that one time I got engaged

As I was absent last week, I missed the Words of a Wanton Woman topic. And since I'm a stubborn biotch, I'm writing about last week's topic today. So there.

I was engaged once.

Yup. Was. Honest to blog.

I'll wait for your shock to subside.

I knew Joe (not his real name) in high school. He was my friend's pesky younger brother. Apparently he had a crush on me back then. But I just thought he was irritating.

I met him again in May of 2005. I had just been through one of the toughest years of my life and was in a very vulnerable place emotionally and looking back? I think Joe spotted that. He found a girl who feeling low and moved right in.

Since this post is supposed to be about his proposal, I'll just briefly say how Joe was by far one of the worst guys I dated. He was controlling and manipulative and moved much too fast for my comfort but he had convinced me we were meant for each other and that I wouldn't do better and because I was so wounded from the prior year's events, I believed him.

Side note: Joe never hit me. But I understand now how perfectly intelligent and strong women can end up in an abusive relationship. These kinds of men find you when you're at your lowest and take advantage of that.

Anyway, he even moved in without asking me. It began as long distance and he went to school near me. So it started with overnight bags then a drawer of stuff and then before I knew it, he lived there. I felt trapped but didn't do anything about it.

We had discussed getting engaged, had even looked at rings (I of course didn't want a real diamond because we all know how I feel about the diamond trade), but I'd thought we were looking for some point way in the future when we both felt ready.

And I guess he was ready. Even though it had only been like 4 or 5 months.

It was his birthday and I don't even remember what I bought him, but it was in a large gift bag with lots of tissue paper. He fumbled around with the bag for like 3 minutes until I was thinking, Can he not find it? Pretty sure I put a gift in there.

He pulled out a velvet box and asked me point blank would I marry him.

I sat confused for a good minute.

Thought, I do not want to marry this guy.

And then I said yes.

Brilliant, I am.

And then I stared at my hand in shock and something akin to horror for a few days until I had a panic attack and gave him back the ring.

We didn't break up. Lasted another six months or so. Until I finally had the courage to break it off.

But he managed to make my life hell for some months after that. But that's a story for another day.

Pee ess? Therapy is a beautiful thing. I highly recommend it.

Song Sunday: Again and Again

Happy Halloween, Ineternet! I was very tempted to post a video from Rocky Horror today. But finally decided against it. So tempting though. So many great memories of dressing up and going to see a  midnight showing of Rocky Horror on Halloween. It's just a jump to the left!

But I thought better of it.

Instead, an eccentric band that makes me happy in my panties. There's something delicious about The Bird and the Bee. The music is somewhere between retro and anti-pop, creating something utterly idiosyncratic. Which, you know, I find delightful. I think you'll like this song. It's spunky, candid, and a little schizo. You know, like me!

Enjoy:

Sexy Saturdays: Welcome Advances

It's time again for Sexy Saturdays! Annnnd I have to tell you how ridiculously, gorgeously happy I am to have convinced Jenny of Like Swimming to guest post. On Sexy Saturdays. Where she'd be writing about sex! When I asked, she didn't even flinch. Said yes immediately. I was ecstatic. Quickly, go read her about page and you'll see why I'm bubbling with triumphant joy. 

See, I've made an effort to bring some diversity here to Sexy Saturdays. To bring funny writers whom I genuinely enjoy, yes, but also to get a variety of experiences and opinions in the mix. Jenny is no exception.

I love this lady. We met on the Twitter. Quickly bonded over acerbic humor. And soon she was one of my BTFs (best tweep forever) (I should copyright that phrase). She never fails to make me laugh and to bring a biting wit that brightens my pissyest of moods. You should absolutely follow her on the Twitter, subscribe to her blog, and like her Facebook page. That is, if you know what's good for you.

But first? Enjoy!

I didn't look twice when I was introduced to the new fill-in pharmacist. He was only going to work one day a week.

Then he started to annoy me.

Jim had a laissez-faire attitude toward most things, and that didn't mesh well with my anal-retentive work style. Even worse, there was nothing I could do about it as the pharmacist on duty was, for all intents and purposes, the shift manager.

Sure, he was a nice guy. Not too bad to look at, considering he was 18 years older than me. And yes, he was an honest-to-God cowboy, working ranch and all, who wore Wranglers and cowboy boots to dispense drugs.

But still. He was irksome.

One day, working the pick-up window, I rested my hand on the table next to Jim's mouse pad. I chatted with the customer, and then I felt something brush my pinky finger.

The edge of Jim's work-roughened hand.

Such an insignificant thing, easily written off as accidental...but he didn't move his hand. My breath caught in my throat. I glanced at Jim. His eyes were glued to the computer monitor, but a little smile played at the corners of his lips.

Oh. My. God.

Suddenly Jim was a new kind of irritation--one that left me feeling edgy and flustered.

I impatiently counted the days between Wednesdays.

I pushed the dress code boundaries and chose my clothes with Jim in mind, wearing mind-bogglingly low-cut shirts. Our verbal exchanges became increasingly bold.

"You have beautiful breasts."

Personal space was a thing of the past. Pharmacies tend to be cramped quarters from the start, and we made the most of that fact.

"Excuse me. I just need to reach that--right over--yeah. Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to..." Oh yes, I did.

And his voice. God, that voice. A smooth, deep almost drawl. He was bilingual, and when our Spanish-speaking customers visited I'd get lost in thoughts of what he could do with a tongue that rolled r's like that.

When I decided to get a Depo-Provera shot, it only made sense to have Jim give the injection. After all, why would I want to pay extra money for my doctor's office to do it? And if someone was going to see my derriere, why wouldn't I want to wear my prettiest black lace panties? Oh, and I couldn't possibly wear those panties without the matching bra, right? And...whoops! I popped a few buttons on my shirt and now he could see said sheer lacy bra...

When it comes down to it, this writes as some seriously bizarre erotica: "I slid my pants down, revealing a slip of black lace. He smoothed his hand across my back and down, sliding the lace aside to gain access. He ripped open the foil packet, revealing a moist alcohol swab..."

Really, though, I'm pretty sure that's the best shot I've ever gotten.

In a world unfettered by rules and consequences, I would know just what his tongue can do and he'd find out my tongue has talents all its own. I'd see what those Wranglers were showcasing. He'd find out my breasts aren't just beautiful--they're resplendent. We'd know what the pattern of the pharmacy carpet looks like pressed into naked flesh.

This isn't that world. In this world? I have a husband. He has a wife. We don't even work together anymore.

But sometimes? I call the pharmacy he owns and ask him to speak to me in Spanish...

I feel the electricity skitter up my spine...

and it's enough.

