and verily she wrote a post and verily not one rant was in it

Well, hello, my dear readers old pals old friends. I've missed you. I've been a busy, busy girl you know.

For one, I joined the gym. Again. No, you didn't hallucinate that. Cheapskate that I am, I shelled out the 30 bucks a month and I'm swimming laps almost every day and working off this thick layer of fat I've developed in the last forever months. It feels fucking great. I also hate other swimmers. But are we surprised?

I'm also taking voice lessons, which I have been promising to tell you about and which are hugely therapeutic. I'm getting out all my neuroses there, I swear.

As you may well know if you've been reading for some time, my mother is insane. She was also a stage mom (picture those pageant moms only backstage, grooming their little ones for stardom. Picture Mama Rose from Gypsy only scary. So I've had a huge block about singing for a long time. Finding karaoke was huge for me because it was a place I could sing without any pressure and actually love it. I do love to sing, I do.

So these lessons, with the sweetest most awesome woman you'll ever meet in your whole damn life, feel so incredible. And it turns out I'm a lot better than I thought, even with the bad habits I've picked up over the years and with the learning I have to do. And I have a much bigger range than I thought too and she thinks there's much more in there. And she's always gushing all over me which makes me blush from my toes on up. I don't hate it, not gonna lie.

What else? After my huge early thirties life crisis the other week, I've been really agonizing over what's going on in my life and how I'm getting too old to put off my life's goals anymore and what I'm going to do to make them happen. I can't just let my dreams pass on by, because the next thing I know, I'll be in my sixties and telling some young kids about how I wanted to be a writer one day. But I'm an artist! I'm a photographer. I'm a writer. I need to make art and I need the time and funds to feel fully capable to do so.

With all that in mind, I finally decided to look into MFA in creative nonfiction writing programs. The purpose is this is, one, to get writing full time, two, learn some skills to market myself and maybe even get paid, and, three, to hone my craft. I'm really excited, despite the thought of how I will pay for it and pay for living while I go to school. But, hell, I need to do this. And, no, I'm not leaving Oregon. So it will be a program here.

And as you know, I'm back at Sprocket Ink. My first post was up last week and a new one will be up Monday morning. You definitely need to be reading it. Also, if you haven't liked my facebook page, do that too, as well as Sprocket Ink's page.

Quoi encore? Eminem and I are doing splendidly. I'm completely, effervescently happy with him and I get the impression he'd say the same if he were quite the talker I am. But everything is just easy and breezy and calm and uncomplicated. He's pretty damn great and while I recognize that my instincts suck monkey ass and while my exes don't exactly set the bar too high, I suspect I'm a lucky girl.

Alright, my iced tea is empty and my laptop battery is about to die, so I'll leave you here. Before you go, check out these photos I took a couple weekends back at the Rhododendron Garden in Portland:

oh, Descartes, you know me so well

Well hello again, dear Internet, old buddy old pal. So much has happened since we last talked that I just don't think I can recap it all. Between a visit to Humboldt to see my pregnant cousin, taking voice lessons, and a whole slew of social-life goodness, I've been a busy chiquita.

So I think I'll skip over most of that. I do promise to get more photos online soon and share them avec vous. Je promet. I do also want to tell you about my voice lessons and how they're changing my life in a very therapeutic way. But for now? I want to share a huge life revelation I had recently. Well, more of an existential crisis that led to some decisions and plans.

Once again, as happens in adulthood and often to me, I've been letting my art slip. Thus is the life of a write slash photographer who sucks and getting herself paid for writing slash photography. Thus is that life because a struggling artist must pay the bills, does she not?

So I have a big girl job. And, don't worry, Boss, I'm not quitting. But I had a huge crisis recently because my creative muscles have been atrophying.

Being creative is one of the most important things for me, to live, to love, to be happy. And I let it go because it was easier that way, because when you're tired from a long day of work, it's easy to let the art go, to just sit and watch TV and put the happy-making things aside. It's easy, but so bad.

I have to be a writer! I have to take photos. I have to make art. I have to. I simply have to.

