9am he rows his little boat across the pond and climbs the ladder to pick some oranges. By 11 he's settled down to eat his charming little lunch, and in the afternoon, he's doing the wash.

He's such a productive and well-ordered little fellow, I am slightly jealous of his industry. Not to mention the 2 hours he seems to have for lunch. I follow his progress back and forth across the pond and wonder what he does at night, since I have to go home, and don't have the internet there... I like to think the teahouse lights up with soft illumination at about 8pm and maybe Todd sits out on the porch stargazing until at 10 or so he snuggles up on his futon and drifts into sweet foxy slumber.

I heart Ira

There is a near-constant competition going for the spot of my imaginary boyfriend.

It's not just that I'm fickle (although I can be) but also that whenever I am confronted with sensitivity and intelligence, and, well, hotness all in one package, I find it hard to resist.

Of course, this combination is exceedingly difficult to find in any readily available men, so I resort to having many moments of profound devotion to people I will never meet or interact with in any significant way. I like this idea. They stay just as I imagine them and provide me with fodder for my daydreams about intellectual conversations and political debates and artistic collaborations. Heady stuff.

My original I.B. was Zach Braff. He's been displaced for a while now, but most recently, I've been thinking Damian Lewis from "Life" on NBC was a good candidate. He's so damaged. It's hot.

His character is clever and resourceful but also displays a vulnerability I find pretty fucking compelling. I really like the show, and figured if I got in early, I could claim to have been in love with him well before the legions who will no doubt flock to adore him could start clamoring.





But then I went last night with some friends to a Q & A sponsored by OPB to promote the new book: The New Kings of Non-Fiction. Which is an anthology of stories from several well-regarded non-fiction writers, edited and compiled by Ira Glass.

Ira was submitting to a round of what must be fairly typical questions about how he makes stories, and decisions about stories, and how this new project on Showtime is different than being on the radio, and he offered intelligent, insightful, funny, and meaningful answers to all of these questions. I suppose being an interviewer must make it a bit easier to be the subject of questioning: you know what plays well.

But after a fair amount of this went on he decided to turn the tables on April Baer, the local newscaster assigned to conduct the Q&A (self-identified as one of the starry-eyed communications-major types who love him). Ira asked her if she was the one who did the local commentary which accompanied Morning Edition, and if that included traffic. April admitted that, indeed, that was her. Ira then pointed out that doing the traffic in Portland presented a particularly existential perspective on life...

"I mean, when you say 'It's stop and go from the tunnel to the cemetery,' doesn't that really say something more about life? It sort of sums it all up right there. And then sometimes, you mention something about some curves? I mean, it seems like that pretty much says it all..."

Game, set, match. Ira wins.

Unbelievable Deliciousness

Ok.

We all know I love bacon. And we all know I love waffles. What's more, we know that I love bacon waffles and proselytize on their behalf as frequently as may be.

But today, everything changed.

Meriweathers, NW Portland, Bruncheon. Mimosa: excellent. Menu, perusing with mild interest. I already ate this morning, but we're celebrating, so I'll consider having more than my drinky.

And then my eyes fall upon the most compelling combination of foodstuffs I have seen suggested in many a long year: Fried Chicken and Waffle.





When the plate arrives it is drizzled with syrup, a substantial leg of chicken is perched atop two slices of bacon which are, in turn, nestled on a crisp and fluffy waffle. Hells yeah.

To describe its savor, its sweetness, would be to cheapen its sacred impact on my flavor receptors. Oh mama. It was arguably the most delicious thing I have ever put in my mouth.

Hot Diggity.

Rightness, as opposed to wrongness...

BWAHAHAHAHA

Ahem

The Lessons sunk in skin

Owl medicine is about vigilance, seeing through the darkness, and shedding that which is no longer required. So, then.

I'll carve it on my spine and hope to remember what I needed to gain from this and discard that which hinders me.

And it is as close to a name etched in my flesh as is likely to ever be...

My daughter the Diplomat

I think it is a safe thing to suggest that we as humans are well served to consider the impact of our communications carefully. Sometimes in our haste to secure a particular outcome, we fail to consider the possible ramifications of our words. I know this happens to me constantly and it is a lifelong lesson for most people.

Apparently not for my eight-year-old.

Because she, she is canny in the extreme. She knows, for example, a staggering variety of curses and epithets, yet you will almost never hear one slip. She pretends to be oblivious to their existence, let alone willing to sink to their use. I know she knows them because I curse like a sailor. Just ask her, she'll tell you. And though she is ready to turn state's evidence on her loving mother in a heartbeat when it comes to the use of profanity, she continues to use the language of the sweet little child I want her to be. She does this because I will bust her ASS if she does not.

But this morning, I was treated to an entirely new level of tactical planning on the part of my child. It is one thing to operate under the halo of obedience, but this, this transcended mere self-preservation and displayed something more.