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

Ode to My Computer
Oh Computer,
How I love thee
When you are gone, I lose my shit
When you are here, you bring joy to my days
Never leave me again
Or I will cut you

~~~~~~~~~~

So I mentioned the other day that my dear friend Morgan is getting married! You should go read her blog post about getting engaged. It makes me happy in my panties.

I'll be in the wedding (next June) which is awesome and I get to pick my own bridesmaid dress which is super duper fucking awesome! However, it occured to me this morning that anywhere between 1 and 4 exes may be in attendence at this wedding.

Therefore, I'm putting a open call out now for a wedding date. One of you will be lucky enough to escort me and dance with me and look pretty at my friend's wedding in sunny Southern California! Aren't you excited? I'll be taking applications until I choose one lucky duck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jete has been sleeping a lot. Poor thing just seems so exhausted all the time. But she keeps wriggling out of her T shirt which she has to wear so she and Hobbes can't lick her incision. And last night she got so desperate to clean herself that she stuck her whole head under the shirt. I thought I'd die of cute.

 
pobrecita

As always, thanks for all your support. The donation link is still up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Speaking of cats, I have decided I don't have two cats. I have one cat and one dog. Behold:


Hobbes the Dog from Andrea Anthony on Vimeo.

I apologize for my horrific film-making! You want quality film? Call one of my cousins.

Photo of the Day: Big Fan

Last weekend, Lynnette took me out to see Toy Story 3 at the Bagdad (ps how is Pixar so damn good at making cartoons that leave you in tears? HUH?) and we left the movie starving. So we found this little Asian restaurant on Hawthorn that had better decorations than food. Eh. What are you gonna do?

shit just got real

Have you guys missed me?

I'm still sans computer (borrowing my roommates' as they are out for the evening) for the 7th day in a row and it's making me lose my ever lovin' mind! You know, more than usual.

It's ridic. The Apple store told me 3-5 days to get my computer back and I've been checking with them since day 5. How long does it take to repair this apparently tiny problem? I swear to all things unholy! And it's not just the lack of amusement I miss (though the distraction from the stress of my cat's cancer would be great), But I make my living off my computer. So I'm also losing money.

I also got the results of Jete's biopsy. Fibrosarcoma. Her appointment with the oncologist isn't until a week from Saturday. She's healing well (she's been in some pain from the biopsy) and is groggy and sleeping a lot. It's hard to see my outgoing cat sleep in the closet all day or under my bed, but I'm trying to leave her be. It breaks my heart though.

Yesterday, it all accumulated and I literally thought I might lose it. One of my best friends, Morgan, called to talk about her upcoming wedding details (yay! I can finally say something!) and a huge part of me wanted to be giggly and happy and the friend she needs (and I'm sooooooo happy for her!), but I was feeling so low that I started feeling a little schizo faking it. She deserves genuine laughs and I couldn't supply those.

I couldn't brave face it anymore. Couldn't hold anything in. I just flipped out. Cried my ass off for a bit. Turned off my phone.

Then I turned it back on and called my older cousin who'd lost her pug to brain cancer a few years ago. She let me cry, empathised as only someone who has lost a pet can, and gave me some really practical advice. Then she told me to let myself have a drink and relax and be a little selfish.

Best. Advice. Ever.

So I drove and bought some Fat Tires (because I drink so little I didn't have some wine or beer in the house), waited 15 minutes while the cashier told me his life story, bought a nice, greasy cheeseburger, and came home and indulged while I watched some movies (the old fashioned way, on an actual TV!). Sometimes it's the little indulgences.

I awoke this morning feeling sooo much better. Life is the same. Jete still has cancer. My computer is still in the mac hospital. I'm still broke as fuck and trying to figure out how I will fund my life and Jete's treatment. But I really needed to cry and feel shitty and then have a good beer and some fatty food and turn off my brain before I would feel better.

But you guys have been so insanely, unbelievably supportive. Thank you so much for the lovely comments and emails and tweets. And to those who have donated, I appreciate every dollar more than you'll ever know! You guys are so generous even when you can only give a little or your own pets are sick. Your unbridled support and generosity has completely floored me, humbled me. You renew my faith in humanity.

A word on prayers: my dad (who is Mormon) said he'd pray for Jete and then added: also to Buddha or whoever it is you want me to pray to! Isn't that cute? But here's the thing. I appreciate your prayers. Your good thoughts. Your positive energy. I may not believe in a god. But I believe in good will. Whoever you pray to is just what my furbaby needs. It doesn't matter that we all believe in different things; what matters is the kind act. Whether it's a prayer or not. So thank you.

If you're still interested in donating, the box is still up there and will remain up until her treatment is paid for. Even if you cannot give, I appreciate your support, advice, kind words. I'm looking for others online whose cats (or dogs) have had vaccine-related sarcomas. If you hear of anyone, please point them my way. I'd like to hear how they treated their pets.

Weight Watchers

My friend and I were driving around town the other day when we saw a young homeless girl begging for money in the median of the road.

We remarked how it's somehow sadder when someone so young is homeless. What's the story there? What was so bad at home that the street is better?

We remarked how skinny she was. She said she must be 100 pounds.

No, I said, she's not that little. Maybe 105 or 110. 

Well, she said, people must lie more than I thought then. She had a friend who claimed to be 100 pounds, but was not even as thin as the girl we'd seen.

And I thought about the models I knew when I lived in Hollywood who, even as teeny as they were at 110 and 115, would lie. Would shave 10 and 15 pounds off their weight. These impossibly thin, ridiculously tall women who still felt they had to lie. To appear as skinny as possible.

The world of fashion is a different place altogether and I watched girls get crushed under the weight of it (no pun intended).

But what I'm thinking about today is not fashion. I'm thinking about real women. We're trained to shave down our weight.

I even do it. Without even thinking about it. Most days, I'm around 140 (that's the real number). I fluctuate throughout the month. During my period, I'm around 145 maybe. In all honesty, I don't worry about the number on a daily basis. And I don't believe in owning a scale. I think that's just masochism.

But if you asked me, I'd say 130. Automatically. It's my automatic response. It's what it says on my drivers's license.

I always meet guys who think they want to pick me up. Prove their manly strength, I guess. I always protest. Say I'm heavier than I look.

No way, they say, you're tiny. What are you? 110? 120? 

130, I say. Because wouldn't the real number be too high a difference from what they thought?

Then they struggle trying to pick me up anyway. Why don't they ever learn?

Or maybe they were just being kind. Lowballing drastically low so as to save their asses. Weight is a sensitve issue for women. No wonder men want to guess low.

When I worked in lingerie, I always told my male clients to buy smaller. She may have to return it anyway, but no woman wants to know you thought she was larger than she is. Always buy smaller.

And why? Why is lowballing my weight by 20 pounds the kind thing to do? Why are we obsessed with the number on the scale? Why do all women want to be a size small no matter what their size?

Hell, I'm a small. On top. My ass is a happy large thankyouverymuch. Truthfully? Totally honest and truthfully? I like my ass. If I want anything to change, I'd like to be more symmetrical without losing my ass. I'm talking potential extra poundage here (granted, in the chest, and I'm not willing to ever take matters in my own hands) simply for the sake of ease of shopping and how clothes fit.

Oh to be able to buy dresses. Or a one piece swim suit. That would be heaven.

But that's just not the way it is. And it has nothing to do with my poundage. Nothing. Zip, zippo, zilch.

I want to know when the number of pounds a woman hauls around became the marker for beauty. For status. It seems to me that we're a rich culture. With more than enough food. (Excuse me while I get a little nerdy) Most cultures historically marked the upper classes by fat. The rich could afford to eat. The poor were skinny.

So when did this shift?

Now our rich are thin and the poor are fat. Or something like that. Or thin isn't a marker of class or income, but a marker of desirability now.

