Photo of the Day: Music Making

Last Thursday I had the opportunity to experience my first "Last Thursday," a street fair on Alberta here in Portland. And it was SO much fun. I took hundred of photos of the people and musicians and artists and vendors and their art and wares. I couldn't even upload them all and picking just one to highlight was such a challenge. But you can check out my faves here.

I eventually chose this shot for several reasons. One, I'm pretty proud of it. The lighting is great and I really like the composition. Two, isn't he SO interesting? I don't even know what kind of instrument that is but it's uber cool. Plus? (you'll love this) He had an Irish accent. *swoon* But the other reason I chose this shot is because I absolutely love in my heart of hearts street musicians. They're part of a musical tradition all its own and will always remind me of Europe.

If there was anything I loved most about this insanity masquerading as a street fair, it was the music. A cacophony of differing beats and sounds and styles dancing on the air and creating a competition of energy.

such stuff as psychos are made on

Oh my fucking computer drama.

Where do I begin? Where do I even begin?

Okay, what day was it? Saturday? Yup, Saturday.

So Saturday I'm doing my thing. Having the computer fun. When my MacBook goes "EEP" and shuts off. 

*breathe in* *breathe out*

So I power it up and the screen is insanely dim. I can type and move the cursor, but I can't see anything on the screen and the brightness level is at full. 

HUMPH.

So I manually restart. And this time? The screen is all sorts of awesome, but my keyboard is on some kind of acid trip. The caps lock is having its own techno party. The A and 1 keys have completely gone on strike and when you hit any of the other keys, they start repeating like they're painting the alphabet across the sky.

And did I mention my computer is password protected? Oh yeah. So I can't even log in.

Right.

So I get a late appointment at the Genius Bar and take my baby in. At this point, I am just trying to remain calm. I need my computer. I committed to a freelance gig with my old employer and this week is full of online conference calls in prep for a big project happening next week in Kansas City. I need my computer. 

The Genius, whom I'll call Mark because I can't remember his name and he looks like a Mark or maybe a Seth, tells me it's probably the keyboard and top casing unless there's damage underneath, but I'll need to leave it with him for 1 to 3 days. Mini-panic attach and I hand over my baby. 

Sunday morning (way earlier than I'd anticipated), another Mac Genius calls me and is all, "how are you today?" And I'm all, "I'll be awesome if you've fixed my baby." And he's all, "It's fixed. Come get it this afternoon." And I'm all, "I love you. Please marry me." And he just laughs nervously.

Anywayyyy.

So I pick her up and they'd replaced the keyboard and top casing and display bezel. And she works great and I but her a new pink condom to make sure that she doesn't get sick again (always compute safely!). And I take my fam to the airport this morning and get back and settle in for my online conference call at noon. And, I shit you not, my keyboard and mouse freeze five fucking minutes before the call! I swear to jeebus and shiva and all things unholy that's what happened.

Cue: me stabbing my eyeballs out because I just can't witness this bullshit any longer.

Right. So I call the Geniuses and they can't get me in until tomorrow. UNTIL TOMORROW! 

*sigh*

I really want to be positive and these guys are all super nice and I officially now know two loverly people who work for Apple (though neither of which are techies). But oh em eff gee why couldn't they just squeeze me IN? My theory is that the replacement parts weren't totally installed correctly. Soooo couldn't I just drop it off and you can fix it in the queue? No? 

*sigh*

And how am I posting right now? Oh I'll tell you how. I will tell you how, by golly and gosh and goulash. 

I went out (at Sexy Man's cajoling) (pee ess, isn't cajole an awesome word?) to the Goodwill and purchased a keyboard and mouse. Which is so a temporary fix. I certainly can't take my laptop like this with me to Kansas City. And it's kind of sucking as well since I have like no furniture and I'm now balancing all the extra equipment on my lapdesk on my pile of floor blankets and sleeping bag because, oh yeah, I sleep on the floor now. Suck city, sweetheart (that line was for you, Coco!). 

This is my life.

Urf.

So I'm dropping my baby off with the Geniuses tomorrow where I predict yet again that I won't see her for 1 to 3 days. Which means I will not be blogging much unless I find an alternate computer at my disposal or they fix Mac early.

PS
If you can identify where quote which I bastardized for the title of this post came from? You get a prize! What prize? Well, you'll be my new best friend. That's a job a million girls would die for*.

*I'm on fire with the quotes today! Where is Coco when I need her?

Love Song Sunday: In Case We Die

Just in time for Love Song Sunday, I got my mac back from the computer doctor and I'm happy to report that she's better than ever. *whew*

I am so excited that I won't miss a Sunday, because I have a delightful duo to bring to you today. My loverly cousin shared Folk Uke with me this week and I knew instantly that these girls held my heart. These are Amy Nelson and Cathie Guthrie, the daughters of Willie Nelson and Arlo Guthrie. So you can just  imagine how awesome they are already.