Then, as serendipity would have it, a few weeks ago my old editor at Sprocket Ink asked me to come back. And it was as if that huge lightbulb in the sky went on and the voices in my head started singing. But I was scared. I was. Of the commitment of it, of having a deadline every single week that I can't blow off. So I told her I'd think about it and then I thought about it and thought about it and thought about it. Which was stupid. Because a girl like me can just think something to death.

Then I had my creative existential crisis and in an impulsive moment of needing something creative to climb into, I told her yes. And then all was well and good in the world. All the wars stopped and the hungry all had food. You're welcome, world.

Just kidding. Or am I?

But for realsies, I'm back at Sprocket Ink! Are you excited? Because I'm excited.

Watch for articles from me soon. BUT, I probably won't be linking up my articles here so if you want to get updates (and of course you do), make sure to like my Facecrack page or Sprocket Ink's page. Or, you know, both! You can also find both of us on Twitter of course.

there and back again

Oh, Internet. I’ve given up at this point trying to post every week. Every two weeks feels about right with my insane schedule. And I have several posts going in my head all the time, but finding the time to sit down and write them is proving problematic.

And it’s not like my schedule is even that insane. I don’t have kids. I don’t have to cook or clean for anyone but myself. But between how tired I am once I get home from work, social commitments, and trying to have some kind of enjoyable personal time, I just don’t write much. But I think that’s okay for now. I’m navigating this part of my life and I think the best thing is that I’m kind to myself through it. We all know what a perfectionist I can be, perfectionist bordering on masochist. So whatever happens, I just want to be less hard on myself.

Anyway, here I am, finally writing. I’ve yet to find a coffee shop in my neighborhood I really like so I’m installed in a Starbucks for the time being. It’s not ideal of course. It’s so corporate and the paper cups just aren’t as conducive to creativity as huge, funky mugs are. Does that make sense? There’s something about a cozy little neighborhood shop with its quirks and oddities that make my brain flow. But oh well. First world problem. Shit, plenty of writers pen their greatest works in annexes and bunkers and shacks. I should stop complaining about the Starbucks.

And, hey, I love how Starbucks is supporting women’s and LGBT rights. So there.

It’s been a crazy time, Internet. First, I had the Black Plague for a whole week. Otherwise known as bronchitis. And it knocked me on the ass. Not being able to breathe properly will do that to you. I finally drug my ass to the doctor, which we know I’m loathe to do because of my hypochondriac, drug addict mother.

When I was a kid, she drug me to the doctor for every damn sniffle, had them put me on antibiotics (the woman knows how to get her way), and kept me home for inordinate amounts of time (and trust me, I would rather have been in school learning and playing with my friends).

So anyway, I go to the doctor and describe my symptoms and tell him I just want to make sure I don’t have the plague. He listens to my lungs and tells me I have bronchitis and then looks at me disapprovingly and tells me it’s viral so I can’t have antibiotics. Like I had asked for them. I hate that fucking look and I get it all the time because of people like my mom who just want their Z Packs so they can get all better. I’m not that way, though. I’d rather my body fight it off if possible, but if I’m sick for a whole week and can’t breathe, I do want to make sure it’s not serious. I don’t really want the drugs, doc! Ugg. Pisses me off.

Fucking doctors. Fucking hypochondriacs.

Then I finally got better and Portland got a little bit of sun for two whole minutes, two whole minutes of glorious, glorious sunshine. I went running and I walked around downtown and it was AHHH! Then it was shit again. Fuck this, weather, Portland. Fuck it. It’s April. I do expect a little rain still because, face it, it’s Portland, but this freezing cold muck is making me insane. We even had snow a couple weeks ago. True story.

You’re really testing my love for you, Portland. It’s time for Spring already.

It’s time for ballet flats and lighter jackets and flowy scarves. It’s time to get outside and run and hike and take photos of flowers. I took a chance today and went out to take photos. I got about 10 minutes in and the heavens opened up and dumped the sky upon me. My poor camera just couldn’t brave it.

Sigh.

I really wish I could afford a weekend in SoCal right now. I’d get to see my friends and fam and get some Vitamin D while I’m at it. But I am going down to Humboldt Easter weekend to see my cousin and her immensely pregnant belly. There will be a photo shoot. Oh yes. Expect lots of photos.