In fact, can I quote one of my fave-oh-rite authors now to help me make my point?

Standards of beauty in every ear are things that advertise, usually falsely: "I'm rich and I don't have to work." How could you be a useful farmhand, or even an efficient clerk-typist us you have long, painted fingernails? Four-inch high heels, like the bound feet of Chinese aristocrats, suggest you don't have to do anything efficiently, except maybe put up your tootsies on an ottoman and eat bonbons. In my grandmother's day, women of all classes lived in fear of getting a tan, since that betrayed a field worker's station in life. But now that the field hand's station is occupied by the office worker, a tan, I suppose, advertises that Florida and Miami are within your reach. Fat is another peculiar cultural flip-flop: in places where food is scarce, beauty is three inches of subcutaneous fat deep. But here and now, jobs are sedentary and calories relatively cheap, while the luxury of time to work them off is very dear. It still gives me pause to see an ad for a weight-loss program that boldly enlists: "First ten pounds come off free!" But that is about the size of it, in this strange, food-drenched land of ours. After those first ten, it gets expensive.

-Barbara Kingsolver, High Tide in Tucson 

At this point I do want to go on record saying that I'm not endorsing obesity or saying we should all eat ourselves to death while we abandon our bodies to gluttony and sloth. What I'm saying is the social norm  right now isn't about health. Even though it claims to be.

If it were about health, we wouldn't be lying about our weight all the time. If it were about health, we'd be teaching young girls to eat balanced meals instead of maintaining a low poundage for beauty's sake. If it were about health, men wouldn't be scared of guessing a woman's weight or buying too large a size. If it were about health, we'd hold the same standard for men as for women.

And men are ridiculed for weight and beauty standards too. But women are plagued by that number on a scale.

That's what I find sad.

This post has gotten remarkably long and rambly. I could write much, much more on the subject too. But I'll stop there. Because I think I made my point.

Let's step off the scales. And go grab a bite to eat. I'll meet you for dinner. I'm buying.

Then I'll meet you tomorrow for a run. Because I'll probably cave and get the tiramisu. It's my favorite. But that means I have to run longer. That's the deal I made with my ass.

Song Sunday: Lull

Lardy be I love me some Andrew Bird. For me, he's this bridge between classical music (which I was raised on and will always have a place in my heart) and modern, experimental forms of music. He's constantly pushing the edges of Indie music and music genres. And that? That just makes me happy in my toes.

Andrew Bird is a melody on a lazy Saturday morning, a hot mug of tea on a rainy afternoon, a lucid dream while you nap on the beach. Quite simply, his music has become one of the simple joys in my life.

This song is utterly gorgeous. I've loved this song for the last couple of years and am tickled to share it with you now. And the video? Mmm. Just watch. Watch and love.

Sexy Saturdays: The Meaningless Sex

Welcome to the 6th edition of Sexy Saturdays! Can you believe it's been six weeks? My goodness time flies. I am overjoyed that my next guest post agreed to participate today: Lizzy Danger of The Antics of Miss Lizzy. She's one of my favorite people on the planet and I've honestly wanted to ask her from the start, but she's had a rough go of it lately in the romance department and I wanted to give her some time to heal before I asked her to talk about sex and romance.

Lizzy is the bees knees (I recently learned that bees have pockets in their knees to keep pollen. so there). She's the kindest gal and even though I have yet to meet this lovely lady in person, I feel lucky to consider her a friend. I met Lizzy on the Twitter and bonded when I begged her to let me participate in her poetry project and she's been nothing but lovely since. 

Beyond being a kickass mother and crafty lady, she also writes a fabulotastic poetry blog A Series of Thoughts. Go ch ch ch check it out. Oh and I almost forgot! She co-founded the super cool Words of a Wanton Woman blog hop. You should participate in that too. Also make sure to follow her on Twitter, like her Facebook page, and subscribe to her blog. 

But first? Enjoy!

So. Sexy Saturday hey? When the wonderfully awesome Miss Andy asked me to guest post for her I instantly felt a lot of things. I was flattered, and excited that someone as awesome as her would want me to guest post for her. I was scared because Sexy Saturday is awesome and I don't know if I will quite measure up. I have spend tons of time thinking about what the hell I should write about. An experience I've had, or haven't had but would like to. Feelings on the whole sex thing. So many topics and none of them seem to be jumping out at me. Why you ask? I suppose I should mention the last, most huge emotion I felt when being asked to guest post for Sexy Saturday. Confusion. Why confusion you ask?  I was confused simply because I haven't been having sex.

I haven't had sex in just over 2 months. Now I know to some of you, that doesn't seem to be a long time, and I should probably stop whining for respect of those who have gone longer without said action. But I have recently gotten out of a serious relationship where I could and did have sex anytime I wanted to, and now? I can't. *sigh* 

A person really does get used to that level of intimacy and I am having a hard time adjusting now that it's gone. And yeah I know, I could go out and pick up a random dude and get mine, but that doesn't seem to be the same thing anymore. 3 years ago I would have jumped on the one night stand wagon without hesitation, but now? Just doesn't seem right. I am learning that I am over the meaningless sex. Which sucks for my sex drive. I feel myself getting all hot and bothered if a dude just smiles at me now. Some guy accidently rubbed my back while walking by me at the grocery store and it took everything I had to not take advantage of him right there in the soup aisle. But life has taught me there are consequences to that too. How do we think I ended up single mommy of two, each having different fathers? My views on the whole sex with whoever thing have definetly changed over the last couple years, and I don't give it away as easily as I used to. And the next guy I sleep with, will have to work for it. Hard. (haha) 

Until then, I will just thank the lucky stars I have a kick ass vibrator.

News on Jete

(Thank you to my lovely roommates for their help and the use of their computer while I don't have mine)

Jete is home from her surgical biopsy and PISSED, but otherwise okay. I've got her on pain meds which have yet to kick in and a baby T shirt to keep her (and Hobbes) from licking the wound. Which makes her look ridiculous and I'm a bad mother for laughing. But I can't help it.

Poor thing.

The vaccine company covered the cost of the biopsy which was wonderful. The results should be back in 5-7 days.

We'll be setting up a consultation with the oncologist in Seattle soon.

Hopefully the vaccine company will help with costs, but I'll need to raise money for her treatments, potential surgery, and travel to Seattle.

If you can find it in your wallet to help us out or to tell all your friends, Jete and I would be so unbelievably grateful. I've added a donation box on the upper right corner of this blog. If you donate and would like a handwritten thank you card from me and Jete, email me your name and address to awesomecrazylady@gmail.com.

Thank you so so so much for all the love and support you've left in comments and emails and on Twitter! You guys warm my heart. I so love the blogging world and the family I've found here.

All our thanks and love,
Andygirl and Jete (and Hobbes too)

Photo of the Day: Leaves of Grass

It's been dry this week. Unseasonably so, I'm told. I took this a couple of weekends ago. Just after a hard rain, clouds blowing out, the air heavy with moisture. I love that the raindrops settle into big, fat blobs onto wide blades of grass and settle in for the long haul, like they're making a home there. I guess it's as good a place as any. It's supposed to rain again this weekend. I, for one, can't wait.

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

Talked to the vet about Jete finally. Because her tumor is caused by vaccines, the vaccine company has agreed to pay for a surgical biopsy to definitely diagnose her. So we're waiting on this oncologist to get in contact so we can schedule the biopsy.

IF, it comes back as sarcoma, which we're thinking it is, we're looking at radiation and removal. There is a chance that the vaccine company will pay for part of the treatment, but the outside figure I'm looking at is $3000. Seriously. $3000. That is an insurmountable amount.

Once the biopsy comes back and we agree on treatment, I'll be putting a donation box on my blog. I know most of you don't have much. But if you can tell your friends, I'd really appreciate it. I know saving one blogger's cat might not seem like much, but it means the world to me.