But you have no idea! They're completely talented of course and their old-timey harmonies rock my socks, but they're also witty and fun and irreverent and odd. I supremely recommend checking out my personal favorite Knock Me Up and also Motherfucker Got Fucked Up (in this version, Willie Nelson makes an appearance!).

This song is simply sweet and satirical, but also slightly bizarre. Just like me! If you like me at all (and, duh, who doesn't), you'll lurve this song. Enjoy:

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

As I was eating bacon pizza (seriously! bacon pizza!) with friends the other night, I was struck with a brilliant idea. People like strip clubs. People like bacon. What if I opened a strip club where the strippers are wearing bacon? Brilliant, right? And they could take off the pieces and throw them at the clients, like feeding bears. And since this is Portland, we could have veggie bacon for the vegans (Vegans want to watch the ladies get naked too). AND (thanks to John for this flash of genius) we could call the place: Bacon Strips. Right? Right? I am totally going to do this. I'll be rich! RICH! Mwahahaha!

My evil laugh makes me throat hurt.

You know what else makes me laugh? Squirrels. Like, I know they're basically rats with cute fluffy tails. Like they're all carriers of Ebola and SARS and shit, but they're also like little meth addicts. Squirrels are completely insane. Especially city squirrels. Or university campus squirrels. They must have access to all kinds of drugs because they're completely manic. There are squirrels everywhere here and they're all totally batshit insane.

Near where I used to work in sunny So Cal, there was this huge tree next to some steps. And this crazy squirrel would always chill on the steps, but he must have been blind or something. Because he'd wait until you got too close, like closer than you'd think is possible to get to a squirrel, and then freak out because you're TOO CLOSE! TOO CLOSE! And he'd kamikaze leap off the side of the steps into the air without even aiming for the tree or anything to land on. I watched him aim his leap wrong once and just fly head first into a higher step. That one looked painful. But I bet you that squirrel is still alive.

Because Ebola gives squirrels eternal life. Like jesus for rodents.

So I normally don't mind the sound of trains. I wrote about this once like a year ago. Normally the faint rumble and horn of a train helps me fall asleep. But my friendly neighborhood train is a little more enthusiastic than I can handle. He's just so excited to be a train. Honking his horn for maybe 10 minutes straight, announcing his train status to the world. I'M A TRAIN! I'M A TRAIN! I'M A TRAAAIIIIIIINNNNNN! Needless to say, it gets a little old. My roommate and I constantly find ourselves responding to the train, "We GET it! You're a train. Enough already. So you should announce it to the world?" Because I'm not crazy enough already.

Next Saturday is my birthday. One week from this jour, I'll be 30. Except, I already feel 30. I've always felt that way about birthdays. Why is your birthday a magic portal into a new age? At midnight, I'll magically feel 30? No way, dude. I've been 30 for a couple of months now.

But can I just say that I am excited for 30? I think I've said this before, but that's because it's true. I am excited for 30. At this stage in my life, I'm pursuing my bliss like never before. Really searching for the things that bring me happiness and doing what I can to avoid stress. And I can't wait to see what this decade will bring. Who I'll be. What I'll learn. I'm excited! Are you excited?

Keep your eyes peeled for the next Raw Photos contest! It will be coming up in a couple of weeks and we expect you to bring your best un-photoshopped photos.

And to round out my random thoughts for today, there's this*:

food for thought

*I found this online and have no idea who the artist is. But it's funny as shit and I'd like to see more. If you know who made this, please let me know, yo!

Cabbage Patch Kids & Muppet Babies

What a week. I've been playing tour guide to my loverly cousin Lindsey and her boyfriend John. These are two of my very favorite people on the whole planet and I am so endlessly stoked they could come visit.

I won't even attempt to recap the whole visit; there's too much to tell. But in short? We tromped. And galavanted. And meandered. And moseyed (who knew that was the past tense of mosey?). We ate. And ate. And ate. And then we ate some more.

But the highlight of the trip? My most favoritest part? When Lindsey and I got into a time machine and traveled back to our childhood.

See, Linds and I are only two years apart and we are like sisters. Most of my childhood memories are shared memories with Linds and, like sisters, our dynamic is based on that shared experience. We have a psychic connection and our own language comprised of the shorthand of inside jokes and knowing looks. We can have a conversation without even speaking. Just ask our friends at dinner the other evening how freaky it is when you catch us in the right mood and one of us dares to utter one word (gigglebug) and we burst into peals of uncontrollable, gasping for breath, tears down the cheeks laughter.  Happens every time.

So when Linds and I were wandering in a random antique store and saw this:

We were instantly excited. 

And as we scoured the shelves of our childhood for our own childhood mementos, our voices became those of an 8 yo and a 6 yo. Squealing with delight.

With the feel of the familiar plastic and the smell of playgrounds and classroom cubbies, it was 1987 again.

And then I found one of my old lunch boxes. The exact one I carried daily to the lunch tables every day.

It even still had the thermos inside. 