I wasn’t going to share this next bit of news, but I think I have to because it’s just too delicious. I saw my ex last weekend. And while it was only minimally awkward, mostly because he tried to talk to me a couple times and I just didn’t have anything to say to him (I just don’t want to tell him about my life and I couldn’t give a flying fuck about his), I did feel a little good about myself. Like, let’s face it, I looked good. And he, well, he looks...different.

Ahem.

But more than that, he was the same old idiot asshole and, not that I needed any reminding (I honestly have been thanking my stars that ending for quite some time), but every time he’d say something asinine, I’d just feel such a huge wave of disgust. Disgust for him and disgust for myself that I ever found that guy attractive (I wanted to write man, but let’s be honest. He’s not a man). And it just felt like I’d dodged the biggest bullet ever, the bullet of an asshole idiot lush. Just saying.

And the guy who would’ve been my date couldn’t be there and that’s okay I think. I was awesome all on my own and that’s that.

You may at this point be wondering who my date would’ve been. And I confess, I’ve been keeping the best for last, Internet. I’m sure you’ve been wondering about Eminem. And that’s still going. Going really great actually!  It’s nothing like my last relationships. It’s easy and fun and full of butterflies and laughter. I know this probably seems obvious but I forgot what it was like to date someone you just get along with so easily. We just get along so well and make each other laugh and eat lots and lots of really yummy food.

This is the best, people. Of all the things to have in common, I’m so glad we both enjoy food. Seriously. I’m talking about truly enjoying food.

Yesterday, we were eating at this amazing Greek place in NW Portland and as I was eating these melty, zesty, zingy, heavenly potatoes, potatoes that were making my tongue orgasm, I realized that moments like that are just what I love about life and it’s so nice to have someone who gets that and to share that with.

We have a longass list that is still growing of places we want to eat together. It’ll be a miracle if we don’t both get huge. This is another reason I need spring to get here. So I can go running and counteract all the gluttony. That and all the sex. Sex is a great workout.

Any to the way, my point is that it’s so far so good. I’m understandable cautious. I don’t have the greatest track record after all so I’m just taking one day at a time and seeing where it goes. And thus far, it feels really good.

I have a couple cool things in the works for myself, like voice lessons (eek!) and possibly starting yoga again. So stay tuned!

An Open Letter

Lovely readers, I know I haven't written in a while and I promise I'll get you a life update post soon. But first? I have to say some things. 

Dear GOP, Christian Right, and especially you, Rush Limbaugh,

Aside from being misogynistic pricks, you're behaving completely batshit. And I don't approve. I have several points to make and I need you to shut your never-ending chatter and actually listen.

First of all, stop calling women sluts and whores. It's disgusting enough when you persist with the name-calling in order to avoid any sort of logical rhetoric, but when you attack individual women, especially as representative of blanket female behavior, you really sink into new depths of depravity. You think we're bad? Your behavior trumps any amount of sex we're having, believe me.

But your actual behavior belies your hateful sewage that seems to spill out every time you speak. Because you guys can't seem to get enough of the sexy ladies. So which is it, people? Would you like us to be virgins or whores? Time to choose.

Or maybe it's some adolescent grudge against women because you just couldn't get a girl way back when. Well, it's time to grow up and let that go. We're not the enemy. You're your own enemy.

And don't get me started on you women who hate women. Must I quote Mean Girls? Don't make it okay for men to call us sluts and whores. You're undermining your own sex and putting the hard work of all the strong women before us back 50 to 100 years. What's next? Repeal suffrage?

But back to my sluttiness. It's none of your goddamn business who I have sex with and how often. Just because I get laid does not make me worthy of your derision. Sex is not bad. It's not. No matter how guilty you feel every time you have it (or wish you had it). And you should want me to have access to affordable contraception because I am positive that you don't want to pay for my disability when I contract AIDS (because I couldn't get condoms) or to feed my children that I can't support (condoms or the pill) or, and try not to die of a heart attack, my abortion. Getting me and women everywhere access to these services helps your economy and the oh-so-dreaded government spending. Getting women access to contraception prevents abortions. Why is that so hard to understand?

Moreover, if I get this right, your problem is that you don't want to pay for women's health services (like contraception). You say that if the government pays for it, that makes women prostitutes. Hrm. Setting aside that that is probably the most illogical argument I've heard in a long time (I mean, I can't even make that make some sort of sense), I actually think that the government should start regulating prostitution, get prostitutes tested, provide them with health care and contraception. But I realize that's too much of a stretch for your very closed minds.

But back to the pill and it's contribution to sluts everywhere. You clearly don't understand how the pill works, so let me 'splain it to you. In order for it to work, you have to take it every day. Understand? Every day. You don't just take it when you have sex, you just take it every day. You don't take more when you have sex, you just take it every day. The cost is the same if you have sex once in a year or 365 days. It's the same.

Also, and this is going to blow your mind, say we use your term "slut" to mean women who have sex with different partners. Well, those women might take the pill, but I guaran-fucking-tee that they're using condoms. Why? Because this is 2012 and this is the age of AIDS and no one wants to die. Who doesn't use condoms? People who aren't educated in why and how to use them, people who don't have access to condoms, people who only had abstinence-only education in school? So who is spreading STDs and HIV? That's right, those same people. And when they contract AIDS, who is going to pay for their health care (because they're now not eligible for private insurance and they're probably too sick to work so they're on social security), oh yeah, the government. Which you hate so much, but which seems to pay your paycheck so nicely.

But yeah, most women who just use the pill are actually in committed relationships. So there goes your slut theory. Yet even women in committed relationships need affordable access to contraception. Why, you ask? Because not everyone has your millions. Because not everyone can afford to or wants to feed 12 children because they couldn't get the pill. And don't even suggest that these women are sluts for having sex with their boyfriends or husbands. If you really think that it's reasonable for couples to be celibate except in the effort of procreation, you're really bigger hypocrites than I thought.

And don't get me started on overpopulation. Once again, do you really want more children born onto this planet? Or, better yet, into the system? You don't want to pay for welfare, for food stamps, then get your heads out of your asses and provide contraception.

But I'm not done. Because there's a whole 'nother group of us women who take the pill but not for contraception, who take the pill because it's medically necessary. I am a mess. My ovaries have persistent cysts, my uterus is tipped, and I have Endometriosis. I need the hormones to regulate my body and to help with the pain. So I take the pill (every day, just like we discussed). I have for years. I can't imagine living without it. Does that make me a slut? Does that make me morally questionable? But it's the pill and I bet my bottom dollar that any insurance company just looks at that prescription and doesn't see that it's medically necessary; all it sees is THE PILL. And if we allow insurance companies to not cover what they deem morally questionable, women like me could be screwed (that word choice was deliberate).

Morally questionable. Now it seems like a good idea to you. But what if your insurance company is run by a religion that deems medicine morally questionable, or blood transfusions, or  vaccines? Or, GASP, Viagra? Chew on that for a bit. Then get back to me.

Also: as always, a reminder that while you may think this is a Christian nation, nowhere in the Constitution is there a national religion. In the contrary, we have separation of church and state. So keep your church out of my uterus and my vagina.

I realize this post is going to get a lot of heated comments. I will not be responding to them, however. I've stated my views. Feel free to debate, but please keep it civil.

In other news

Oh my gourd, Internet, it has been two whole weeks since we last talked and so much has happened! I have no idea where to start so I guarantee this post will be disjointed, rambly, and altogether random.

Let's begin!

A few days ago, I almost died. For reals. And it was so scary that I cannot stop telling the story.

I was walking in a crosswalk in downtown Portland, on a green, clearly having of the right of way, when a big SUV barrels around the corner going pretty fast. Clearly they weren't looking and they weren't going to stop either. I had to run to get out of the way and they missed me by maybe a foot. And they just kept going! Never even paused. Probably never even saw me. If I hadn't been paying attention, I'd be roadkill right now.