~~~~~~~~~~

Either my pharmacist has a ginormous crush on me or he's just really shy and awkward and remembers everyone's name and stares a lot too. It could happen.

~~~~~~~~~~

When I was at the store looking at hair dye (because my color has faded a bit and the blonde it had in it is now poking through), this older dude walks by me. He's the type that was maybe cool in the late seventies or early eighties but hasn't progressed since then and probably doesn't realize it's been 30 years and things have changed a bit since then. Like highwaisted black jeans. And T shirts with the sleeves cut off. Also, unless you're Tom Selleck, I'm thinking you should rethink that 'stache.

Anyway, as he walks by me, he stops, turns around, and tell me that he used to be a hair dresser (really? don't they call themselves stylists now days?) and that with my complexion, I shouldn't darken my hair. I tell him thanks, I'll consider that, and hope he moves on. He does not. He persists. Tells me that I'm so fair and he sees me looking at hair color and I really shouldn't darken it. I should lighten it just a tad and add some streaks so it looks like touches of the sun. (I shit you not)

I once again thank him, tell him I'm just coloring it a similar brown as what I am now and look back at the boxes. Does he give up? Go away? NO! He gives me the same fucking line again. Just a tad lighter. With streaks. I'm afraid he'll actually start touching my hair at this point, so I say firmly that I've done all sorts of color from black to red to blonde and it always looks good and I don't think I need any help, thanks, give him a thin-lipped half smile, and turn back to the hair color.

He gets the hint, but says as he walks backward down the aisle, well, you're good looking anyway, but streaks would be so nice!

Shudder.

Why. Me?

~~~~~~~~~~

As I was in line at the same store to purchase my boxes of hair color (so there, creepy dude), I was behind a guy and his 4 year old boy. Little boy must have been hungry because he kept asking for food. Can I have a hot dog? Can I have chicken? Can I have a hot dog? Can I have macaroni and cheese? Can I have a sandwich? Can I have a hot dog? Hot dog was the favorite, clearly. His dad kept saying, I know you're hungry, buddy. We'll eat soon. 

But the kid wouldn't stop. To be honest, it was making me hungry! I was like, um, I'd like a hot dog! A hot dog sounds awesome! I didn't get a hot dog. But now I'm craving one. Stupid kid.

~~~~~~~~~~

Confession: If you looked in the bin of the center console of my car, you'd find it full of candy bar wrappers. I have a huge weakness for candy bars. If I'm out and about, as I often am when I'm in my car,  I have to buy candy. I just do. It has to be chocolate, but I'm a bit of a candy bar slut really. Many flavors suit my palate. And anyway, my favorite candy bar is from Europe and hard to find over here and so I nothing will live up to that so I may as well not discriminate.

And hey, there are bigger vices to be had. Candy bars may not be the healthiest choice of my day, but I'm not snorting coke or shooting heroine am I? Nope, I am not.

See? Life is all about perspective. If you just alter your perspective a little, you can justify just about anything.

~~~~~~~~~~

I love this song. I like to pretend she's saying "Andrea" instead of "Angela." Mostly because I'd maybe like to be someone who's a danger someone's addicted to. With the exception of the creepy guy at karaoke that time who told my friend that "I'm dangerous," whatever that means, and Tim Sprinkle who was quite possibly addicted to me since he asked me out every single day of the eighth grade, I've never been considered someone dangerous or addictive. I think it might be kind of nice. 

~~~~~~~~~~

My mac is a little under the weather. Not badly. She'll be fine. But she needs a few parts replaced so today I take her to be shipped off to wherever macs go to get a little freshened up. A little nip. A little tuck. She'll look just as young as ever. Wait.

I'll be computerless for several days.

Because I'm awesome, I wrote a bunch of posts for the weekend, so please still come visit the blog. But I won't be updating posts on the twitter or Facebook (wish I had an iPhone) so if you want updates, now would be a good time to follow or subscribe to my blog. Or just visit every day. I love your visits. And your comments. Your comments are total awesome sauce.

~~~~~~~~~~

Reminder: go to my Etsy shop and buy a cute ring or a pair of barrettes! They're so cuuuuute and you know you want to!

Photo of the Day: Leaps and Bounds

Last weekend, Lynnette and I went to the Portland Saturday Market downtown to eat some elephant ears  and wander around taking photos. I took a ton, because, honestly, when there are so many interesting people milling about and performing tricks and selling wares, how could I resist?

These guys were my fave and I took tons of shots until I got one with both of them in the air. How fun does that look? I so want to do that!

On Virginity

Virginity.

What's all the fuss about?

It's impossible for me to tell the story of losing my own virginity without railing against our obsession with it for a wee bit.

Virginity.

Girls are told to wait and wait. Guarding it like some precious gift. For girls, sex is bad.

Sex is for marriage. Sacred. Divine. Pure.

Sterile.

Boys are told to give it up as fast as possible. Prove their virility. Become a man. Sex is good. And you must have lots and lots of it.

But with whom? Isn't that the dilemma? (Gay is the way, friends!)

Virginity is a commodity. Traded to the most worthy candidate for their love. 

Except, usually, it's given away in the back of a car on prom night and last 5.3 seconds with a sweaty boy who smells like weed and cheap beer and who has begged and begged and pressured and cajoled and convinced and maybe even threatened. 

Because its value is overrated. 

We're obsessed with the female virgin. A virgin is holy (virgin birth). A virgin has special powers (virgin sacrifice). A virgin is worthy of love and your money (virgin bride).

But a virgin who is too old is a spinster. An old maid.

Basically, women are screwed if they do (literally) and screwed if they don't (figuratively).

So it's with great reticence that I talk about virginity thus giving the topic more value than I think it deserves.

I was raised...wait for it...Mormon. It goes without saying that sex before marriage is not an option for Mormon teens (I say teens because once you leave your teens, you pretty much enter wedded bliss and pop out 10 babies).