Linds couldn't find the only one she'd remembered having. But then she found this:

The thermos to her old lunch box. The very one. She really loved the Muppet Babies.

And we were happy kids.

But it didn't end there. We turned around to find:

Which may seem like nothing much, but we had those toys. And suddenly I was in my childhood bedroom, playing with Linds for hours. I could feel the familiar carpet under our butts. I couldn't even touch those toys, but I could feel the plastic grooves under my fingers that I'd felt hundreds of times before.

At this point, I forgot I had a camera because I really was a 6 year old again. We began tenaciously hunting the shop for more of our old toys and we found almost all the pieces that went with the first toys we found.

I found the Little People house that I remembered so well: the doorbell that I'd chimed, the little windows, the TV painted on the wall. The color was wrong though. My house had been blue, not yellow. Then I found the barn that went with the house. And I remembered that the door mooed when you opened it. It still did, though disturbingly. Then we found the little people. And the animals. And we wanted nothing more than to take all the pieces and find a spot on the floor and play.

We honestly considered buying back our childhood. We could dedicate a room and fill it with our childhood things and go and play and be little and carefree again.

But we didn't. Because that would be crazy.

But don't think we weren't tempted. It was an awesome feeling. Such palpable memories engrained in plastic and paper.

I dare you to hold a childhood memory in your hand and not be instantly transported back to when you played with it daily.

Also: have I mentioned how much I love this girl?

My cousin, my sister, one of my best friends. She knows me better than anyone. 

Only Linds could understand the glee of our experience yesterday. Only she could go with me back in time to our shared experience. The hours and hours of make believe and gigglebugs. 

I said I don't believe in soul mates. But if I have one, it's this girl.

Photo of the Day: Jarritos

Imbibed inside a Mexican food cart here in Portland today. And let it be known! There is good Mexican food in Portland. In fact, 3 out of 3 Californians polled today agree: good Mexican food can be found inside the school bus on Hawthorn.

Final Score

Is the weekend really over? Really and truly?

I had grand plans this weekend. But instead my performance was less than mediocre.

I was going to hang up my curtains finally. But then I couldn't find the curtain rod attachments. Still can't find them. Lame.
Score: Mediocre

I was going to paint some picture frames. But then I ate a bowl of ice cream and watched 6 episodes of Futurama. I have priorities. 
Score: Meets expectations

I did explore a new cafe I'd been meaning to try. It was funky. And had good music. And cushy benches. And I sat for a few hours and got a lot of writing done (good writing too, not mediocre in the slightest).
Score: Exceeds expectations

I also fended off a goldilocks eurotrash kind of guy for a while. His hair was long and shiney and golden and curly at the ends. Like a Panteen commercial. Bastard. No man should have hair that silken.
Score: E for effort from Golidlocks

But then I paid for my tea which ended up being $5. Looks like I won't be going back there. It was an okay tea. It met my expectations. I'd say for $5 that should should have been fantastic tea. It should have exceeded my expectations.
Score: D for deceitful fucking expensive tea

I did paint a picture frame this morning. So that's good. I'll hang it with a photo of mine I printed last week. And I'll feel accomplished.
Score: Meets expectations

And I need to go buy vitamins. And Tylenol PM. That excursion is looking doubtful. Doubtful indeed.
Score: Mediocre

I have a family flying in tonight (The good kind. The kind I'm friends with. I don't open my home to the family I can't stand. Don't look at me at like that. You're wondering how you can pull that off too. Well I'm not telling.) and I couldn't be more excited!
Score: Exceeds your wildest dreams!

So I prob won't be posting much this week since we'll be galavanting around and having the fun.

But to make up for it, I give you this:

hehehehe

I'd like to introduce you to Buttersafe, my new fave Internet discovery. I spent a hour last night flipping through these comics and they're full of the awesome!

You're welcome, Internet. You're welcome.

Final score: you tell me.

Love Song Sunday: Novelty & Tell Her

Oh man am I exciteded song zees Sonntag! A bring you two songs. TWO! You lucky duck.

I discovered Ann Driscoll maybe a year ago on accident through the Internets and fell instantly in love with her weird quirky songs. And at first, once I'd discovered her, it was a challenge to find more. But find more I did and I heart her music so hard. I've been wanting to share her for a while now (and may again).
The first: a song that is not so much about love than about the pitfalls of the fumbling for love, of near misses in coupling. I've felt exactly like this in the past and this song has made me feel better many a time.

The second: a duet by Miss Ann Driscoll and Julie Neumark. I'm not the biggest fan of Julie's, but I love this song and I LOVE girly duets. These two sound glorious together. And this song is so simple and so just fantastic in its rightness. It's just the good advice you want to slap someone with but never do.

Enjoy:

in defense of the casual

Ah Stumble. Do you remember the other day when I  complained about Stumble? Well, it just redeemed itself. Stumble took me to this post by Jaclyn at Feministe. And I'm so glad I found it. I devoured each word. I was moved. It spoke directly to me, to my story, to my soul.