On the upside, I am loving my new place! Hobbes is happier there and it's so nice to see him sitting all over the furniture and watching out the windows. I know the tension in my old place affected him too. Bitch roomie did try to fuck up my happiness again but it's all settled now. I don't even want to get into it, suffice to say she's leaving me alone for good and I never want to see or think about her again.

There is one major lesson I got to relearn because of all this though: One's happiness is the most important thing. I'm not talking about making sacrifices or doing what needs to be done, etc etc etc. I'm talking about not putting oneself into situations that are not only happiness suckers but unnecessary and I'm talking about setting aside one's attachment to pride and money and all those other things we place before happiness.

I am confident that had I had to go to court over this drama, I could have made a damn good case and I would have won. But did I want this to drag out months and months? No. I know I didn't have to pay any more money but did it make the problem go away? Yes. Sure, I handled it legally and covered my ass, but when it comes right down to it, money is just money. It's not worth as much as my happiness. And my pride? Not worth as much as my happiness. I don't need to prove I was right. I don't need to win anything. What I needed to do was walk away and put the whole thing behind me. Worth it.

So that's over. Hoorah! Let's all drink to that.

And I got my tax return so I have money again! I may have gone a little crazy at the grocery store buying luxury foods I've been denying myself for the sake of my measly budget. Hey, after weeks of baked potatoes (which I do love) and soup, how can a girl resist ice cream and chips and gluten free cookies? I guarantee it will all be gone in a few more minutes. And then I'll have to buy fat clothes.

Oh and I had the weirdest night the other night. So I'm hanging out at my new fave bar with my new friends and ex new guy is there, which was inevitable and which was also awkward awkward awkward as all holy hell. But that was okay for the most part.

But there's this other guy in the group that I am interested in so he and I are talking and flirting and that's all great. Then the roommate of an ex boyfriend walks in and he and I talk a bit and I'm looking around to make sure that ex isn't there too (wasn't, thank the lard), but it's just a bit weird and coincidental at this point.

THEN, this other guy walks in, a guy I went on a date with forever ago and it was NOT a good date. Like probably on the list of worst dates list ever in the world. But it doesn't end there. Turns out Bad Date is friends with my new friends. But wait. There's more. He comes over to me, sticks out his hand, and goes, "Hi, I'm Bad Date." (See what I did there?). And I go, "I know, we went on a date once.

You should have seen his face. It was like an episode of Friends. You know the one.

And, truthfully, it seemed like he felt really badly for not remembering me and to be fair, I look quite a bit different now. He was like, "I take it it wasn't a good date?" And I was like, "Yeahno." It took him all night to remember and he apologized and we had a good laugh. But holy fuck, people! Really?

So not only were all the men I've ever dated in Portland converging in one bar one night (that could be a good book plot) but one didn't even remember me. Awesome. Thank heaven that HP didn't walk in and complete the circle of awkward. Plus, now I'll have dated like 3 guys in this group. I'm that girl. Oh joy.

And yes, you read that right, I said 3. Which means it's going well with the other guy I was flirting with, who we'll call Eminem (even though he's nothing like Mr. Mathers in any way really). I'm gonna keep this under wraps for a while but I'll just say we had a lot of fun.

Oh and I cut off all my hair! I donated ten whole inches to Locks of Love.

Holding my locks

The stylist was super sweet too. He was like, "some bald kid is gonna look gooood now." Which is so wrong but so funny. I do have lots of hair, or, I did anyway.

Anyway, here's my hair now:

I realize I'm a huge dork. That's why I included an artsy shot too.

So I must stop myself there. How've you been, Internet?

"moving" on

So much has happened since we last talked, Internet! Let's see. What had happened last? I think it was that my crazy roommate turned off my Internet access and you just don't fuck with a girl's Internet.

After that, things happened really, really fast. After a couple of days of simmering and stewing and salting and then adding a dash of paprika, talking with my landlady, I decided to put in my 30 days notice, repercussions be damned. It was such a toxic situation and it was really eating me alive emotionally and psychologically. So on February 1st, I gave my notice to the apartment management and gave bitch roomie a copy (in an envelope left where she would she would find it, locked myself in my room with a chair against the door, and started to feel the tiniest bit happy.