But I was never a typical teen. I was always the rebellious kid. Always pushing the limits. Testing the waters. Blazing a trail of shenanigans and regaling my more religious peers my scandalous tales much to their shock and horror. I may have liked the attention just a bit.

It wasn't all in rebellion, however. I was a curious personality. I didn't see why I would go to hell for making out with a boy in his car or petting or wait is that his hand up my shirt? now down my pants? oh that's nice. I did what I felt like and stopped when I felt I wanted to.

I never felt too attached the idea of my own virginity. I didn't want to screw every boy I dated. I was patient, all in good time. But I just didn't get what all the fuss was about.

I remember my first pap smear. The nurse inserted the speculum and asked me if it hurt and I said, no, I barely felt anything. She laughed. Said, "don't tell your future husband that!" As if a metal speculum was anything like a penis. I'd had fingers inside me before that and that felt muuuuuch differently.

It still pisses me off, that nurse's joke. Assuming that she was in on something I couldn't possibly understand. When it seemed to me, at the time, she didn't even understand herself.

You think you know where this story is going, but, I assure you, you don't.

I didn't have sex in high school. The reason is sad and kind of scary and something I'm not really ready to share on the blog. But I didn't. I was certainly ready by 16. But I had a setback and I avoided boys for about a year.

Then came Ty. We met when I was 18. My Mormon friends would shit a whole city worth of bricks if they knew how we met. They would GASP! in horror. Surely I was lighting the last match of total defilement and corruption.

Eh.

Anyway, we kept our on again off again romance a secret (it was all very Romeo and Juliet) until I was 19. Ty lived in Arizona going to college and I lived in California. Mostly, during our on again periods, he'd come to visit me and we'd get up to no good. But we hadn't slept together yet.

Not because of him. Even though he was a Mormon boy, he was just as rebellious as I was and was much more focused on his penis than on his soul. And I was in the early stages of leaving the church for a myriad of heartfelt reasons. But after what had happened to me in high school, I just wasn't ready yet. I was still a little scared. 

I hooked up with several guys during our off again periods and experimented sexually without having sex. I gave my first hand job to a minor league baseball pitcher (oooooh!) and learned about oral sex from a young Marine named Mike who then asked me if I would mind if he slept with my friend Gina. Classy, that one.

My best friend Lynnette was also living in Phoenix during this time, going to school. When I flew out to visit her, Ty drove to Phoenix to see me. I'd decided before I got there that I was ready to just have sex already. So when we were alone and making out, I told him that if he could find a condom, I'd have sex with him. Not my smoothest moment, but I've never seen a guy move so fast. He found one and sex we had.

I remember thinking, well, it was okaaaay, but really? It didn't hurt, but he didn't exactly try his best either. It was short and kind of, well, boring.

Needless to say, I've had great sex since that more than made up for it. Sex with fire and passion and heat and chemistry. And sometimes lube and toys. Definitely a little dirty talk.

Yeah, the first time is supposed to kind of suck. Nobody knows what they're doing and they're worrying too much about mechanics to be in the moment. But I think if we didn't make such a big deal out of "The First Time" (dun dun duuuuun), maybe it wouldn't be such a let down.

Like an over hyped movie. It wouldn't be so bad if you hadn't expected it to be so good. Am I right?

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On Cocooning

I cocooned all weekend. I really needed to. Needed to disconnect a bit from the Internet world.

I didn't disconnect completely. Occasionally I'd wander onto Twitter and say hi. Then venture back off again.

I'd read one or two blogs, leave comments, then go stir crazy and have to find something else to do.

Cocooning is not always the same as sitting still.

I had to keep my body busy as I processed the stress I'm going through.

So I spent some days with my bestie running errands and being girls.

I fixed my wonky fucking closet (because it was falling apart because of the wonky ass job they did in the first place and I didn't trust a maintenance man to do a better job than I could. my roommates helped too.). And now it's all organized and stable and lovely.

Got insulted by a man helping us at the hardware store. "Do you have a hammer?" Hrm. Is that the one that does the poundy thing? Grr. Dude, I've built houses. I think I own a fucking hammer! I should have said, is that the flat head or the Phillips head hammer? Asshole.

I hung up pegs for my hoodies and hats (I love hats).

I was going to install my curtains but I didn't own skinny enough screws. Back to the hardware store I must go.

I finished making all my rings and photographed them and set up my Etsy shop! Hooray! Maybe now I can make some money.

I tried over and over to get Jete to sit still for 5 minutes in a row twice a day with a warm compress. She sat for 5 minutes once. And I have the scratches on my leg to prove it. Most times, 2 minutes tops. So that just means I upped the frequency. Girlfriend is not having it.

And I don't think her lump is getting any smaller either. I also may be imagining things but I'm now convinced it might even be getting bigger. Urf.

Will see what the vet says.

If she needs surgery, I'll be setting up a donation box here on the blog for anyone who wants to help out with her vet costs. I understand that most people can't give much, but anything will help.

And I'm okay now. I cocooned. I processed. I'm prepared to deal with the next step in her care. It's not any easier and I'm certainly not happy about it, but I'm okay.

I'm done cocooning.

Of course I woke up today with horrid pre-period cramps (hi, boyos!) and a vicious headache (stupid hormones). So I don't know when exactly I'll be getting out of bed.

But at least I feel better emotionally.

Just in time for my hormonal chocolate and salt binge. Oh boy!

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Exciting News!

My Etsy shop is up and running! I have 16 rings and a pair of hair clips listed thus far. But more is coming soon. I'm thinking bracelets, necklace charms, and maybe even one day... earrings.

A tab for my shop: Pushing My Buttons now permanently lives here on the blog. Just look up! See it? Ah, there 'tis. So you can always find my schtuff.

And if you have something in mind for yourself or a gift, let me know. I'll do custom orders too.

It's so exciting! So...go check it out. Tell your friends.

I have shipping for Canada and the US but if you live elsewhere, give me a holler and I'll calculate shipping for you (I'm just lazy).

Now go forth and shop! Here's everything thus far:

Song Sunday: Oxford Comma

Sooooo I've decided to get rid of Love Song Sunday. I was sick of it, frankly, so out it goes. I was sick of trying to dig through my fave artists' songs to find a great love song (or anti-love song) and then find a decent video.

I know I know change is scary! But we will all get through this together. And don't you worry, because I'm keeping the music. Just changing the format.

Enter: Song Sunday. This will give me much more freedom to share all sorts of songs I love without being stuck with the love song theme. Do you forgive me now?

To kick off Song Sunday, I bring you a offbeat, quirky band that fucks with genres and spunks its way into my heart: Vampire Weekend.  This song is super fun in a dark way.

Warning: they say fuck a lot. In case, you know, you're at work or you don't want your 2 year old to start saying fuck all the time. I know if I had a 2 year old, I'd be teaching fuck as part of basic vocabulary. But that's a personal choice everyone has to make.

Sexy Saturdays: #sexualmisadventures

Oh boy oh boy! You kids are lucky today, I tell ya. For Sexy Saturdays this week, I bring to you the most awesometastic vagina I know: Ali from Made of Words. I met Ali when she wrote a post on Toy With Me entitled "So I was fisting my girlfriend." I then declared her a queer rock star and she left me a pithy reply and I fell instantly in love and we've been friends since.