Go read it. It's okay. I'll wait.

Did you read it? If so, you know me a little better now. With some exceptions, of course. And with that in mind, here's my side of things. This is quite possibly the most honest post I've ever written*. So here bares my soul:

Warning: sluts and sex be ahead.

I believe in Love. Love with a capital L. Not every day, I don't, though. Some days, my belief in it is shaken. Some days, I feel unlovable. Like the girl everyone enjoys but gets bored with easily. I'm never the girl you fall in love with.

You're commenting already, aren't you? Getting ready to tell me that's ridiculous and that I just haven't found The One. Well, could you just wait a sec? Let me get to the end first.

First of all, I don't believe in The One. And I don't believe in Fate or Soul Mates or any of that hoopla. I believe in timing and compatibility and I think that people fall in love and work hard to make a life happen.

At least that's what I'd like to believe. But it's never happened that way in my experience. A romantic partner has never loved me. At least not that I know of. It also doesn't help that one actually told me that I'm not the kind of girl you have feelings for. That's a direct quote. So it's easy to see how my faith in the big L is shaken.

My heart has been kicked around this past year more than it should. More than it can really handle. I can't really be in another relationship anytime soon. Not one where my heart gets invested. Because my heart is still in physical therapy right now. It's bandaged up, healing, recuperating in its own way.

I should back up.

I first had sex at 19. And then I fell head over heels at 20 (well, almost 20) (different guy and someone I consider a good friend now). And he broke my heart. Ripped it out. For the first time in my young life, I was learning the rules of heartbreak.

Enter: sluthood. I entered sluthood the first time quite by accident. I liked boys. They seemed to like me. I liked sex. Sex seemed to like me. So I had sex (I think I've brought this up before). Good sex, bad sex, it was all the same. I was learning the rules of the game. Learning how to use sex to feel good. Learning how to not use sex as a proverbial weapon. Learning when to let my heart off its leash and when to leave it at home. I had some short relationships and I had casual encounters. I had straight sex and I had same- sex sex (hehe. grow up, Andrea).

By my mid-twenties, I had tired of the game. I wanted to be in love again. Partly due to the aftermath of the death of someone I was dating and partly due to my heart's feeling restless in its cage, I began to seek relationships. I even had my first same-sex committed relationship (she was an insaniac, but still). I spent most of the next 5 years ping ponging from relationship to relationship, looking for IT. Looking for Love.

I mean, isn't that how it's supposed to work? That's what I thought back then. You spend your early twenties slutting it up and then you settle down and fall in love and some fab guy decides you're his dream girl and you spend the rest of your Saturdays in bed (which is covered in a fluffy white comforter) reading and discussing philosophy. Right? Except it was really five years of breakups and heartbreaks.

Nonetheless, I was never good at the whole "waiting for sex" bullshit. Isn't that the rule? If you want a relationship, you wait. But why? Because he'll lose respect for you? That's just bullshit right there. Maybe it's so you'll fall for him before you figure out you're not sexually compatible or his penis is the size of a raisin. I don't buy that sex changes things or maybe that's the case for women who fall in love once they have sex. But I don't buy that either. They're not truly in love; they just can't separate the lust.

I always liked sex. And I want to enjoy sex in a relationship. So why should I wait?

My one detour was the time I spent in Paris and traveling Europe. I found myself there in so many ways (even if I somewhat forgot myself when I came home) and found pleasure in casual sex and flirtations. I felt like a woman in Paris, like someone who inhabited her body in mysterious ways. I wasn't a girl searching for a fairytale; I was a black dress in a smoky room reciting poetry and cutting sexual tension.

I felt like myself in Paris. Does that make sense? When I wasn't searching for wove twue wove (bonus if you get the movie reference), when I was behaving in a way that for most would seem like playing a part, I felt like myself. There was no pretense. There was no bravado. I was the bravado.

So. So where was I? Right. Fast forward to today. Today I am looking for myself again.  I want to just be me, wholly and completely, sans affectation or guile. What does that mean?

Enter: Sexy Man (who I know reads my blog. Hi, Sexy Man.).

The timing is just perfect for him. He stepped into my life at the right time for what we both can and are willing to offer (or so I assume; that's how it is for me anyway).  And maybe I'm revealing too much the nature of our interaction, but it's simple really. How to describe? We're enjoying all the benefits of each other without any complications. It's casual. It's fun. It's undefined and absolutely enjoyable.

It's beautiful really. The first thing is we were (Once again, at least I assume. I was at any rate. I believe Sexy Man was as well) completely honest up front about what we wanted. And a relationship was not it. And so it's off the table. Not even a thought. Not even a worry or a desire.

It's amazing really how the absence of that elephant in the room changes the dynamic of things. In a great way.

I don't know about you, but even when I'm first dating someone, even when it's so new you haven't decided if you like the person or not, I am constantly sizing that person up. Is she relationship material? Would he be a good father? A good life partner? All these questions haunt our interactions. Hovering over every exchange, every flirtation, every kiss. The promise. The judgement. The hope. The doubt. It permeates everything.