You see, she is too old to believe in the cultural mythologies I have gone to such pains to instill in her wee little head. My own mother, a powerfully crusty cynic of the most virulent stripe, was adamant in her unwillingness to entertain such notions as Santa, the Easter Bunny, or most pertinently in this case, the tooth fairy. Of course, she does believe in SASQUATCH, but that is neither here nor there.

When I became an adult and had a child of my own, I decided that the whole idea of a pantheon of benign gift-givers was a relatively desirable thing to have in your life as a little person. I knew that my own inexperience with this arena might have made me more eager to participate, but what are children for if not to compensate for one's own misspent childhood?

So I set about assuring her about Santa et al. and all was going well. The first rumblings of confusion on her part came when she was about 3 and she asked rather pointedly, why the tooth fairy wanted all these old used teeth, and why did she get different amounts of money from the tooth fairy when she was at home vs. at her father's house. I quickly explained to her that the tooth fairy was using the teeth to make crafts. And that market forces determined the value of the teeth at any given time as supply and demand were bound to fluctuate, so you could never tell just how much the tooth would be worth to the fairy on a given occasion. Way to use a childhood mythos to slip in an economics lecture.

She seemed to accept this explanation readily (which might also have been the result of the following internal dialogue: I have no idea what this crazy person is babbling about... ohh candy!)

At any rate, we haven't had any further conversations about the role or motivation of the pantheon in a while, apart from the "Sarah says Santa isnt real" to which I reply; "Sarah doesn't know everything."

Fast forward to present day. I know she knows these people do not exist. I think she KNOWS I know she knows. But we play along together because we both get something out of it: in my case it is a minor bolstering to the ever-more-quickly fading belief that my child is still innocent and fully able to enter into an alternate reality without question as to its validity aka- belief in magic. For her, well, she gets stuff. So.

So she lost a tooth last week. Wednesday to be precise. I wasn't home when this happened, and her Grandmother (the other non-crusty one) failed to mention it to me so I could act accordingly. When Aria woke up in the morning she mentioned to me that A) She had lost the tooth and B) Demand for crafts must be waaaay up so as to keep the tooth fairy from making to our house to collect her tooth.

Ahem.

So I assured her the tooth fairy would surely be around soon to get her tooth. We put the tooth in an envelope and I tried to make a mental note to take care of it that night. And then, she left for her dad's and I completely forgot.

And then this morning I rose to find this note sitting on my vanity:








BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Because you see, she realized that someone needed to be reminded that the tooth was languishing under her pillow, yet she also knew that she couldn't come out and say "Mom, hurry the hell up." or in any way imply that she KNOWS there is no tooth fairy, because she realizes if she does that, the end of the tooth fairy payments will have arrived. She instead opted for her only viable course of action which was to prod me to remind the tooth fairy about her wayward tooth. And it worked. I slipped into her room and slid the envelope from its place beneath her sleeping head and left 4 shiny quarters in its place.

Communication, so subtly crafted. That's my girl.

It is snowing over 4k ft

And that is happiness making.

Date / Time (Local Time - PST) September 28th: Sky Snow Flurries Temperature 31º Wind N 3-31 mph ahhhhhhhhhhhh hahahahahaha its snowing at Timberline!!!

Punctuation is important?

Pass me a cigarette, I think there's one in my raincoat

I wonder at myself sometimes and my triggers. Not just the obvious ones, for food, sex, sleep, anger. Lately the triggers that interest me most are the prompts for baseless sentiment. Why is it I should be so moved by the line "Michigan seems like a dream to me now..." I've never even been to Michigan. My most recent romantic entanglement notwithstanding, I don't think I've ever been tempted to go to Michigan.

And yet, every time I hear that song. Every time Paul sings that line, the tears rise and I weep until "we've all gone, to look for America"

It is a line referenced in one of the most important pieces of literature in my life. I suppose that adds a certain degree of resonance. In The Waste Lands, as the three Gunslingers from New York muse on their bizarre new circumstances, Eddie mutters the line. And it struck me then. But I suspect I was already under the sway of whatever evocative power the phrase has over me when I read it. Because I remember feeling like a bell was tolling when I let the words sink inside me.

And maybe there is no answer. Maybe my tendency for baseless sentiment is an end unto itself, but I am curious about it nevertheless. And of course I know I'm not alone.

I wonder what makes other people experience this same inexplicable sentimentality....

I am a fan of the ellipsis

This may be, in part, why I loved Garden State so damn much. Probably not, I mean, Zach Braff is totally my imaginary boyfriend, and like, how could I not love his work? But I do love it in the end when he says to Samantha...

"This isn't a conversation about this being over. I'm not like, putting a period at the end of this. I'm putting like... an ellipsis on it."

He repents of this quite soon, but I still liked the notion of it. I hate the idea of anything really being irrevocable. I want there to be a chance for anything, to have a little more to say.

And I notice when I look at my posts, just how many of them have ellipsis' (ellipses? ellipsis's?) in them. And how this in effect works out as the verbal equivalent of trailing off, which ironically, i almost never ever do. I like to express complete thoughts. Sometimes, they're a little too complete. Here, let me give you 8 1/2 minutes of exposition you do not need. That was fun wasn't it!?

But I think when I use them in writing perhaps its more of a come hither than a trailing off. I want to entice you with the slightest hint of things to come. And it seems so much more poetic that way. I mean no wonder I love the ellipsis; all the infinite unsaidness of life can be summed up with three little dots...

Why don't you do right....

Ok,

so its not usually fun to be wrong, but sometimes it is particularly annoying/embarassing.

I've been toying with the idea of being Jessica Rabbit for Halloween for about 4 years, but thought the lack of a willing Roger might make the effort a little hard to understand. Oh look! Autumn's got her tits out again! How novel! Right?

Well, I decided this year, since I'm turning 30 and oh so very alone in the world, Roger or no, I'm doing it. So I'm on the prowl for the right off-the-shoulder-slit-up-to-there dress. Which in MY memory was PURPLE. So, I start looking casually. Not finding anything just yet, but I have time so I'm not super worried about it. I mention this plan to various people, all of whom think it is hilarious or hot (depending largely on their gender) and encourage me to go full steam ahead. Red wig or dye job? Haven't totally made up my mind... long opera gloves are a necessity, slutty tall red shoes, that's what the red light clothing exchange is for.

One person however, when I say this is my plan, is encouraging but says "Yeah find yourself the right red dress and I'm sure you'll pull it off Roger or no..."

To which I reply "No no no you silly git, her dress was purple not red. And set off to Wiki a corroborating photo to prove it. Ahem.

I guess I'm glad this happened since I would have been a little less obviously Jessica in the wrong colored dress. My plan to open every conversation with "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way" might seal the deal...

Happiness

Despite my tendency to believe this, happiness is not found in hats. Or shoes. Or pants. Well, I mean a certain kind of happiness can be found in pants, but that's not what I'm getting at.

My friend Clare has made the suggestion that since human memory is unreliable we may not be the best judge of our own level of overall happiness, and that maybe all we need is some objective evidence that things aren't so bad so we can all cheer the fuck up a little. She talks about this much more eloquently on her blog:

http://happiology.blogspot.com/2007/09/introduction-to-allisons-happiness.html

I've decided this is an amusing and potentially worthwhile attitude to have about this whole happiness thing. And so I'm going to join her in both recording my own experience and reflecting upon what trends I notice. Plus I think her "Happiness Scale" is hilarious...


Happiness Scale
1. "My god. I would like to die"
2. "Life Sucks"
3. "Not good"
4. "I've been better."
5. "Can't complain"
6. "Good."
7. "Boy, I feel great!"
8. Squealing in glee


Here's to more 8's than 1's!

Objects of Desire

So I'm out on Saturday walking around downtown Portland in the lovely crisp fall afternoon when I strolled past the JCrew window display. It was a terrible mistake.

It is well known that if I had to subsist with only 3 brands ever again it would be Banana Republic, Ann Taylor, and JCrew. I love their cheeky preppyness. I love their devotion to the tall collared rugby. And I love their hats. I think I have like 23 JCrew hats. And now, I want one more.

Thing is, this hat is currently $50, give or take. But if I wait 3 weeks or so, this hat will be $25. If it can still be found. And this is my main problem with JCrew. When they do discount something it offends me to have paid full price so recently. On the other hand, if I wait in hopes of said discount, it may well sell out before I get to it. It is a bitter dilemma and I am not happy to be having it. I've had a fair amount of success waiting and trying again. I have a skirt that started out $60 that I only paid $20 for. I suppose I ought to wait and see. After all, if we are destined to be together, I suppose we'll find a way somehow...

As if Friday's weren't kooky enough...

I thought suggesting Bowl-aoke (my favorite hybrid of bowling and karaoke) was weird enough to seem novel and intriguing to my jaded jaded friends. But I was trumped. True, the person who did the trumping works at Dark Horse Comics and is therefore infinitely cooler than I am, but still.

Because how could we not abandon the bowl-aoke plans to go check out underground glow-in-the-dark pirate themed mini-golf. I had to bow to the wisdom of such a plan. And so would you.

My only complaint was the lack of a bar in the facility. I mean, trying to accommodate families
might make this seem wise, but my argument is actually that most parents would be MORE likely to take their kids down to the subterranean free for all if they had access to a beer or two. I know I would.

Saturday was slightly less luminous. In fact I drove up to Larch Mountain right about the time the equinox was occurring and climbed up to the viewpoint pretty much in the pitch dark. Once I got up there, the entire valley below was obscured by a thick blanket of fog. Nothing like climbing a mountain to get a clearer view and only having a grey bank of clouds to look at instead. To be fair it was good in the sense of being a little spooky. Peeking over the side and seeing nothing but fog does give one the sense of being perched on the edge of an infinite abyss. Which is always a good thing.