I absolutely adore this girl. Besides being a queer rock star and an incredible writer (go read her erotica, folks. HOT!), she's also a budding photographer and I just love the way she looks at the world. Plus, dudes, she's super cute. Seriously, go look at her about page. Smokin'! Go subscribe to her blog (which you will), and then go follow her on the Twitter. After today's post, you'll be glad you did! 

Before you read Ali's post, I feel the need to provide a little Twittertorial for those outside of the Twitterverse. On the Twitter, friends, you can place a hashtag in front of words and create a hyperlink on Twitter. This creates trending topics that you can follow (like for a TV show like #Weeds or a #wineparty). Personally, I like to hashtag all sorts of random things and see if it starts trending or see if anyone else is a witty genius like me and has also used my unique hashtag. But enough of my prattle. Enjoy!

This is an invitation to begin hash-tagging all tweets having to do with sex resulting in bodily harm or discomfort in some fashion.  This is an invitation to band together and say that it’s okay to be entirely accident prone in bed.  To let others know that not everything operates like a pornographic film and not every one is as smooth as James Bond.  We are normal.  And we fuck up (ha) in bed.  Since I wrote a post for Toy With Me about landing in the hospital after fisting my girlfriend, I’ve been getting a lot of surprise slash shock (sometimes delight) from those who saw me in the brace.  “How often does shit like that happen to you?” They ask, a wry smile spreading across their face.  They run through every injury, every call out sick, every vague excuse I’ve given from Sophomore year of high school to present.  Which of these were the result of a hot night of strap on awesome?  Of a mis-chosen lube?  And which was truly, “No seriously, guys, that bruise that runs from my ass cheek to my knee was really obtained in a martial arts battle with a petite Peruvian man a head-and-shoulders shorter than I.”

To end the strange looks flung my way, perhaps this is the time to begin the confession (I almost accidentally typed “confusion,” a Freudian slip that is not far off.)  And I want everyone (and I mean everyone) to confess in solidarity.  Let’s trend this shit, baby!

Here’s something recent from my twitter:

In fact, my vagina has had all sorts of mishaps with substance abuse.  It is a very sensitive, innocent (ha) vagina with exacting tastes.  Did you know glycerin is a common ingredient in most lubricants, not to mention most soaps?  It took me years to figure out that the reason I always felt like my vagina was going to fall out of my body was combo shower gel/unfriendly sexy-time products, and even so I don’t always do so hot with reading the labels.  Like the warming lube that we thought was totally cool, or even flashing back to last Fall when I used my roommate’s shaving cream ‘cause it felt silky smooth (just like the commercials said it would) and gave me a burn so bad that it looked like I had a cross between herpes, crabs, and a cunt-punt (you know--when someone kicks you really hard in the hoo-ha--there were actually bruises.)  As if this weren’t enough to send the poor pussy on strike, I then had to go and buy “all-natural” and “organic” sliquid.  Because there couldn’t possibly be anything in there that would cause some ouchies, right?  Organic and natural clearly mean hypoallergenic and magic--that lube should be able to print money and solve world hunger.  Grant me three wishes.  And of course feel really, really good.

Turns out that lube had citric acid in it.

...

Would you slice up a lemon and carry it around with you in your vagina?  Much less have the juices pounded into you by this bad boy?

We had some real winners patenting inventions that day.

But at least the pink lady smelled faintly like lemon pine-sol as she was sobbing into my removable shower head.

Possible tweeted confessions:

Vagina on strike after stupid boss puts lemon in box.  Pucker up.  #sexualmisadventures

Have a herp-tacular, crab-tastic, cunt-punty week!  Love your angry va-jay-jay.  #sexualmisadventures

And then there was that unfortunate incident with the candle wax.  If you go take a look on Babeland, they sell candles that melt into massage oil.  They are pretty much the best thing ever.  Except if you don’t have money to buy the big ones.  Which means you take the cheapo route and get the luminary sizes.  Instead of nice big glass or ceramic surrounding that sweet sweet wax, they give you a ghetto metal tin.

Again, with the geniuses.

And we were even bigger geniuses when we left that candle lit on our bed while Jae was pouring Bailey’s all over me and licking it off.  I then proceeded to grab that candle to drip hot wax all over the tattoo on her back.  Except I didn’t get that far.  Because my fingers melted and puffed up like an angry red cat.  Jae ran to the kitchen (not the bathroom, because our bathroom never actually had cold water in it) to get me a glass of ice-cold H2O.  I spent the rest of the evening with my hand in the glass, though that did not do much to dissuade us in our activities.  In fact...that night I wound up fisting Jae, which landed me in the hospital with a sprain.  Not to mention the scorch marks on the sheets in a mocking little circle.  Fuck you, aluminum sex candle!

Possible tweeted confessions:

Metal luminaries weed out the poor and the stupid--less chance of us reproducing if we cauterize fingers while fuckin'  #sexualmisadventures

4 am hospital patients include:  Gun shot wound.  Pneumonia.  Horrible fisting accident.  #sexualmisadventures

Have I mentioned explosive “dire rear” resulting from a vibrating butt plug?  Until very recently, I exclusively called my ass “Wisconsin” because I couldn’t admit I had something as unsightly as a pooper.  Turns out, though, that this irrational fear of admitting a butt hole region exists on my body might be a societal pressure upon women to be polite and pretty all the time, to which I say fuck that. So we did.  We fucked that until dawn.  In fact, I got fucked in the back door so hard that I had to leave early from work the next day.  The reason?  The runs.

Possible tweeted confession:

One way traffic on the back roads for a while...there's been an accident.  #sexualmisadventures

she chose me

She chose me, Jeté did.

It was 2004 and the most stressful period of my young career up to that point. I was living in Hollywood, helping to run one of the largest lingerie stores outside of New York, working 60-70 hour weeks for the most evil woman on the planet, barely sleeping, abusing my body with Red Bulls and lattes, and not eating much to boot. Long story long, I collapsed from exhaustion and my doctor gave me the choice between taking time off work or a hospital stay.

I chose time off.

And to get a pet.

I really wanted a dog. I grew up with animals and loved all our pets, cats and dogs and birds and horse alike. But our cats were never cuddly. They were aloof or bitchy or shy or feral (seriously). I'd never had a cat that felt like a cuddly furball who would melt my stress.

But I couldn't have a dog at my apartment. I have no idea why. Pretty sure my neighbor had a pet squirrel.

Nevertheless, I really wanted a pet. Was ready for a pet. So off to the shelter I went to just look at the cats. This little grey and white mangy, sickly little kitten was in the first cage. But she wanted nada to do avec moi, let me tell you. She pulled her little body up as far against the back wall of the cage as possible and looked at me like, do I know you, lady?

Convinced she wasn't The One, I moved on to a tangle of white kittens. As I cooed to the friendly white balls of fluff, I heard a loud mewling behind me and turned around to see grey and white paws stuck through the cage holes, batting frantically at the air, telling me to WAIT, COME BACK!