Is that toxic for a relationship? Probably. Is it human nature? Absolutely. Could I control that? No fucking way.

But it's not even an issue with Sexy Man. And I'm not sure if this qualifies as irony (Don't I have a degree in English? Shouldn't I know?), but without all that mess, I'm more in the moment. And I haven't done that in years.

I'm enjoying things as they are. Moment by moment. I'm enjoying Sexy Man for what he has to share with me. I don't need to dig any deeper than he wants. If Sexy Man has other lovers or is pursuing other lovers, good for him (wear a condom!). I encourage that. Because it doesn't matter. We can just be. I can enjoy all the benefits of getting to know a smart and interesting (and fucking sexy) man without any drama, any commitment, any demands.

And it's utterly delicious and incredibly liberating. And it makes me happy. I highly recommend it.

It's also true that the last few men I was entangled with would probably have loved this kind of "relationship" avec moi. But all I can say to that is tough titties. That's not how it worked out. Some pairings are relationship material. And some are lover material. And I can't control that. And I can't control timing.

Not that I don't want a relationship again ever. I just don't right now. I don't foresee wanting one anytime soon either.

I've experienced sex in a completely committed and trusting relationship and I know how beautiful it can be when you connect with someone on such a figuratively naked level through sex and outside of sex. I can only imagine how awesome it could be with Love in the mix.

But for now? This is what I want. For now? This is what makes me feel good.

And don't you worry, friends. I have love in my life. I am loving myself (not just in that way, pervy). But I am giving my recuperating heart as much love as possible. Because while I've never met a lover who can fully appreciate my heart (and maybe one doesn't exist), I can appreciate it. While no one has ever returned the love I've given fully and freely, I can nurture it in myself.

That's all I ever can do. Or should do.

*This post is dedicated to my dear friend Lizzy who is going through a heartbreak of her own. May she get through this pain in its due course and come through stronger and learning to love herself as the warm person, dazzling poet, kickass mother, fantastic friend, and warrior woman that she is.

signs your man is (gasp!) gay?

So (thanks to the_Lame_Sauce), I just read the dumbest thing my eyes have ever come across  (and that includes Sarah Palin speeches).

Direct from the Huff Post to you (drum roll please):

9 Signs Your Husband Is GAY, According To ChristWire.org

This is truly hilarious. Here are my faves:

"He Has A 'Gym Membership But No Interest In Sports'"
How about...he's a gym rat who likes to lift weights?

"He 'Travels Frequently To Big Cities Or Asia'"
Orrrrr he's a businessman?

"He's 'Sassy, Sarcastic And Ironic Around His Friends'"
All male behavior from football to guy's night is homoerotic in some way. Next.

"He Takes On 'Sudden, Heavy Drinking'"
Orrrr maybe he's an alcoholic. Which isn't funny at all.

"He's 'Overly Fastidious About His Appearance And The Home'"
Or he's an anal retentive control freak.

Since this is redonk and I loves me the gay mens and I grew up in the theater (and am therefore an expert in the gaydar), here is my list. It's much more accurate.

Ladies, watch out! Here are the REAL signs your man might be gay:

• He wears glitter eyeshadow and leg warmers when he goes out with the boys. 
• His secret sex fantasies include you dressing up like Clive Owen or Liza Minnelli.
• When he went to Pride, he wore his teal sparkly g-string, roller skates, and rainbow boa. 
• He has the complete collection of Judy Garland on vinyl, cassette, CD, and mp3.
• Sometimes you catch him wearing your lucite platform shoes (left over from your slutty days), singing living room karaoke to Donna Summer. 
• There are no women at all in his porn collection.
• The bartender at "The Tool Box" has called more than once to see if you left your credit card there. 
• This is your husband:

Okay, okay I jest. 

The truth is, most of my gay friends are totally unassuming and unique in their own personalities. Just like anyone else would be. And to think we could decipher clues to discover if your man is secretly gay is preposterous. Many gay men are still in the closet because they don't feel safe in this society or they've been taught they're evil. Gay men pretend to be straight and marry women because they think they have to. 

One of my best friends from high school (and prom date thankyouverymuch) was a walking gay pride parade, but lived in the closet because he was in constant fear of getting beat the crap out of. But when he finally came out? He was surprised as hell to realize we all knew and loved him all the same. 

If your man was secretly gay? You'd know, honey. And the best thing you should do (after beating your head in when you realize all the best ones are gay of course) is to buy the man some glitter, get yourselves gussied up, and go dancing. 

Letters to the Internets

Dear Myspace,

You're dead, dude. Give it up already. 

Love,

Me

Dear Facebook,

Oh Facebook. How I hate to love you and love to hate you. 

I hate your farms and your mafias. But I love that you let me block them. It's like living in my own sanitized,  segregated neighborhood of Facebook. I'm such a Facebook bigot. Maybe I should learn to be more tolerant of farmers and mafiosos. No. Nope. Can't do it. I hate them. Fucking farms.