It was like a tiny sliver of light let itself in. Each day has been exponentially better and better since.

I buckled down, started dating Pad Mapper, and found an apartment pretty damn fast. I had to sell my soul to afford it, not the place itself, which I can technically afford and will be saving tons of gas money because it's uber close to my work now, but just the costs of paying rent in two places, deposit, truck rental, etc.

All my money is gone, yo. But money is just money. Whomever said money can't buy happiness clearly never lived with my roommate. A little money can get you out of all kinds of shitsuck situations.

And I had a small hiccup, as always happens with these things, when the management at the new place ran my background check, the found two bad marks on my credit report (which of course shouldn't be there) and wanted to charge me double the deposit. I was like, UM WHAT NOW? Because my only debt should be my student loans and they can't count that against you unless you've defaulted.

So I ran credit reports from all three reporting services, something I'd just done two years before, aka when I moved from California to Oregon, and what do you know? There were two medical bills from a million years ago, from my hometown, and which I was completely unaware of and didn't show up on my report the last time. And did I mention they sent the bills to my mom's house? My crazy, hoarder mom? So those bills are probably still unopened under piles of piles of whatever the hell it is she piles. Sigh. They were also fairly small originally and I could have paid them easily at the time but right now, in the midst of my moving drama and because they've grown with interest, not so easy.

This is why life is fucked. Even when one tries to manage one's income and life in a semi-normal manner, shit like this pops up and tries to screw it all. You know? When I order a screw driver, this is not what I have in mind.

Never to the less, my new manager was a sweetheart and said if I cleared those off my report though, they could decrease my deposit. So I sold my backup soul and have to get it all paid off this week.

So remember above when I said I'm broke, I really mean it. I'm BROKE! Guess who needs to get her taxes done this week and is hoping for a decent return? This girl!

Anyway, I got into the apartment a week ago and moved everything I could all by my lonesome, including all my books (which are the bulk of my possessions, lemmetellya) and I think I lost 20 pounds last weekend, I swear. Then I pulled out my sleeping bag, my bedding, four pillows, and the pad from an Ikea chair, and made a nest for a bed. I brought Hobbes over and we've been staying here since.

Then I got a truck Saturday (and drove a big truck for the first time ever and I drove it like I boss!) and my very best friend, who has moved me like 3 times in the last 2 years, came over to help, along with my favorite coworker Mike and his girlfriend. And this is the best part and why I love good people. Mike just moved out from Boston not long ago and his grilfriend is in town visiting and she'd just gotten in Friday night at like midnght. So what did they do the next morning? They came over and helped me move. This is also the first time I'd met her. Truly awesome people.

On a side note, that new guy I've been dating, the one I met on that one random night? Yeah he said he was gonna help, which he offered to do and I didn't even ask, bee tee dubs, and then just completely flaked out. I got a text from him at like 5 pm or something saying sorry he flaked. Um, yeah. A little late now, buddy. Too bad too. I liked him, but darn it if I also like a little thing like courtesy and respect. Imagine that.

And look at me demanding to be treated well! See, a girl can get out of a toxic, destructive relationship and still reclaim a modicum of respect for herself. Proud of me? You should be.

Oh and I almost skipped a good part! The ex is out of town I guess so I went out to the old bar Friday night and met up with my (our, his) old friends and had a blast. I missed them all a ton more than I realized I guess. Anyway, it was great to see them and they were super sweet.

Back to the story (sorry this post is so rambly), I got all my furniture in yesterday and then unpacked until I passed out. I was really nice to sleep in my bed again, but in a place all my own where I feel safe emotionally. And it was completely delicious waking up this morning. I feel free. Ahhhhh!

I still have to go back and clean, but eh, whatevs. Worth it.

Did I mention my new place has a pool? I'm gonna be so popular this summer.

Photo of the Day: Just Hobbes

SO much is going on right now, all good thing, but I hardly have time to think let alone write a long post. But one will be coming. Some day. I promise.

In the meantime, please to enjoy this gorgeous photo I took of my Hobbes the other day. It's just been so damn sunny in Portland, what else could I do but subject my boy to yet another photo shoot?