Girl had played hard to get. I knew she was mine.

Poor little thing was so sick. She had a bad cold. Is it awful that her little sniffly nose and kitten sneezes were the cutest things I've ever seen? But, a trip to the vet, a little love and some good cat food and her patchy hair started turning silky and her energy went through the roof.

I'd had trouble naming her. I tried everything from cutesy human names to cocktail names (shut up, I once had a dog named Tequila) and nothing fit and she refused to respond to any of it. But she was quite the leaper. Even after she'd been spayed and needed to take it easy, I couldn't get her to stop jumping onto counters. Also I was a dancer. Once it occurred to me to name her after a ballet leap, it seemed that was her name all along. She approved.

She was a delight (still is of course). All personality. I bought her a little collar with a bell on it and all night long, I'd hear jinglejinglejinglejinglejinglejinglejingle. When she outgrew the collar, I had trouble sleeping in the silence.

In those first months, I'd come home from work and she'd come running out of my bedroom up to me and I'd pick her up and she'd nestle into my neck and purr and purr. Until she entered her teenage-hood. Then she was too cool for that. Duh.

My friends would come over and Jeté would entertain them, running around the house, using my kitchen stools as a jungle gym, eating up our laughter. She was all personality. A total ham. That's how you knew she was my cat.

Jeté was my saving grace. That was one of the hardest years of my life. From walking out on my first career to dabbling in TV production work to the betrayal of a friend to the death of a boyfriend to going back to school, my cat was the one to ease my pain at the end of the day. She'd crawl up on me, snuggling into my belly, and purr it away. It was impossible to be stressed or sad when she was making me laugh.

My ex, Joe, was an artist and we lived together, and so he had a room to paint in and had to keep the door closed so Jeté couldn't get in. One day, I got home from class to find Joe on the couch looking guilty. He said, "please don't kill me," and out sauntered my blue cat. Seemed he'd left the door open and she's laid on one of the paintings. A oil painting. After a very miserable bath (do you know how hard it is to wash out oil paint?), she was still blue. And would be for months.

Jeté had moved with me from house to house, city to city. She's had to share the bed with my lovers, met and loved and said goodbye to those who've come and gone out of my life: boyfriends, friends, roommates, has seen a boyfriend move in and out, and put up with the addition of a second cat. She's a trooper.

Now I feel like I need to be a trooper for her. If you've been reading, you know that she has a lump on her back between her shoulder blades. Probably caused by vaccinations.

I spoke with the vet finally and the results of her biopsy weren't definite. Suspicious cells pointing to low grade sarcoma. But, the could also just be granulation tissue.

I'm applying warm compresses (which she hates) and if it's granulation tissue, the lump should shrink. If not, it's sarcoma. If it is, we're looking at surgery (in evidently a difficult spot to operate on) and possibly radiation therapy (and I guess there isn't even a radiation oncologist in Portland.).

This is just so scary for me. I don't have children. But I have two cats who I love very much. They're not possessions; they're family. Family. I have no idea how I'll afford the treatment, but I'll have to try.

I really want to hope for the best and I'm trying, but I can't help preparing for the worst. So I apologize if I'm a little antisocial. What I'd really like to do is anesthetize with only happy things and cocoon until I wake up and find that this was a bad dream.

Photo of the Day: Baby Girl

Another photo of my Jeté as I nervously wait for lab results from a biopsy of a lump on her back.

The vet and the nurses fawned all over her of course. She's such a charmer. She was such a trooper too. Didn't  even cry when they took the first biopsy. But by the third, girl was hitting notes most sopranos would be jealous of.

Poor thing.

And the vet was hoping for a cyst, but doesn't think it is. Which means that tumor is still on the table as a possibility. I just don't think I can handle that. But there's no way to know until the results come back. Hopefully soon. And so I wait.

First Kiss

My first kiss.

*sigh*

Wait. I have three "first kisses" actually. But the first one I don't count. Because it was more of a kiss rape. And the second? Well, he missed my mouth and frenched my cheek. So that doesn't count either.

Story of my first kiss rape:

When I was in the eighth grade, I was friends with this boy Kyle Driggers. He was in the seventh grade (Almost typed second. Boy would that have been a different story!). I did not like this boy beyond the smelly, snotty friend that he was. He was in no way cute. Plus he was younger. Like, duh.

So this one day after school, Kyle and I are hanging out on the picnic tables waiting for something or other. I remember it was a cold day and wishing I was not outside, sitting with Kyle. Without any forewarning or flirting of any kind, Kyle grabs my face with both hands and shoves his face into my face. It didn't feel like a kiss. It felt like I was being smothered by someone's face.

I guess he thought he'd bamboozle me into kissing him. Well, not even, Mr. Driggers. Not even.

So I shoved Kyle back, slapped his face (the first time in my life I'd ever slapped someone), said something mean, and ran to the girl's bathroom. I don't think we were friends after that. Poor Kyle.

Story of my real first kiss:

It was my sophomore year of high school. Late, je sais! But since my first two kisses didn't count, I wasn't that old. Plus I'd lied my little ass off and told everyone I'd had plenty of kisses before.

I had had a crush on John Britt for a while before he finally started holding my hand and then we were going out. A week or so later (I think), we were talking outside of the drama room about my upcoming birthday party when John leaned in close and kissed me. For real. A good, honest, magical first kiss.

And damn could that boy kiss! In fact, I pretty much measure all my kisses against his to this day. He was that good.

I was on cloud 9. I couldn't stop smiling. I floated to my first period German class and my friend Ragen looked at me like I was on crack. "That must have been some kiss," she said when I squeaked out my news.

Oh yes. Yes it was.

The rest of that whole day was a total blur. All I could think about was that kiss. And when I could do it again.

Then John and I made out every chance we got in every place we could for like 3 months.

We were constantly getting in trouble for making out at school. But, people? I could not resist his lips! Until I was a stupid girl and dumped him for absolutely no good reason whatsoever.

Then a week later this boy Paul asked me out. And I said yes. Making John think I dumped him for this other guy. And Paul was afraid to kiss. Seriously. It was months of not kissing my boyfriend. Months of regretting dumping John, even though this other boy was very nice.

It was like I'd tasted the most delicious chocolate for the first time and then wasn't allowed to eat it again for months. Only this chocolate was very talented with his tongue. And I had to see it every day between 2nd and 3rd periods. And we totally had the same friends. Torture.

Like I said, John could kiss. Damn could he kiss. Yowza.

I think he's married now.

She is a lucky lady. A lucky, lucky lady indeed.

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AND

How's that for multitasking?

Photo of the Day: Finger Tips

Did you know that one Beverly Cleary is from Portland? Everyone here does. She set all the Ramonabooks right here in Portland. And what little girl didn't grow up with the Ramona books? I loved Ramona.

Recently, Lynnette and I saw the new Ramona movie (It was cute. I found it odd that a film set over a period of a year in Portland had zero rainy or grey days, but whatever.) and we decided we wanted to go find the famous Klickitat street where Ramona lived and then we heard that Grant Park had statues of the Ramona characters. So this weekend, we went in search.