I hate your groups with thousand of people daring jackasses to do stupid shit. But I love that you expose so many stupid fucking people for what they are. Makes me proud to be a human.

I hate that you make me get into discussions with friends I never would have had in real life. I never wanted to know how certain friends felt about some things. I want to live in my bubble where all my friends agree with me and my opinion is the only one that matters. But passions run high on the Facecrack and pretty soon it's all, you're stupid no you're stupid no you are. And I hated the 3rd grade the first time around. 

I love you Facebook for your massive photo albums and how easy you make it to attend someone's wedding or party or vacay I wasn't invited to. It makes it easy to sit on my ass and pretend to be social. 

I hate you, Facebook, for suggesting friends from preschool I didn't even like then. If I wanted to add them as a friend, I would. But now they're all on a suggestion list, taunting me. And now they'd requested to add ME as a friend. And you're all "you have 873 friends in common" so I know they'll notice if I ignore it. And then I feel bad. I don't add them. They just go on my list of shit that makes me feel like a bad person. 

I love you Facebook, for providing hours of stalking entertainment into my friend's lives. Sometimes you make me feel shitty and inadequate. Others, I feel superior and full of the awesome. 

You're so complicated, Facebook. I don't know how to feel about you.

Love, 

Crazy Lady

Dear Twitter,

Twitter, you're the most fun of all. 

You provide hours and hours of procrastinating, sleep-depriving fun. But, I hate that you distract me so. I hate that I have to check you every five minutes or I feel like I'm missing out. 

I love your crazy tweets about moist tacos and Saskatchewan and bechamel and bacon. I love that living with you, Twitter, is like living in a secret land with its own languages and customs that no one understand until you live there. I love that you make me say things like tweep and tweet and twit. 

I hate your follow fridays. I lurve all my tweeps, so why should I spend hours worrying about forgetting someone and hurting feelings? So I boycott your #ff now, Twitter. What the hell are you gonna do about it? 

Twitter, I hate how fickle you are. You suck me in and then you throw me out. And when you do, you show me a fat fucking whale to taunt my pain. It's like getting picked last for dodge ball all over again. I know everyone is having fun in there, but here I am, all stuck on the outside. Lame sauce, Twitter, lame sauce. 

I also hate how you just can't seem to get your shit together. How many followers do I have? Huh? It shouldn't be that hard. Just count them up, stupid! Stop losing my lists and my DMs. It's like you're the most absent minded person I've ever met. I've known drunk peroxide blondes in Hollywood more put together than you. Get it together, man!

But lastly, Twitter, I love you. I love that you bring me tweeps. That because of you, I've met some totally and completely awesome sauce people. So even though you're kind of a flake, I forgive you. 

Love,

Andygirl

Dear LinkedIn,

You'll never be cool. You'll never have all the flash and dazzle or be addictive in any way at all. But you know that. And you own it. You know what you're good at. And you do it well. And that makes you totally cool. So you just keep doing what you're doing, you lone wolf you. Don't ever change.

Love,

Andrea

Dear Stumble,

I am not a dude. But something about what I "like" has made you think I'm a dude. For a while, I thought you maybe just thought I was a lesbian (which, let's face it, I am half lez), but then it confirmed it: you stumbled onto an advice page for guys to pick up girls in a bar. 

But here's the thing, stumble, even though you're wrong and I'm very much a vagina, I think it's funny. Clearly only guys like Star Wars and internet humor. Clearly. So I'm going to take this as a challenge and keep liking things I actually like, but also like things I know only dudes would like. I really want to see how you confused you get, Stumble. I want to see if you figure it out. 

So far, it seems you now think I might be a feminist male-female transvestite. Awesome! You rule, Stumble. You rule hard.

Love,

andygirl80

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

I'm back on the floor again, Internet. It's official: my air mattress is dead. Dead. 

She's a gonner. I thought she would be okay after I patched her up the last time (ps I'm not a registered air mattress doctor), but when I spent the night with Sexy Man last night, my evil bastard of a cat poked a hole so big it's un-patchable (ps considering sending my cat to the work house a la Oliver Twist). 

I think I'm resigned to it. Isn't that the last stage of grief?  

I'll just sleep on the floor for another couple of weeks. 

And then I'll find a good chiropractor. 

I'm tired today and not firing at full capacity. So I'm phoning it in. Here are my random thoughts in pictures and video:

On Haiku:

Refrigerator

On Immigration:

And don't you forget it.

On the proposed Mosque in lower Manhattan:

Or this planet really.

What I look for in a man:

Because every girl needs a guy who can jump up a building.

What I usually get:

Because let's face it, I'm attracted to nerdy guys who make me laugh.

Combining my two least favorite pastimes into utter genius

I just love the dude's face in attack mode.

Photo of the Day: Puff Balls

Took this last weekend down near the waterfront overlooking downtown Portland. When it was like 100 degrees and humid. Which means it felt like 500 gagillion degrees in the sun and roughly 400 gagillion degrees in the shade. Roughly. I estimated.

So don't give me any of that it doesn't get too hot in the northwest malarky. It gets hot. Fucking hot. And the irony? It's been like nice and cool in Southern California. Ain't that just a sonofabitch?

All I can say is thank the lard for rivers and rafts and inner tubes and my bikini. And thanks to whomever made it cool down today and let's hope it stays that way. I'm looking at you, Apollo!

why I do what I do when I do what I do

I've tackled this question before, but it deserves my attention again. Why do I blog? Why?

One of the first bloggers I connected with here on the grand Internet and whose blog I just adore in my panties is my Aunt Becky of Mommy Wants Vodka. She tackled the topic today so go read her post and brilliant as usual argument.

Here is why I do what I do when I do what I do (wait, what?):

I blog to write.

Pure and simple.

I like to write. I don't write stories or novels, but I like to download. Sometimes it's to make myself laugh (and possibly others laugh as well) and sometimes it's to be real, to put the real me into words. So first and foremost, I write for me. For the words swirling in ma tete.

But what I hadn't anticipated was the commitment I would feel to my blog. Sexy Man (I guess that's his nickname now since that's what I just typed) asked me the other day if my blog was my baby. My immediate response was, "NO!" Because that's just ludicrous right? If I had a baby, it would be all cooey and poopy and cuddly and spitupy. My blog isn't like that. Except it kind of is. My blog is my baby.

I don't mean I'm committed to it because I'm committed to my readers (though I lurve you guys in my panties). I mean that I'm committed to the blog itself, to what it means, to be completely real and authentic out of respect for the blog.

One of my foibles is that I have this performative nature and I can laugh off a situation or put on a smile when things aren't okay. Just to get through. But not with my blog. I'm always honest to the blog. If I find something funny, it goes in the blog. If I feel snarky, my post is full of snark. If I'm a hot mess and need to make fun of myself, I make a vlog or post an unattractive photo. If I'm shitting rainbows and feeling on top of the world, I shit rainbows and unicorns all over the blog until my readers are bleeding fucking sparkles. And if I need to get real and raw and expose my pain, I let it out on the blog.

My blog is my all humiliation network.

It's a plethora of the crass, the mortifying, the overshare. My blog takes TMI to a whole new level.

Sometimes I am surprised at how it's allowed me to connect with you guys. And sometimes I feel better simply for the act of writing.

And sure, I'd love for my blog to lead to other gigs. I'm honored when I'm asked to guest post or collaborate on an e-book or an editor writes me about a possible writing opportunity. I'd love to find avenues of income because I do this amazing thing called blogging. But at the end of the day, I've made about 10 smackers on my blog this year. I don't do it because there's money in it.

I do it because it's all me out there on the grand Internet just being me and exposing myself raw and real.

And THAT? Keeps me honest. And THAT? Is why my blog is my baby.

Like a Snake

When I first got to Portland, I didn't have much of an appetite. Call it stress maybe. I don't know why, but I just wasn't eating much. I wasn't actively avoiding food. I just wasn't hungry and I'd forget.

Which is SO not me.

I mean, we all know how I lose my appetite when I'm suffering a little heartbreak. Oh do we know.

But this? This was not heartbreak. This was loss of appetite for some weird reason. And it wasn't consistent. I'd eat some great food one day and forget to eat the next.

However.

How to the ever.

How to the ever lovin' ever.

I have my appetite back. It's been steadily building for a couple of weeks now. And it's back with a vengeance. Like it was pissed that I forgot about it. Packed it away with my sweaters and jewelry and forgot to unpack it after my move. And it's making up for lost time.

Oh boy is it.

I am shoving so much food down my gullet, I resemble a snake eating a baby. I wouldn't recommend anyone getting their hands too close to my mouth; they may lose a finger.

Bee tee double you, did you know that Kettle Chips makes a Fully Loaded Bakes Potato flavor? Jeez to the creez it's ridiculous. No food that amazing should exist. It's like mocking nature. That's some unnaturally brilliant food conjuring right there. Kettle Chips must be a witch. Somebody burn it at the stake. Or throw it in a river and see if it floats. And if it does, burn it at the stake.

Burning at the stake is always the answer.

Even on a math test.

Trust me on that one.

Where was I? Oh yeah. The food. As proof of my incessant noshing, an extemely unattractive photo of me eating a Voodoo Doughnut*:

Please pay no attention to my chins.

My throat looks like that because it is expanding to make room for the large quantity of food about to be ingested. Just like a snake. Duh. 

I thought we covered this.

*Why the hell am I sharing this extremely unattractive photo? Someone slap some sense into me please, because I seem to be under the impression that the purpose of the Internet is to make myself appear as unattractive as possible. 

Crafty Girls Projects: unusual table and chairs

Have you been wondering about our crafty girls projects? Well wonder no further! This installment is my favoriet: our kitchen table and chairs. 

First, we found an old table (I think it must have been used in a school) at the Rebuilding Center for $5. We removed the legs and any staples and pokey bits and sanded the crap out of the laminate. 

Then we painted the legs red and the table top with chalkboard paint.

(Final pictures of the table at the end)

That part of the process too the longest. Because we made a couple of fumbles. 

We were poor planners and did our first coat of paint on a windy day (warning: don't do that!). And little yard bits blew into the paint, which we then had to wipe off, sand down again, and paint over. Our project would have been decidedly cheaper had we planned better and not had to buy more paint. 

Then came the chairs. Fumble number 2 is that I (yet again) forgot to take pictures of the chairs before we painted and reupholstered them. Fail. 

BUT, I can just tell you. 

We wanted 4 differenet chairs. So we drove to many thrift stores and finally found 4 chairs that we liked and would compliment each other. We ended up getting two chairs with metal and two with wood. Then we painted all the chairs a flat black. 

Then we found 3 different discounted fabrics that complimented each other, but had their own distinctive looks. Why only 3? One of the chairs had a black pleather seat that we liked and was in good shape. So we left that as is. Then we stuffed with batting and staple-gunned those babies together. 

To keep some symmetry, we went with two fabrics with bold, graphic prints and one with a darker, more subdued print. Like so:

The black pleather:

The darker print:

Here's a closeup:

Bold print with red: 

Closeup:

Bold print with yellow (my fave chair):

Closeup:

Finished product:

Isn't that yellow chair adorable?

Closeup of the legs:

The chalkboard surface:

Because we are!

And how it looks on a daily basis (ish). We actually now have plants on there (but more on that project later!). 

That's the other roommate's (Todd) birthday cake.

Next time: our insane pantry or maybe how to turn unexpected items into planters!

Love Song Sunday: I'll Stand By You

I am sharing a very classic song this Sunday. Mostly because I have always, always loved this song for as long as I can remember. I don't know how old I was when I first heard it, but I remember that it struck something visceral in me. I recognized its beauty, its powerful honesty.

I just love the Pretenders. And I absolutely love Chrissie Hynde. She's a pioneer of woman in rock. She's absolutely effervescent and her music is ever relevant.

Plus? I heard this song twice (TWICE!) on the radio this morning driving home. I think that was a sign I needed to share it today.

Enjoy:

I am going to lose it. otherwise entitled: the next chapter in the saga of the air mattress

Time: 5:30 a.m. Saturday morning

The previous couple of days were spent by me sure I had another leak in my air mattress, but the leak being so slow and without being able to find the hole, I gave up and went to bed Friday night sure that I was imagining things.

At the aforementioned time, I am awakened by three things.

One) An uncomfortable cat that seems to not be able to find a spot on the bed to sleep. Probably because I have been rolling around uncomfortably half-asleep for an hour.

Two) This is when it occurs to me that my bed is half empty of air and I'm drowning in the vinyl and bedding. Do you know what happens when an air mattress loses air? My ass becomes the vortex (vertex? apex? somethingex?) of the bed, sucking my body downward into a black hole of bedding death. Who knew my ass was that powerful? Well, see, it's not my ass. It's just that my ass carries the bulk of my body weight and succumbs first to the gravitational pull of the air mattress' black hole of death.

Three) The second cat (the retarded one) has figured out that my deflated bed is bouncy now and is (I swear to all things unholy and true that I am not making this up) jumping up on the bed to one side of me, jumping over my body to the other side, jumping down on the floor, and running around the bed to start the process all over again. Over and over and over. And over. I shit you not.

These three things were happening simultaneously and I was so overwhelmed with information that I whisper-screamed at the retard to cut it out (because cats speak English) which scared him enough to make him hide in the closet. The other cat simply yawned at me like I was being dramatic. I turned on the light and attempted to locate the now absolutely positively gotta be there hole in my fucking bed.

I couldn't find it of course. It also occurred to me at 6 a.m. that we had company downstairs two of which were a 3 yo and an 18 mo and waking them with the air pump had I located the hole would be unwise for all involved.

So I laid awake and played with my constant friend the Internet until I fell alseep again in my black hole of death bed. (I had considered sleeping on the floor again, but decided black hole was a much better option. I was wrong.)

I awoke again at a reasonable hour to an even more squashed mattress and a serious back ache. Turns out black holes are murder on the back.

Cranky and achey, I enlisted my roommates to help me find this leak. Lard love 'em, they tried and tried all because they must love me because it's really not their problem. But they probably don't want the cranky beast to keep getting crankier after less and less nights' sleep.

We couldn't find a goddamn thing.

Now I am curled up in my bedding on the floor, sipping my tea and weeping softly and ruefully. Who knew such a thing as a black hole in your bed and a sore back would be my breaking point?

Now, if you know any better tricks to find an air leak than soapy water or tissue paper, I welcome them. Because I'm just about to lose my goddamn mind.

Poor me and my first world problems.

Fuck I miss my bed.