Unfortunately, there were only three statues and they were a little lame. But, it had rained heavily that morning and I was able to get some great shots out of it. Definitely worth it.

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

So you all know I love Weeds right? And that show is so pithy and quotable that when I watch, I inundate my twitter stream with quotes. I just can't help myself.

The other day, I tweeted this quote:

Not the most scandalous of my quotes, I know. I mean, I often quote shit like zees:

But then this happened:

Dudes! The Iraqi government retweeted my Weeds quote! For realies! 

I don't know if I should be flattered or worried. Do they watch Weeds? Or do they think my quote is pro-Iraq propaganda? Not that I'm judging that, but I tend to not tweet propaganda if I can at all help it. But maybe the Iraqi government likes my writing skills now. Maybe I could get a freelance gig out of this. snort.  

~~~~~~~~~~~

Is it weird that I know my cat's cuddle routine?

Jeté is a cuddly cat when she wants to be. And she's not necessarily discriminatory. She's kind of a cuddle slut actually. 

If you come to my house, expect her to crawl up on your lap or, if you're reclining, on your chest. Then you'll be expected to stroke her head, extra points if you scratch under her chin. If you attempt a belly rub, however, run for your life (my other cat, Hobbes, loves the belly rubs though. like a dog.). 

When Té wants to cuddle, it is cuddle time, everything else be damned. If my macbook is on my lap, she'll just crawl right on it. If I'm using my cell phone, she'll headbutt it out of my hand. Cuddle time is crucial, you all. 

If Hobbes is around, he takes precedence, even if she was already cuddling with me. If she cuddles with Hobbes, you can bet that she'll start cleaning him and then he'll start cleaning her and then one of them will bite the other's ear and then it's all out war so watch your head. 

If she's cuddling with me, she will get a good purr on until she has had her fill. Then she'll bite my arm (not hard) or other accessible appendage (my boob once. never again.) to indicate she's finished. Then she'll pick a nice spot on my bed and clean herself. 

And I find myself feeling oddly cheap and used. 

~~~~~~~~~~~

So Portlanders can be a little, well, colorful. Odd. Weird. Proudly so and it's one of the facets of this city that I find totally delightful. I love people watching anyway, but here? You never know what you're gonna see. 

Today, as I was driving home from the market, I spotted a tall, thin, older, African American man waiting for the bus. He was wearing a white suit with a black turtle neck and Mickey Mouse ears. 

Gotta love Portland.

~~~~~~~~~~~

I recently got my first wave of homesickness for California. 

And what do you think I missed? The food. 

I miss In-N-Out cheeseburgers animal style. With the best fries in the whole world. Also animal style. 

I miss Baker's Drive Thru (only Inlanders will get that). And mama meals. 

I miss good old California dirty taco stand burritos cooked in lard and smothered in sour cream and salsa. I don't even know what kind of rank hot sauce they use up here but it does not taste right. And, I'm sorry, but onions do not belong in my bean and cheese burrito thankyouverymuch. 

Someone want to send me some food? 

~~~~~~~~~~~

Today is National Coming Out Day! 

If you don't know already, I identify as queer. Sometimes I say half-gay. I rarely say bi, because, well, that term has become a little dated and still has connotations about sexual identity that I don't agree with and don't think apply to me. I like the word queer because it's all-inclusive. But also because it used to be a pejorative term that the GLBTQ community has reclaimed for a positive identity. I love that. 

Anyway, even if you're not queer, I urge you to come out as a straight ally and get vocal about queer civil rights. Young people, queer and straight alike, need to see that adults in their communities encourage an inclusive, supportive environment for all kinds of people. 

But, as I was reminded recently, young people aren't the only victims of homophobia. I recently made a friend (who will go nameless) who is older than me and, for some reason, felt safe enough with me to come out, but is still too fearful to come out publicly. 

This breaks my heart. That our society still creates such a violent and anti-gay, bigoted environment that grown people still have to live in fear of simply being themselves is absolutely unacceptable. 

However, these people won't know that it's safe to come out if we don't tell them. Don't sit silently accepting assuming it's a given. Come out as an ally! Let your friends and family know that you love all of them unconditionally. You might just be the person someone chooses to come out to. 

*gets down off soap box*

We have a winner! Raw Photos: Autumn Where You Live

The Suniverse and I had a tough job this go'round. There were some gorgeous photos. But it is a contest after all.

We deliberated and deliberated. We shared some faves. Others we did not. But there were some fantastic standouts.

Alright, enough of my prattle. The runner up is....

by teejayphotography

This photo is really quite spectacular. Excellent quality. And even though you'd think you need color to capture an Autumn shot, the B&W is really quite dramatic. So evocative and emotive. You really gave us a run for our money with this one. 

But without further ado:

the winner is.....

(drum roll please)

.....

by Jenndola

This was an instant fave for both of us. Seriously, people, how beautiful is this image? The water is so clear and the color of the leaf so gently bold. And the ripples? People, the ripples make this shot so dynamic. This photo really took our breath away. 

Congratulations, Jenndola! 

You are officially a Raw Photo Maven.

Email awesomecrazylady@gmail.com to get your badge!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For the next contest, we'll be giving you more time to take some excellent shots. We'll open submissions in late November. 

And the theme is......

LOVE!

This is completely open to interpretation. 

What is love to you? What do you love?

Maybe it's people (or a person), or pets, or places, or symbols of love. 

Good luck!

Raw Photos Finalists: Autumn Where You Live

There were a lot of gorgeous photos this month. Photos that made us sigh. Photos that made us giggle. You guys are making this a tough decision. 

Here are the finalists. In no particular order (and we won't say which of us voted for which either. so there.).

by MadeOfWords

Completely intriguing shot. The leaf. The reflection. The green of the trees contrasting against yellow.

by megaball

Serene. I can picture myself walking this road, the cool air on my cheeks.

by Taming Insanity

I may have a bias for babies and pumpkins. I want to eat those baby cheeks! Gah!

by Jenndola

So lovely. The ripples of the water framing the leaf. The rocks providing background. Gorgeous tones.

by teejayphotography

I love that the B&W evokes so much emotion. Drama, even. The shadow patterns are stunning.

by LovingMyLifeBlog

Oh my. I love the bright contrasts. The capture of light. The detail on the leaf. Excellent shot.

by Papoe

What can I say? This reminds me of fall in Los Angeles. The sky is dynamic and the silhouette is divine.

by steffsux:

I want to run through those leaves. The colors are magnificent. The subtle capture of light beautiful.

Congrats to all the finalists! Winner announced soon!

Which are your faves?

Love Song Sunday: Woman

In honor of John Lennon's birthday, which was yesterday, I'm sharing one of my favorite songs of his.

If you're even a little bit of a Beatles fan (and who wouldn't be, really?), you know that John and Yoko's relationship was scandalous for many fans. But I'm going to leave that alone.

Because I've always thought this song was lovely. I remember hearing it on the radio when I was a kid, my dad singing along in the car, and thinking, I want someone to feel like that about me. Like I was the other half of the sky.

Enjoy: