Friday, December 31, 2010

2010, you bitch

Have you heard? 2011 is just around the corner. You haven't heard? Well you might want to consider leaving the house more.

This is the time of year where people make New Years resolutions. Which I just plain flat-out refuse to do. It's dumb. If I want to make changes, I try to do it all year round. But, you know, whatever floats your canoe.

But, I love New Years. It's about celebrating newness. About saying peace the fuck out to the shitty last year and saying hello, gorgeous to the new one. What's not to love about that?

So I want to write a New Years post. But about what? Clearly not including resolutions. I just explained why. Please try to keep up. Last year I did a list of the best and worst of the year.

Yeah. That works. I'll do that again. Enjoy!

(in no particular order)

Best moments of 2010:
  •  Giving my heart away just when I'd vowed not to ever again
  • Returning to New Orleans to build houses
  • Becoming apart of a nurturing and loyal blogging community
  • Saying goodbye forever to Douchey McDoucherson
  • Quitting my cushy (yet stressful) job and moving to Portland
  • Leaving the 110 degree summer of inland So Cal
  • Living with my best friend who I hadn't even lived in the same state as since 1998
  • Discovering a new and interesting and quirky and vibrant city
  • Visiting old friends I missed very, very much
  • Hearing about friends' happiness: pregnancies and engagements and jobs and joys
  • Making new friends
  • Growing as a writer and photographer
  • Turning 30
 Scariest moments of 2010:
  • Giving my heart away just when I'd vowed not to ever again
  • Quitting my cushy (yet stressful) job and moving to Portland
  • Cat cancer
  • Stopping therapy
  • Psycho stalker guy
  • Saying goodbye to friends and family (however temporarily)
Worst moments of 2010:
  •  Cat cancer
  • Getting my heart broken. Again.
  • Psycho stalker guy
  • Not finding more work
  • Incessant migraines
  • Incessant computer issues
  • Sleeping on the floor
  • Learning I'm not as appreciated or loved by some people as I'd thought
  • Learning what a treacherous place the Internet can truly be
  • My camera dying
Best books I read in 2010:
  • The Book Thief
  • Jitterbug Perfume
  • Peony in Love
  • The Lacuna
  • High Tide in Tuscon
  • Brave New World
  • The Unbearable Lightness of Being
  • The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
  • The Girl Who Played With Fire
  • A Lesson Before Dying
  • Blackbird: a Childhood Lost and Found
  • Stubborn Twig
  • Sand in my Bra and other misadventures
  • Fool

Best films I saw in 2010:
  • Mother and Child
  • The Invention of Lying
  • Whip It
  • Peacock
  • Up in the Air
  • Creation
  • Precious
  • Shutter Island
  • Inglourious Basterds
  • An Education
  • (500) Days of Summer
  • Easy
  • Phoebe in Wonderland
  • The Men who Stare at Goats
I'm sure there are more for these lists and more lists I could make. But my brain is fried remembering. I don't even want to remember the worst books and films. I hated them whilst I was reading/watching. Why would I bring those up again?

What are your bests and worsts?

Now some videos of the year in review and some good advice.

Happy New Year, everyone! See you on the other side.

Top 10 YouTube videos of 2010:

JibJab- So Long To Ya, 2010

Top events of 2010

And a lesson from Bertrand Russell:

Thursday, December 30, 2010

On Dating and Assholes and Aesthetics

So it's not gonna work out with the New Guy. Turns out, he's kind of an asshole.

We went out Tuesday night. And honestly? While I'd love to rehash every single moment, both good and horrifying, my conscience is telling me not to. I've already done that with my close friends anyway. Also? It's too surreal for words. The act of writing them just makes me cringe.

Dating? Sucks. Sucks hard. For those of you who haven't been single in a long time, let me remind you of the suckiness. The wading through potential partners, simultaneously wanting to be loved and also figuring our what you hate. Wanting to give someone a chance but also cautious because assholes abound. It sucks.

And it sucks more at 30. Every year in the dating world gets worse and worse as I get more and more exhausted, as my heart gets bruised more and more, as I meet asshole after asshole disguised as nice guys.

You guys ask why the nice guy never gets the girl? I'll tell you why: it's impossible sometimes to tell the difference. Not that all my exes are assholes. Some of them were nice guys, but just didn't love me. But the first dates get so endlessly exhausting. Weeding through the masses. Every douchewad making it harder and harder to put yourself out there again. But you do because every time you see a happy couple or you see a sweet baby being cuddled, you ache in your soul.

And as you get older, you recognize signs earlier. Red flags appear sooner. Things that didn't bother you at 21 fester in your gut and tell you to get out of there.

So it's in this position I found myself last night with a guy who I'd thought, I'd hoped at any rate, was a nice guy, kind, and most importantly, not shallow.

What can I say? It went well until it didn't. Until he felt the need to express his real needs.

I can't even recount what happened. I simply cannot do it. But as I found myself insulted on bases of aesthetics, I thought, Seriously? I am 30 fucking years old! I am too old for this shit. Shouldn't a good guy not give a shit about that? Shouldn't I not have to deal with this by now?

I guess not. Would it be too much to ask for a guy who doesn't tell me I'm gorgeous, but could you change this one little thing? And on a first date no less. The gall of it pisses me off every time I think about it.  The stupidity of something so superficial being so crucial. He looked at me like he didn't want it to be the deal breaker...if I would just give in and change it. Then everything would be fine. It wasn't a big deal, right? If I would just give in.

Look, I'm sorry I'm being so cryptic, but it's the best I can do. Just know it was something aesthetic and superficial and something that maybe a lot of women wouldn't care about but insulted me deeply.

But at 30, I know who the hell I am. I'm cool with it. I like myself as-is. I know what primping I'm willing to do and I know what's not worth my damn time. And no one gets to tell me what to change. No one.

I'm not a 21 year old girl. I'm a 30 year old woman. I come with a belly. A few wrinkles. My boobs are small. I have a great ass. Some cellulite. And hair, which an adult woman should have and which is a bitch to remove and I don't mind having.

I wear a small amount of makeup most days to cover up the dark circles under my eyes. But that's about it. I generally don't spend that much time on my hair, unless it's a special occasion. Same with the makeup.

I like me. Aesthetic me and the brilliant, outspoken, quirky dork I am. The latter I consider so much more important. The aesthetic is nothing, so unimportant. So inconsequential. Not only is physical perfection boring, it scares me in its masochism. The amount of dedication and primping necessary to achieve the desirable body, face, hair, etc is astounding. It makes me sick to think about it.

So I suppose I'm grateful that I discovered the shallow nature of this guy so soon. But it still sucked.

Why? Because I was excited. Because I put myself out there once again and was disappointed yet again. 

Is it too much to ask for a guy that feels that way too? For a guy who's smart, traveled, educated, liberal, kind, and who appreciates women as they are and not as some paradigm he expects them to live up to.

Oh and he must love Star Wars. And me. All of me. As-is.

Before you all call me a hypocrite and tell me that women demand that kind of aesthetic value too, let me just say that while many men feel the pressure to be fit and attractive, the amount of grooming expected of women is much more intense.

Also, I don't expect that of men. I mean, I expect cleanliness, brushing of teeth, etc. That's just gross not to. I know; I lived in France.

However, the things that most attract me to others are the imperfections, the quirks, the idiosyncrasies, the differences that make someone unique and intriguing. I am me and I am changeable and special. I wouldn't expect anything different in a partner.

So I leave you there to think about that. Maybe one of you will send such a guy to Portland.

Now listen to this song by India Arie, sent to me by my lovely friend LegallyErin last night to make me feel better. This is exactly how I feel.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Photo of the Day: Back Alley

back alley

I'm posting an old photo today because (as you know) my camera died and while my dad is helping me get a new camera as a holiday gift, I still don't have it. *sigh*

I took this last spring in New Orleans on my Holga. When I could still afford to purchase film and get it developed. Since then, I've acquired more antique cameras, which one day I'll afford to use. I can't wait.

Anyway, my Holga was perfect in New Orleans. I felt its quirks and oddities and the lomo film I used really captured the spirit of what I love about NOLA.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

I had all sorts of funny random thoughts ready. But then I awoke with the sinus headache from hell. Hopefully as I write some of it will come back to me.

Hopefully I'm not getting sick. I cannot get sick. I hate being sick, for one, but I also have all sorts of wunderbar plans for this week!


So, no, sick is not an option.


I had a dream the other night that I was back in college. And I failed a class.

It was terrifying.

The professor (who was not a professor at my college in the real life) doesn't return any papers all semester. But at the end of the term, hands me a massive tome of all my essays and papers with a giant 0 on top.

To first understand how horrifying this is, you have to understand what a perfectionist to the point of masochism student I was. I graduated two colleges with a 4.0. Perfect grades are how I know how good I am. Not just good, but how hard I work and how freaking brilliant. Yes, I realize it's a little pathetic how much I needed those marks to validate me. But there it is.

But I'm not without fault. I've had tough courses before. My last semester of college kicked my ever-lovin ass. I had the toughest courses of my life with the best professors I could take while battling homesickness for Europe (I'd just gotten home) and I kept getting sick. But I pulled through and did well.

So the second part of the horror is that in the dream, I didn't find out I was failing until it was too late, until it was out of my control. *shudder*

I wonder what it means? I'm pretty sure that I don't even want to know.


I drug my headachy ass to the coffee shop today to get some writing done and to just get out of the house.

And wouldn't you know? My favorite cluster of firemen is back!

So even though my head is a writhing mass of misery and pain, my view is quite nice.

I love firemen.

(I originally typed "I love fireman." Which not only made me sound like Tarzan but made me sound like I love a certain fireman in particular, which is not the case. Well, I do love my father who is a retired fire fighter, but obviously not like that. Ew.)

With the exception of my father (because EW), firemen are pretty to look at. That is why I love them. Duh.


So. I am nervous to share this next tiny tidbit of information. Nervous that I'll jinx it. Nervous that someone in particular will read it and steal my little spark of excitement.

I may have met someone.


Okay, I did, in fact, meet someone. But I'm just not sure yet that he's "someone," ya know? SOMEONE. But for now, it's exciting.

I met him at karaoke on Christmas. He was nice, didn't hit on me. You know how I hate to be hit on. And we're supposed to go out this week. I hesitate to say more and I honestly don't know much about him yet.

Also until I know more about him, his bloggy nickname will just be the New Guy until I can come up with a more apt moniker.

Now what do girls in Portland wear on dates in the middle of winter? Flannel?

Also: this is another reason I can't get sick.


My camera died. Died. Dead. Deceased. Mort.

It's terribly sad. And while she was showing a few signs of illness, this came as a total shock. Your condolences are much appreciated. In lieu of flowers, please just send cash.

When she first died, I had a mini-breakdown. What would I do without a camera? I am an emeffing photographer. I need it. How will I photograph my jewelry to put on Etsy? HOW? My camera phone just won't cut it.

Panic. Utter and sheer panic.

Never mind that I didn't need one more expense. Fucking cat cancer.

My dad said he'd give me a couple hundred dollars, lard love him (it does. my dad loves the fatty foods.). So I hopped on ebay. I love ebay.

I first spotted an insanely fantastic deal on a used Nikon SLR which I bid on. But I was not privy to the whole bidding bot thing. So I lost in the final 5 seconds, I swear.

At which point I threw my computer across the room in fury (you wouldn't like me when I'm angry) and now I need a new mac too. Just kidding. I didn't do that. I would never throw mac.

This whole bidding bot sniper shit really pisses me off. It's really unfair. Really. I never stood a chance.

Anyway, so I spotted another awesome deal on another used Nikon (and with TWO lenses!). Better deal really than the other one. But I had two choices: try to bid and get a better deal (but potentially lose and I couldn't find another camera I could afford that wasn't ass.) or pay a teensy bit more outright and call it mine. I did the latter and hopefully of hopefullies I'll get it soon.

I'm watching the mail like Charlie Brown waited for valentines. What's the saying? A watch mailbox never delivers? No? Hrm.

Maybe it'll arrive on the same day my gold vibrator does! Like my very own version of Christmas.

If that happens, I'll buy a Chirstmas tree and start believing in Santa. I mean, he did bring me a cute guy on Christmas. Maybe I should start believing in the creepy fat man.


Before I forget, Jeté has her next chemo treatment on Thursday at which point they'll measure her tumor and see if it's shrinking. It might be wishful thinking but I swear that it's getting smaller. I swear. Please send all your good energy that this works and that it's shrinking!

This is also a good time to remind you that I still have an Etsy shop with all the proceeds benefiting Jeté's cancer treatment. You didn't forget, did you? Lost of goodies available (even cuff links) and I even do custom pieces. Please check it out and tell your friends!

Or, even though I know it's rough with the holidays, the option to donate to her care is still up in the right corner of this blog.

Love you guys!

I want a baby sloth.

Meet the sloths from Amphibian Avenger on Vimeo.


This makes me laugh so hard! I've been watching it over and over and giggling uncontrollably.

Monday, December 27, 2010

On Sharing the Road

When I moved to Portland, I knew I was moving to one of the most bicycle friendly cities in the country, but I didn't really know quite what to expect.

What I didn't expect that instead of truly sharing the road, I'd come upon one of the biggest culture wars I'd ever seen. No one truly sharing the road, inconsiderate cyclists and bad drivers making it a bad experience for everyone.

As a relative newcomer to a place such as this, where bicycles and cars clash on a daily basis, I think I have a fairly unbiased perspective. Even though I've yet to be brave enough to ride my own bike on the busy streets. To be fair, it's both the cars and intense cyclists which scare me.

I came across an article the other day, which I now can't find again, in which this exact subject was discussed and comments went crazy on both sides. Either cyclists were pompous and entitled or drivers were reckless and determined to kill cyclists. No one gave a shit about pedestrians.

But there were a few comments that gave me hope. Some people actually recognize (gasp!) that bad cyclists AND bad drivers ruin it for everyone. Someone said the only place he'd seen bicycles and cars reside in harmony was in Amsterdam, proving yet again that Amsterdam truly is Utopia.

Back to me, though (as always). This is what I see: both factions are fighting a war against each other. When it should be against the assholes who give us a bad name, whomever "us" is.

I've seen plenty of cyclists behaving badly. I think you aaaall remember the douchecanoe from my birthday.

I see why drivers get pissed off. Bicycles will dominate the roads riding 2 and 3 side by side, blow through red lights, cut off pedestrians, and ride sans any lights at night. There has to be a sense of entitlement that makes these people ride so recklessly, that makes they drive like they OWN the road instead of sharing it, but mostly I have to wonder if they're masochists.

As a driver, I'm just afraid of hitting these people! I don't want to hit them out of spite or something. And they're likely to die whereas my car is unlikely even to dent. But I don't want them to die, lard no. But how am I supposed to drive when I'm constantly dodging cyclists with an apparent death wish? Then they call drivers assholes.

Well, it won't be my fault when they die under my car, but I'm sure the police won't see it that way. Nor will my sensitive conscience.

However, I see considerate cyclists too. These are the people who should be pissed at the asshole cyclists. And, so far, these people seem to be more the "use a bike just to get around" types. The types who it might be an inconvenience to actually stop at a stop sign because they're not pro and it sucks to stop the bike and put their feet down and then get going again. BUT! They do. They stop. And wait their turn. And have lights on their bikes. And make room for cars on the road as well.

To be fair, there are asshole drivers too. Obviously. They piss everyone off,  not just the bicycles, trust me. The asshole drivers are a huge part of why I'm scared to bike myself around this city. I know it's frustrating to deal with so many forms of transportation, but I think it's worth remembering that cars can mow over bicycles. This doesn't mean cyclists should use this knowledge to own the road, knowing no one really wants to kill anyone. But human nature is fragile and road rage real. I know. I lived in Los Angeles.

I would be more careful if I rode my bike. Just sayin.

So what's the answer? Fuck if I know. But dudes, does it really hurt to just obey the rules of the road? Why can't both the bicyclists and cars be considerate? The rules apply to everyone and behaving like as asshole just makes everyone else behave like assholes.

Maybe by spring I'll get brave enough to use my bicycle. At this point? Too scary.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Song Sunday: The Trouble With Flying

May I present this Boxing Day, my new love: Orba Squara.

This song is utter happiness. May you play it over and over and be happy too.

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Sexy Saturdays: The Boys in the Band

Happy Sexy Saturday! Today happens to be Christmas, so as an extra special present to you, I'll be posting this week.

WHA? Oh yes. You lucky ducks.

Back in the day, I had a weakness for the boys in the band. Oh who am I kidding? I still am. So I thought I'd impart my extensive knowledge and tell you just who in the band you should sleep with if you want a good time.

I'm nothing if not magnanimous. Look at me passing on my knowledge and helping you guys out!

I think we should start with the worst and work our way up, yes? Okay.

Also: I'm going with the 3 person band format. I realize there are all sorts of other musicians out there. For those guys? Judge for yourself. 

The lead singer: he has a tiny penis. He does. Trust me. Watch him the next time you're at a concert. Look at how he holds the mic. There's a reason he's deep throating it.

He needs to be in the front of the band, to feel like he's the most important one there (but he's really not. we'll get to that in a second.). That way he gets laid even though his penis is wee. And he feels like a big man.

But not only is his penis minuscule, he is so stuck on himself that he won't even try to pleasure you in any way or make the experience memorable for you. He may even want you to blow him even though that will be confusing because it will seem like sucking on a mini-hotdog. He might be pretty (and he most definitely is), but he knows it and that means a boring time for you in the sack.

The only exception to this rule is the acoustic singer sans band. This guy is hot and soulful and writes his own music. He's still not the best in bed, but he'll be romantic and passionate and dote on you and maybe even write you a poem after.

The bass guitarist: this guy is hit or miss.

You either get the guy who is overlooked because the lead singer is such a showboating douchenozzle and so makes up for it in the sack (and there's something to be said for the guy who is overlooked.). Or you get the guy who thinks the bass is more important than it is and the same goes for his penis.

Or you get the bassist who is the best of both worlds. He rocks and he's the quiet type. Sexy. Oh so sexy. But you take a risk when going for the bassist. Just be aware you don't know what you're going to get. My advice? When he's on stage, go for the quieter type.

The drummer: I admit. I've always had a weakness for drummers.

For good reason too. The drummer is the heartbeat of the band. It falls apart without him. It's an interesting personality that sits in the back but holds everything together. Watch the drummer the next time you're at a concert. He's not always the best looking but he is definitely the hottest. Without a doubt the hottest.

I dated my share of drummers, starting in high school. But the best I sex I have ever had ever was with Tony. My friends who've known me a long time are laughing right now because he was kind of an oaf, kind of a loser when it came to real life. But friends? Let me tell you, that man could do things with his pelvis that you didn't know were possible.

Because drummers know all about rhythm. I think you know what I mean.

Now I am a girl who likes the foreplay. I am queer after all, so oral is usually my favorite part of The Sex (write that down). But with Tony? We didn't even need foreplay. Never mind that watching him play was pretty much all the foreplay I needed, we jump right in and I'd reach enlightenment. Several times. Best. Sex. Ever.

I realize I may have just broken the cardinal rule of womanhood in actually admitting who gave me the best sex ever. I feel like I must make a disclaimer to my past lovers and boyfriends who I know read this bloggy blog. You guys rocked my socks off. Your techniques and hands and tongues were all delightful. Believe me! I'm just talking about a particular skill that I'd never experienced before and haven't since.

So ladies? The best is the drummer. Mark my words.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Photo of the Day: Sparklies


I may not love Christmas but I do love sparkly lights. Who doesn't? They twinkle and sparkle and light up my heart. I love sparkly lights and that is an upside of December.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Stupid Dyke

I had an entirely different post planned for today. In fact, I wrote posts for the next week last Monday. Each one scheduled so I didn't have to work on anything (except work) this week.

But something has been weighing on me lately.

And I just have to write about it.

It's been a tough couple of months. I've mentioned that before.

Between cat cancer, financial woes, stalker psycho guy, and bad mean Internet people, I'm exhausted.

By this past Monday, I was at my sensitive limit. My resiliency was exceedingly thin. Just couldn't take one more hit, one more cruel word.

Then I was talking politics on the Twitter with an especially exasperating friend and felt the need to make a joke. I tweeted:
I'm a queer, eco-minded, feminist atheist. of COURSE I'm a liberal. dur.
 Because it is a little funny that anybody would wonder about my politics. I've been pretty open about who I am and pretty sure I won't be changing my mind about any of it. And making jokes is what I do. It's how I handle life and sensitive situations.

But then somebody else replied to me:
You're also stupid. Stupid dyke.
 Oh yes he did. Now I didn't even engage the ass. I blocked immediately. But as I did, my stomach leapt into my chest. My heart leapt into my throat. My hands shook. I couldn't believe I'd just been called that. Couldn't believe that after all the press about teen suicides due to homophobic bullying, someone out there bullied me.

That's exactly how I felt: bullied.

And then I lost 10 followers. I guess people don't want to hear what a queer, eco-minded, feminist atheist has to say.

It's bizarre. I'm 30 years old. At this point in my life, I'm pretty damn comfortable with who I am. It took me years to figure it out and I can't wait to keep meeting myself as the years pass.

I'm obviously not stupid and the word dyke doesn't necessarily bother me. It was the derision. The bile with which it was said. Stupid dyke. The stupid maybe bothers me most because it's clearly inaccurate. 

It's not as if this guy cared to know who I am. He just wanted to spew vitriol at anyone who he disapproves of. And logically, I know he's just a small-minded prick. I know that.

But if you'll recall, I was at my limit. Had felt attacked on 3 sides already. So his intended reaction was achieved. I felt small and wounded. Bullied.

And that's not okay! I also feel wounded for every person on the fringes of what's acceptable who hears that kind of venom every day. It's not okay.

It's not about the labels. It's the malice behind them. We're not just gays or lesbians or queers. We're human beings who are struggling to achieve a modicum of respect and peace in this world.

Strictly speaking, my experience as a queer woman has been easy. My mother's biases aside, I haven't had much struggle when it comes to those who love me. They all accepted me as I slowly but surely admitted who I was. Even to myself. 

Which is interesting because as someone who refuses to define my sexuality in black and white terms, as one who dates both men and women, as one who is 60% straight sexually, but all queer politically, most of the push back I've gotten is from the GLBTQ community.

Not lately, but in the early days, I heard that I was just confused. That I was just on the road to gay and not there yet. Several boyfriends were concerned I'd leave them for a woman. But the truth is, I'm highly monogamous. I'm just attracted to humans.

Someone once asked me to tell my first sex with a woman story. Truth is? It's so not interesting. Because in the early days (my early twenties), I just made out with girls in bars. I'd hook up with women "because I was drunk." That was my excuse. I'm not gay! I was just drunk. Right? Heh.

I'd also develop monster crushes on highly unavailable women or women who had absolutely no interest in me whatsoever. That was safe right? Can't act on it if they're not interested.

Took me years to openly date a woman. But frankly, as relationships go, I usually date men. Just how it's been.

My point being that life isn't simple and we all exist in gray areas. Why are we so concerned with pinning down the essence of someone? I prefer to just be fluid. To go with experience and see what happens.

But this obsession with being okay and normal is what leads to someone attacking someone else.

Stupid Dyke.

I have never never received so much hateful bile as I have on Twitter. It's unbelievable. And it's constant. And I'm over it frankly.

It's wearing me down.

Only so much can roll off my back before I just collapse. My life lately has been tough enough to palate without the cruelty of strangers. I don't need their approval, but it would be nice if I could live my life sans incessant acrimony.

It's been tough enough.

Tuesday night I felt the lowest I'd felt in a long, long time. Probably since before I started therapy. I just silently cried myself to sleep. All alone in the dark. Feeling all alone in the world (even though I know I'm not.). The weight of the world weighing on me.

It dawned on me that I might be feeling depression. Something I fear and haven't felt deeply in many years. I worked very hard to be happy med-free and if depression is rearing its ugly head once more, I don't know if I have the strength to battle it right now.

Then I had a dream.

It was ten years in the future and it wasn't pretty. I wasn't pretty. On any level. A parade of my exes walked by. One by one with their beautiful families and beautiful lives. Each one asked me how my life was. "Did I ever marry?" No, who was gonna love me? "Didn't I ever have children?" No, they finally just cut out my bum ovaries. "What about adoption?" Who would give a child to a single woman who pumps gas (in my dream, I still hadn't made it as a writer)?

The dream was so real, so visceral. I awoke sobbing.

Really, even if all those things never happen, it won't be that bad. I can find work someday that won't be pumping gas. I'm sure my friends' kids will like it at Auntie Andy's. I can create a full life alone. That's okay.

But something about that dream shook me. Made me feel as if I wasn't good enough. It's not based in reality, obviously; it's rooted in the disapproval of others which keeps seeping in my heart little by little.

Which makes me angry.

Angry is good. Angry is not depressed, which is an encompassing helplessness. Anger is powerful.

I'm angry at every person who labels someone else not good enough or not okay. I'm angry at those who disapprove of others. I'm angry at the rash judgment we unleash with complete disregard for any sort of tolerance or compassion or decency.

I don't want pity. I want to be respected. I want to live without fear of cruelty. I want to feel free to speak as I speak. To make jokes and wield my craft without feeling fearful of hatred and vitriol. I want to be able to be proud of who I am and all of who I am. I didn't earn or deserve that kind of behavior simply for fact of knowing who I am, expressing who I am, loving who I am.

In that spirit: I've been taking self-portraits again. And I'm sharing them. Because screw it. Because this is what I look like. Which is part of who I am, dammit. The horny stalker assholes can bite me. Because when I take self-portraits, a part of my soul is freed. I swear. You should try it.

self-portrait: contemplative
I'm sad and contemplative, yet still proud to be me
I'm closing comments because I'm not looking for reassurance or pity or compliments. I just wanted to share.

Just take this post out in the world. Be kind. Be loving. Bullies are not okay.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

On Chivalry

The other day,  I was walking down the sidewalk to my favorite coffee shop when two guys were walking toward me, taking up the entire sidewalk. Neither of them stepped aside to let me pass and I couldn't even stop to let them by first without getting walked over. So my only choice was to step into a puddle.

Douchebaggery aside (though that is what that obviously was), what the hell ever happened to chivalry?

Which raises all sorts of feminist conundrums.

I've battled with myself over this topic for years. Where do we we lose manners in the name of feminism? And where do we lose equality in the name of old fashioned patriarchal views on manners? I just don't know. The line is thin really.

What I do know is thus:

We train women to be pathetic when they never have to do anything for themselves. I like doing "guy" things for myself. Why? Because I can. I carry boxes. I climb up to fix things. I learn how to use power tools. I change the jug on the water cooler.

Fuck, I've worked on building houses! I love the rush of being up in the rafters with the guys, hammering in nails and beams. I love using the chop saw. Why? Because it's fun! Why should guys get all the fun when I'm perfectly capable of learning the same things.

So that's the same view I've always had with traditionally chivalric behavior. I'm not going to stand by a door waiting for someone to open it. I don't need a man to give up his seat because I'm healthy and don't mind standing. I'm not going to wait for someone to pull out my chair. I don't need someone to carry my luggage (Though if I've got several bags, the help is nice regardless of gender. Though I'm unlikely to pack several bags. Because that's just stupid.).

Why? Because I'm perfectly capable of doing all those things for myself. I have two hands. Two legs. With muscles in them. I can reach up on a shelf. I can use a ladder. I don't need someone to do it for me. Though, to be honest, sharing the work is nice. 

But I'll hold a door for a friend. And it's nice when a friend holds the door for me too. I don't need them to, but it's polite. Though not expected.

So maybe it comes down to basic manners.

Maybe we've just thrown basic manners out in the name of progress. If we throw gender roles out, what things would we do just to be nice? Would we step aside so someone doesn't have to walk through a puddle? Would we give up a seat for someone in poor health? Would we hold the door for the person behind us?

I would hope so. Though I have my serious doubts.

Would it be lame to issue a challenge right now? Eh, too bad. It's my blog! I will do what I want!

I want to challenge everyone to be more polite. To hold the door for the person behind them regardless of gender. To compliment a stranger once a day on something, anything. To step aside for a passing pedestrian.

Good luck!

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Photo of the Day: Rain on my Window

 rain on my window

If you walk out my front door and into the street, I have a lovely view of downtown. Gorgeous. Especially at night.

But this? This is my typical view of Portland. Isn't it lovely?

Monday, December 20, 2010

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

With the holidays come the crazies. This would be the number one reason I hate the holidays. Perfectly normal people, I assume, start behaving like absolute nutjobs.

Case in point: rude guy at post office. With my Etsy shop, I spend some time at the post office. I actually don't much mind. I usually like my local tellers and they are very friendly. And with the longer lines that happen in December, there's the self-serve kiosk.

Except when a complete asshat thinks it's okay to bogart the kiosk with his thousands of packages. Seriously. You think I exaggerate. But he had bags and bags of large envelopes and packages, each one to be individually weighed and postage applied. I eventually gave up when I realized he planned to be there until New Years eve and got in the general line. Putting me in the post office for around 45 minutes.

But it's not the ridiculous amount of time I spent there that pisses me off; it's this guy's obvious disregard for others. I think that if you bring in all the mail for your entire county, you should have to get in line. The kiosk should be for people with one or two packages, for those who don't need to do much so they shouldn't have to spend all day in line.

Alas this dude did not get that unwritten courtesy. That kiosk was there just for him and his mountain of mailing, the rest of the world be damned.



Also accompanying the damned holiday season are...(no, not snow. I WISH! not yet anyway.)...asshole drivers. Now, I've yet to figure out if the asshole drivers simply venture onto the roads in December or if all the normally courteous drivers turn into utter reckless idiots near the solstice. Something to do with axial tilt maybe?

This is a rule no matter what city in which you reside, I am certain. Unless you're Amish. And in that case, watch out for rogue buggies.

I can't tell you how many insane accidents and near misses I have witnessed in the last week alone.

As I was walking through a parking lot, I had to jump out of the way of a reversing vehicle. Because the douchehat just didn't bother to look back.

The other day, I was behind a car that was turning into a parking lot and I followed it in because the road was clear. But wait! That would have been too easy, because that driver, just as he entered the driveway, decided that no he didn't want to go that way and threw his car into reverse. It's a good thing car horns can magically stop asshats because my Lola almost got a nice, new Christmas dent.

But that story doesn't stop there! The dude refused to go forward (because that would have been unreasonable) so I had to reverse into the parking lane and go around the damn block. Gosh how rude of me. I should really try to be more considerate.

I've watched cars drive right in front of other cars. Because life is that crucial. Because in the 3 seconds it took to wait for the car which had right of way, that last toy your kid wanted might sell out. And then your spawn will think there's no Santa. And you'll be a bad parent.

Right. Because it's a happy Christmas when a doctor has to tell your kid that mommy is dead and Santa can't bring mommies back to life. Or when the police take mommy away for vehicular manslaughter. Merry Christmas, kids!


 I can't tell you how apathetic I've been about this holiday season. You all probably know by now that I don't really celebrate Christmas. I buy books for my nephew. I make gifts for my friends. But that's as Christmassy as I get.

I do enjoy Yule and New Years however and most years I decorate in wintry themes. Lost of blue and snowflakes. Lots of sparkly.

Side note: my old roommate was very religious, very strict with her Jewish faith, which I totally respected. And I wanted to be sensitive going into the holidays. I mean, you just never know what will bother people of any faith. So I asked her if it would bother her if I decorated for Yule. Put up a small fake tree. Strung lights.

She said: as long as you don't hang a huge cross. "Um," I said, "first, that's Easter, not Christmas. Two, Yule has nothing to do with Christianity. And three, do I seem like the type of girl to hang a massive cross in my house?"

Anyway, this year I just didn't want to do anything. I put up my little fake fiber optic tree. Aaaaand that's it. I didn't even unpack it well. Its branches are all dusty and wonky. Didn't put my teeny ornaments on it because the cats would just eat them anyway.

I guess I just really don't care this year.

Saturday night at karaoke, my friend asked me what I was doing for Christmas. I replied nothing. I don't celebrate. And she looked at me like I was the saddest, most pathetic creature she'd ever seen.

But I am here to say that it's not pathetic! I choose not to celebrate. I'm not sad and alone on Christmas. I'm just me on a day like any other day that millions of people happen to call a holiday.

Best Christmas dinner I ever had was at a Turkish restaurant in London. Good thing they don't celebrate Christmas in Turkey.

Side story: my dad's company announced in a meeting that they were collecting money for Christmas to send to children in Afghanistan. My dad was like, "Um, they don't celebrate Christmas." Word, Dad. Word.


So I went to a new karaoke joint Saturday night. I liked this place. Very small, divey neighborhood basement bar kind of a place. It was really slow for the first few hours and I think I sang like 12 songs. That never happens. Usually you're lucky if you get 2 or 3.

But I did get drug up with friends to sing a couple songs I don't really know. I hate that. I like to know what song I'm singing well. But oh well. It was funny I guess that I was fucking up Shoop.

Oh! And my fave part of this place? Harvey the Gay Cowboy.  Harvey is 85 years old and on fire gay. You think I'm exaggerating again, but no. He is actually 85 years old. He is 12 kinds of fabulous in a plaid shirt and belt buckle. I'm told he even sometimes wears a Stetson. He told me I was incredible. As he danced to every song I sang. I wish I had a photo of him, but dude didn't stand still. Maybe next time.

Which is possibly next Saturday. As in Christmas. Oh yes. Believe it.


Do you ever have dreams about someone you shouldn't or don't want to? But you can't control it? That person just pops in your head the minute you drift off, and, let's be honest, the dreams are pretty freaking delicious?

Yeah, that.

How do I stop that?


Opium? Wait, that might make it worse.

Laudanum? Do they still make that?


Speaking of delicious...

Did you guys hear that I won the 24k gold vibrator? I did! ME! I won!!

Let it be known that when I really want to win something, I am a fierce competitor.

Also: you know that a review will be coming. Oh yes. I am so fucking stoked.


Jeté news: she is happy. Turns out she didn't really need that post-chemo medication and so I stopped it. And she's been happy. That shit was too stressful for her, was making her more sick from stress if you ask me.

She had her checkup on Friday and her blood work was all normal. We go back for a second chemo in 2 weeks and they'll measure her tumor then to see how responsive it is. Hoping for good news (of course)!

But if she's not responding, we're kind of screwed. We can't operate without shrinking it and radiation isn't possible both for financial reasons (it would cost around $10 thousand) and because the closest radiation oncologist is in Seattle.

So the chemo has to work! All there is to it.


This makes me so incredibly happy:

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Song Sunday: Nobody Knows Me At All

This Sunday I give you: The Weepies!

I love this song. I love when a song can be so simple yet poignant. Upbeat yet somehow still melancholic. I've been playing this on repeat this week. Now I share with you.


Saturday, December 18, 2010

Sexy Saturdays: Things I’ve Learned From Writing Clit Lit

I have a special treat for you this fine Sexy Saturday, a repeat guest poster, because I love this girl THAT much. Ali from Made of Words has graciously agreed to post a second time during this busy, manic month and I'm so glad she did. I am truly in love with this lady's writing, her clit lit (which you'll hear more about), her stories of her life with her love Jae, and her take on gender and queer life (which, you guys, she's so damn smart!).

Ali has truly become a great friend to me and I treasure that so much. She's generous and warm and kind and open-minded in a way only a queer clit-lit writer can be. Okay, I won't blather on anymore. Here is what you came for. Enjoy!

While it is most certainly not the only thing I do, a good portion of my website is dedicated to the one-handed read.  That’s right, possums-from-another-mother (aka, followers of Crazy With A Side of Awesomesauce.)  I write porn.  Literary porn, but porn nonetheless.  Stories or poems that are meant to get you wet and make you touch yourself.  And a good deal of it is based on my sex life with my girlfriend.  Oh yes, darlings.  I not only write porn.  But I write queer porn.  I’m the blackest of black sheep.

As you might imagine, outside of that world it’s not really a marketable skill.  Imagine your resumé full of stories about fisting, anal sex, going down on women.  Not exactly going to get you very many gigs.  And it’s certainly not something I generally get paid for (I got a sex toy, once.  I’ll gladly take additions to my toy chest as payment.)  A couple of times I’ve asked myself why I do it.  There are lofty answers, like that people need to demystify lesbian sex, to know it’s okay for women to pleasure themselves and other women (man or no man!  Burn your bras!)  But there are other things.  Better things.

I’ve learned a lot about sex while trying to write it down.

I’ve learned that my girlfriend is a buffet of tastes to be savored and appreciated.  (Especially when we eat lunch at Jamba Juice.)  And I’ve gained the vocabulary to be able to fully treasure that fact.  On any given day, Jae could burst in my mouth with the flavor of sun-warmed blackberries, shower me with snowflakes and rain, roll in with waves of beach, and be a fistful of pennies.  She can taste salty, sweet, bitter, like things I have never tasted before that I’d be hard put to name.  Did you know a person can taste like pure desire?  Sweaty passion?  Like new skin that never sees the sun?  (Still gotta say, my favorite day is still Jamba Juice Day.  It was like eating a fruit salad that comes when you lick it.)

The lesson that I’ve taken from all that?  Girls taste great.  You need not interfere with them.  They smell great too.  So whenever I see a product to clean you up, make you smell better, I mentally tell the company to go fuck themselves.  And you should not worry, ladies and gents with vaginas, about eating the right foods in order to taste better for your lover.  Everything tastes wonderful when you’re going down on someone.  Pennies or fruit, it’s all amazing.  And if every day were Jamba Juice Day I’d get bored.  Sex is beautiful with the complex tapestry of flavors and perfumes she gives me to experience.

I’ve learned to recall sounds:  the crack of a well-placed slap on a well-fed thigh; the steady drum of clenching fists on a headboard; the groan of kitchen cabinets holding my  weight as I’m bent over the counter; the airy sighs, chuckles, gasps that turn my queer-boy girlfriend into a (very sexual) pixie; my screams, the obscenities ripped from my throat; whispered dirty talk.

Never be too worried that you’re making too much noise.  My neighbors have never complained that I’m fucking too loudly.  So what if they can hear you?  Sex is a sacred space where everything instantly becomes soundproof.  As long as you are the privacy of your own territory and doing nothing illegal, no one will ever tell you they can hear you flogging your partner.  Take advantage of this: flog your partner.  Curse.  Moan. Tell her you want your pretty ass in the air while she fucks you.  Scream it, go ahead.

I’ve written the ridiculous.  About landing in the hospital, burning myself, breaking glass.  Accidentally getting dick-whipped by the largest dildo in all the land.  Cold lube.  Lube I’m allergic to.  Over-lube.  Kicking, punching, bruising (intentional or not, but all resulting in disaster.)  Cocks that won’t stay put.  Diarrhea.  Magically appearing roommates.  Magically appearing parents.  Magically appearing dogs.  Magically disappearing libidos.  Cats that bite my ass.  Near-drownings.

Shit is not always going to go how you plan.  Just accept it right now.  James Bond is the only person that can fuck with a 100-percent success rate and be suave while doing so.  You are not James Bond.  He doesn’t exist.  But that’s the beauty of it.  The lesson I’ve learned here is have a sense of humor.  Unless you are a fictional character, develop the ability to laugh and keep screwing.  Do not let hiccups ruin your night (or morning or afternoon.)

Perhaps writing the naughty moments is more valuable than the ability to sell your stories.  Recording how you perceive sex teaches you not only to write with five senses but to enjoy those moments for the reality that they are.  The truer the experience, the sweeter the memory and the deeper the understanding you have for yourself.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Portland Foodie: Chocolate with a Side of Conscience.

After a long and arduous journey that I walked away from (best for everyone involved, trust me), I've decided to launch a new series on this blog: Portland Foodie.

Truth be told, I'd been wanting to do this since I moved here, but never did and then another project presented itself and well, that just wasn't for me. So I'm bringing it to my lovely space here. It won't be a weekly post. More bi-monthly or monthly (or who knows?), but I'll be profiling local food and drink businesses here in The Portland.

Hope you like!



Chocolate. Truffles. Ganache. Dairy and gluten free and tasting of heaven itself. Made by hand and sold by the sweetest woman on the planet. The profits of which go to a worthy cause.

Sounds divine, yes? It is. Oh it is. I had the pleasure of meeting Melissa Berry, ND of Missionary Chocolates this past summer at a local Portland farmer’s market where she hugged me as if we were old friends, stuffed truffle samples down my gullet, and I became a new devotee.

My roommates have known Melissa for a while and it is through them we first met. They go to her Burnside location almost every Wednesday and volunteer in different ways in the chocolate-making and selling process.

See, Melissa is not only the most charming lady you’ll ever meet, she’s also a doctor who started this company to raise money for a neuropathic hospital, an inpatient holistic healing center. Though profits are low as yet and she is one busy woman, what with being a doctor and running her own business and all.

 Seriously, sweetest woman on the planet. Every time I went to the farmer's market, I had been meaning to stop at the French Crêpes stand but never did. So one Sunday, I got myself a sweet banana, nutella, and chantilly crêpe before I stopped at Missionary Chocolates. Dumb. So dumb. In between bites of nutella and whip cream, Melissa would give me chocolate samples despite my protestations. But they were delicious incarnate so I couldn't resist. I'm pretty sure I fell into a sugar coma later that day. So worth it though.

But let me tell you, once you taste her chocolates, even if knowing this delightful lady doesn’t sway you (and if she doesn’t, you’re cold and empty inside), you’ll be converted. They are a religious experience, I hyperbole not.

But don’t ask me. Ask Melissa herself:
“Our vision at Missionary Chocolates is to create vegan truffles that surpass all expectations whether you are specifically seeking a non-dairy confection, or you just love excellent chocolate! Our truffles are so incredibly rich and creamy that they satisfy even the most elevated chocolate-connoisseur palate!

We want to enthrall you with our wonderful dairy-free, gluten-free confections. All of our truffles are made by hand in Portland, and are created using the freshest local and organic products available to us. We use only Oregon-grown berries, and take pride in using organic coffee, locally-grown peppermint oil and superior quality Fair-Trade Guittard chocolate.”
How can that not sway you? They’re heaven. Hard, chocolate shell and the inside is so incredibly, evilly creamy and flavorful. I can never believe how potent and rich it tastes. It is HEAVEN. I am positive you’re never tasted anything like it.

I’m not kidding when I say Missionary Chocolates makes exciting and innovative flavors. My favorite is the Vanilla Salted Caramel. Flavors often vary seasonally (and the Pumpkin was ahhhhmazing). Current flavors available on the website include Glorious Ginger, Cinnamon Chipotle, Peppermint Perfection, Meyer Lemon Explosion, Double French Espresso, and Dark Chocolate Delight.

And if you find Melissa in person, you’re likely to discover a new flavor and get a sample or 12. You can find Melissa the Portland Saturday Market as well as various local craft fairs and markets. Find her on Facebook (and get updates on where she’ll be next). Or find these sinful chocolates at one of the many stores in Portland. You can find Missionary Chocolates on the web. Or even go volunteer and help a good cause.

Trust me. You'll be glad the minute you let one of these chocolates melt on your tongue.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

On Words

So this is going to be a somewhat rambly post but these things are connected in my head and so I'm going to do my best to keep them connected her.

The Internet. How I love thee. Truly.

Most of my life is spent on The Internet these days. My income is through writing web content and social media. I sell my photography online. I'm able to sell handmade jewelry to people all over and raise money for my cat, all because of the Internet. I make new friends every day because of the Internet. I keep up with old friends, see their photos, witness their trips across the sea and watch their children grow up. And then blog. I am able to be a writer, though sans remuneration thus far, sans publisher or editor. I can bring my words straight to you, my reader, without any censorship whatsoever. All because of the Internet.

Because of the Internet, I have an established and growing readership. People who keep coming back for some reason and who help me out when I'm in a bind and give me their words of encouragement when I'm down. People who I suspect would read a book of mine were I to some day be published.

The Internet has been good to me for the most part.

So of course I've been thinking a lot lately about how we behave on The Internet. I used to work at a university and, being the communications maven that I am (snort), I used to teach a seminar to graduating seniors about how to navigate the internet as they job hunt and how to behave on the social sites without acting like a jackass and getting fired. You'd think these things would be obvious, but well, no. They're not.

Anyway, so I think a lot about how people behave on the Internet. How some people see it as a fake world, a bubble in which they can act however they please without any consequences whatsoever. And I think I've slipped into that from time to time. But I try to stay conscious of the humanity behind every screen name, every avatar. And how some people see the Internet as TOO real, as their whole worlds. Getting so wrapped up, they can't differentiate what's real and what's not. It's a fine line to be sure.

Now, leaving the stalker incident aside (though my twitter is now private and I'm okay with that for now), I think I've been relatively unscathed on the onlines.

I meet most of the jackholes of the Internet on the Twitter. But my blog has been so far pretty safe. Every comment lovely and witty and supportive. Whenever a guest poster is worried about what people will say about a racy Sexy Saturdays piece, I can only respond honestly and say don't worry. My readers are lovely.

And you guys are. Completely lovely.

I've gotten some judgment for my cat lady lifestyle on the Twitter, but not on my blog. I think I know why too. I'm not a mom. People pity cat ladies, but they unsheathe their claws for the moms. And dads too. I've seen it over and over again. Everyone has something to say about parenting, has an opinion that is clearly the only right one, and they let these mom and dad bloggers have it.

But look, I'll get to the temptation of behaving like an ass once you can hide behind an avatar, but I think this is deeper than that. If it were only that, I'd be called a harlot man-hater much more often. Trolls don't discriminate.

There is something about the audacity to write about your life when you're a parent that really pisses people off. Really makes them think it's okay to behave like complete twats. These are the same people living their lives judgmentally of course, judging all the other parents at their kids' daycares and schools. But blogs must be their outlet to let loose the cruel.

And you know what? It's not okay. I'm an outsider (technically) in the mommy blogger world, though many of my favorite bloggy friends are moms, so this isn't even happening to me. I see it though. I watch it and it hurts my heart. Not to mention that I don't want to just be a cat lady forever (NOT that that wouldn't be ok. and that might be how my life works out.). I do want to have children one day. Will I be one of those mommy bloggers? How will I handle the bullies?

Words. Words are powerful.

I believe that. Know that in my bones. My whole life is about words. I studied journalism and marketing and literature in college. I am a voracious reader and writer and poet. Words can be potent in very positive and transformative ways. But words can wound and scar and maim.

Why we wield words so recklessly is really beyond me. It seems terrifyingly fool hardy.


I'm not innocent. I used the word retarded the other day without even thinking about it. Being the child of the eighties that I am, I often have to remind myself to not use that word as an adjective to hurt or joke. A nice friend politely pointed it out and, you know what? I apologized. Because that word could have hurt someone and I genuinely didn't want to hurt. Don't want to hurt anyone with my words.

There are words that hurt me. In this PC world, we've gone beyond the sensitivity we should have learned and gotten to rebel against the safe words. This is alarming to me. Because it's one thing to reclaim a word and make it lose its power to hurt. It's quite another to simply refuse sensitivity and continue to spread bigoted and cruel words.

Like queer. Queer used to be a bad word. Mean. But I love the word queer. I am a proud, queer feminist. No matter where I stand on the queer rainbow, I call myself queer and it's MY word. It has no power over me because I give it my own power.

But every time someone uses a word to disparage queer people, it hurts me into my soul. Even if it's unintended. Using gay as a synonym for stupid is one of the most irksome things I see on the Internet and hear thrown around. When I was a teacher, my kids would be sent out for saying it. It's as bad as any racial slur if you ask me. And include on that list: fudge packer, fag,  faggot, dyke, and homo. There are more, but those bother me most, when used in mean or disparaging ways.

Would that we could reclaim all the cruel words.

Words are powerful. They have the power to reduce something personal into a mere object. So, the other night, when a guy began railing to me about pubic hair on women, calling vaginas dirty and hair ugly, comparing hairy vaginas to every manner of mundane object from an old car to a dirty street to a meat sandwich to brass knuckles (the implication being that cunnilingus is equal to a punch in the face), I became somewhat incensed.

That may be putting it mildly. I blocked him. But, you know what? Those words hurt me. Not ME, but hurt women every where and therefore me as a woman. Vaginas are not objects for men's amusement and/or disgust. They are apart of every woman, powerful and breathing organs that connect us to our womanhood.

Also: add to my list of hurtful words anytime vagina is used as an insult.

I don't want to deconstruct this guy's psychology because I suspect he's either a pedophile or hates his mother. Or maybe no women will sleep with him. Who knows why he hates vaginas so much. But I bet he doesn't say these kinds of things to women in the "real world." So why does the Internet give license to be a misogynist douchnozzle?

PSA: don't fuck with a proud, queer feminist when she's on her period.

I've been called a lot of hurtful things lately, through the Internet, from several sources. I've been called selfish and both insensitive and too sensitive (explain that). And, on the one hand, it stings. Cuts me deeply.

On the other? Well, maybe I am sometimes.

That's just too damn bad. I lived the first 28 years of my life letting the words of my mother cut me down. Letting her words seep into my bones and tell me I wasn't good enough and no decision I made was okay. That I couldn't live my own life because I was incapable of managing it myself. I was never smart enough. Never talented enough. Never pretty enough. Never thin enough. I spent 28 years deferring to her and to those I loved because I thought it was how to keep them loving me.

However, I am a natural leader. I can be in charge if someone asks me to. It's an innate personality trait. But I spent all that time second guessing myself in private because one woman had invaded by psyche so deeply.

But then the most incredible thing happened! I put a stop to it. I cut that woman out of my life. I learned that not everyone is going to love me and more than likely, most people don't deserve my love either. I mourned the mother I would never have. And I learned to parent myself, learned to figure out what I loved about myself and what I loved to do separate from her input and criticism. The last years have been the happiest of my life.

So maybe I can be a little too sensitive. I'm learning how to channel that. Thick skin? What's that? I didn't develop a thick skin as a child; I simply dug a hole in my soul and buried all those words there, where I didn't have to think about them but could access them if I needed to. So I'm learning how to not bury but also not get hurt when I get called mean words.

So do I behave a little selfishly sometimes? Perhaps. But it's about damn time, dontcha think? I take back the word selfish and claim it for people who have never lived for themselves. Selfish is no longer a bad word.

I never want to hurt others in that effort. But I can't apologize for finally loving myself or giving myself room to discover me.

More than that, I want my future children to learn that they are their own people. That it's okay to be a little selfish. To think about who they want to be first. To walk away from something or someone that's not right for them with no regrets, as long as they're polite and respectful (though sometimes a hearty flipoff is appropriate too). I want them to, "find out who you are outside of who you wish you were or what someone else wants you to be." (from the film Breaking Upwards).

I want them to learn the power of words.

That everything they say has meaning. To wield their words deliberately and proudly with thought and care. To know that how you say something is just as powerful as the words themselves. To learn that love is also a word not to be thrown around lightly. That they can love themselves deeply and truly but to be careful when using that word with others.

The word love can hurt just as badly as words designed to wound.

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

Photo of the Day: Eyelashes


These gorgeous lashes belong to my 2 and a half year old nephew. I have two thoughts on this:

First: this shot was a freaking miracle. Kid does not sit still (and, honestly, you gotta love how cute that is. until he starts bouncing into your face.), but for a photographer? Patience was my lesson for the weekend. Patience to get the great shot. And in this case? It was waiting for him to get a little sleepy.

Second: how the hell is that fair? Look at those gorgeous lashes! Look! Kid is gonna be a lady killer. So not fair.

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

my Hooha deserves some luxury

You know what my hooha needs? A little luxury.

That's right. You heard me.

After all these years of The Sex, my vajayjay has to have what she thinks of as "luxurious" sexy time.

And the way things are going? Ain't never gonna happen.

Don't get me wrong, I've had some goooood sexy time. Sweaty, yummy, sexy time. Deliciously dirty sexy time.

The penises in my life haven't all been, shall we say, solid gold. A select few have been down right terrific in action, though. And I've even had a few magic Os during The Sex from time to time. True story.

But let's be honest. It's never been...extravagant. Never been coating in gold. I mean, really.

Even my solo time, which, well, you know, I know whats I likes, has never been as lavish as my hooha deserves. Now, I know how to make it happen and I don't want to put down Rosie, but she's an inexpensive red vibe that fit my budget. She's like the practical car of vibes. She does the job and never quits on me. She gives me 10 to fifteen O faces and I'm a satisfied gal.

But Rosie needs a pretty sister to look up to. Someone shiny and opulent she can look up to, can aspire to be like one day.

And my hooha? She needs more. She needs some sexy time out of my budget. She needs something lustrous and fancy and downright decadent to rock her world.

Which is why I need to win a 24K Gold Jimmyjane Vibrator.

You heard me right. 24K gold for your hooha. I don't even wear gold around my neck (teehee) let alone up my vaj.

It's time this lady had some luxury. And this luxury? is fully loaded.

Behold, the Jimmyjane Little Gold:
See? I need this in me.

 Thus sayeth my lady friend Mommy Wants Vodka:

The Little Gold Vibrator is  waterproof  so you can take it with you into the shower or submerge it into warm or cold water to mix up your experience, should you like. For a vibrator, it’s incredibly quiet, which means that for those of you with children, your kids won’t be running in to see if aliens are attacking in your bedroom.  The vibrator comes with a three year limited warranty, which is good for people like me who tend to break sex toys.

Does it sound better than that? Fuck me. Literally.

And as it happens? Toy With Me is giving one away (you know, those dolls who write sexy toy reviews?). I shit not. And I will win. Hell yes I will.

Do I have to continue to say why? I don't think I do. If you don't understand why my vajayjay deserves a little gold, well, then you must not have a vagina. Sucks for you and your single orgasm. That's right. I said it.

Vaginas rock. But mine would rock more with some gold vibrating goodness.



* This just in: I WON!!!!!!!! ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You know a review will be happening right?

Monday, December 13, 2010

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

Random thoughts are BACK! Did you miss them? I know you diiiiid.


This is 2010. A few weeks away from 2011. So, I ask you, in this technological modern age of cloning and stem cells and iPads and the Grand Internets, why have we not evolved beyond the need to pee?

It's so inconvenient. Such a hassle. I hate having to pee. Don't get me wrong, when I really have to pee, nothing feels better than peeing. But I hate having to.

You'd think someone would have invented the technology to eradicate peeing by now. It's a disgrace upon society is what it is.


I'm wondering if there's some special holiday in Portland that I'm not aware of. Chanukah is over, yes? Christmas is weeks away?

So why is everyone in the Portland area at the grocery stores lately? It's a mad house. No matter what time of day I go, it takes me a half hour to find parking and the stores are packed.

Is there something I'm missing? Do Portlanders just take their holiday cooking THAT seriously that they shop weeks ahead?

Or is it the apocalypse and no one told me? Is everyone stocking their fallout shelters?


No one tells me anything.


I'm beginning to think this whole cat cancer thing is really a plot by my cat to kill me. I mean, because the world revolves around me right? Doesn't it?

I never thought that I thought the world revolves around me, but you know, I might. Until someone tells you something like that, you never realize it's true.

But you sit down. And you digest what they've said. You accept that everyone tells the truth all of the time and that they always have your best interest at heart. And you go, yes, yes I am a selfish brat. The world is revolves around me and I am the SUN!

And then you bask in your fiery glory.

Wait. Where was I? Oh yeah! Cat cancer. It sucks. And now Jeté has outsmarted the pills and there is no way that has been thought of short of cat hypnosis that can get this medication down her gullet and stay there.

Before you leave me a comment on your trick to get a cat to take medicine, let me remind you of a few things:
  1. I have tried it all. If one more person gives me a tip, however well meaning, I will punch that person in the eyelid. 
  2. My cat is the smartest, most devious cat in the world. She is smarter than your cat. Yes she is. Shut the fuck up. 
  3. She can make herself throw up pills. So even if I get them into her stomach, they come right back up. My cat is medication bulimic. True story.
  4. My cat is actually trying to kill me. Because the stress of this might actually make my head implode. Not figuratively, junkmuch, ACTUALLY.
  5. The world revolves around me, so I don't really want to hear it. But if you were paying attention, you'd know that, so try to keep up.
If I die, I have one request: don't let Jeté kill any more people. She must be stopped.

Okay, two requests: please make sure Hobbes gets plenty of belly rubs. I almost typed subs. That would have been something entirely different.

*amendment: you all know I use the sarcasm font, right? I don't hate your advice. Your support is much appreciated. 

I have a friend Don who has generously agreed to help raise money for Jeté's treatment:
"...beginning today and until Jeté gets better, I will donate all of the proceeds from sales of photos or photo merchandise from my SmugMug gallery to Jeté's treatment fund. If you're looking for a gift for the holidays or something to decorate your home or office with, I hope you'll consider it. You can order prints, coffee cups, kitchen aprons -- just about anything you can imagine putting a photo on."
 Thanks so much to Don for this help! It's so incredibly appreciated. And now you guys have one more way to help my furbaby. Please go check his blog out. 


I tweeted something the other day which sparked some controversy. I said something like, I hate when TV characters fall I love so fast. I call bullshit.

Which I do. It wasn't commentary on love at first sight, per se, though I don't believe in love at first site, it was more a commentary on how I believe love is slow to bloom and that TV doesn't portray that well. I think it creates unrealistic expectations. When people don't feel that fast jolt of LOVE, they move on. They don't wait to see what kind of love is lying in wait. The kind of love that can only exist when you know someone so deeply well that you every part of them becomes a package of love.

That kind of love can't exist with love at first sight or even after one or a couple months. It takes time. My young, yet wise beyond is years, friend Mario said it beautifully, "People come to expect perfection – they start thinking everyone else has to fit their perceptions, and then they make little/no effort to mold into relationships. Everything becomes less fluid, more brittle, harder, rockier. It's bad."

Why is it so offensive to be a different kind of romantic? One that doesn't believe in immediate love, but the "slow bloom of affection?" I think it's romantic to fall in love over time. To get to know someone at their core. I find that a lovely thought,

But not only that, I was wondering, why does non belief bother believers so? It's okay that we don't believe the same things. It's okay to believe in love at first sight, if, I think, you acknowledge that it's maybe rare and don't expect it. But that's just my opinion.

Just like I don't believe in a god, but I also recognize that millions of people believe in a god and it's perfectly okay that they do. I respect that. I don't think they're stupid or liars because of their beliefs. But I also don't concede that a god could possibly exist because I don't believe that. Just as they don't concede that a god couldn't exist, because they see god in their lives.

So why does my unbelief offend believers? Is it because I make them question their beliefs? That's not my intention. But I also don't believe in hiding my thoughts simply because they're different. I'm okay with coexisting. Why is it that hard?

Oh I know! The world must revolve around ME! Dur. Keep up, Andy.


This makes me giggle so hard. Mostly I just love that girl and how much she cracks up. I can't help it. laughter is contagious.

You really only need to watch though 1 minute.


Oh and also: PMS is a motherfucking bitch. My tits hurt. I feel like a crazy person. I kind of want to kill a random male just to restore balance to the universe (because life is nothing without balance.). And I have yet to get that damn phone call from Aunt Flo. A phone I don't really want anyway. But if she doesn't call soon, I'm gonna give her a hearty junkpunch.

This is about how I feel right now:
Piss me off. I dare you.
And guys think it's fun my boobs are swollen. Come on. Try to touch them. It'll be fun. I promise.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Sexy Saturdays: When I get that feeling, I want Sextual Healing…

Today's guest poster is proof that you never know where you'll find a great story. Shhhmegs is one of my loverly gal pal Twitter friends. I love this chick. She's funny and sassy and always has sweet things to say. She never fails to brighten my day. 

So when I was thinking of who'd I ask to post this week, she just popped in my head. No idea why, except that I know from her tweets that she must have some great stories and that The Sex isn't a subject that would scare her. But she's not a blogger so I had no idea if she could write. 

So I asked her if she was a writer, if she was interested in posting here. She giggled and jumped at the chance, all the while assuring me she isn't a writer. Well guess what, people? She is. Girlfriend can tell a story. Boy can she. After this, I'll bet people start bugging her to write or to blog. Because this is a great story.

Go follow her on the Twitter. And make sure you tell her what a delicious post she wrote, k?


It wasn’t until relatively recently that I had my first experience with sexting. No, I’m not an insecure 15 year old trying to get boys to like me by sending naked pictures. The whole thing evolved over a long period of time. Apparently I’m one of the last people who got into this. Sorry, folks, I didn’t even have unlimited text messaging until about April of this year. So yeah, they were precious. Plus, up until Feb of this year I had been in a relationship for almost 4 years, 3 of which we lived together. So if I wanted to show some boobs I’d just pull up my shirt.

Enter Single Me. I decided to celebrate my independence with a trip to Mexico this spring & ended up meeting my future sexting buddy there. His & my “relationship” could be a bliggity blog all in itself, so I’ll keep it brief here. Hot. Man. I met him and decided pretty quickly that I was going to have sex with him and never see him again. Judge me if you’d like, I’m just being honest. I’m a 28 year old woman. I am allowed my sexual freedom. I’m not slutting it up every weekend (or even every month) but even if I were I don’t really see what the problem is. I choose not to because that doesn’t make me happy (romantic sap at heart). Anyhow, I digress. We stayed up all night talking and drinking and kissing the first night. The second night it was on. I had several jack & diet cokes (my go-to) and threw caution to the wind. For drunken stranger sex, it was remarkably good. Like I said, he’s hot, he’s got a great body, he’s funny, a great kisser, blah blah blah.

So we parted ways to our respective states, but not before he asked me for my number. I gave it to him without much thought, but to my surprise he texted me the very next morning saying he missed me already. Cute. Funny thing was I wasn’t even that into him for about another month. We started a friendship which involved long, long emails and text message conversations that lasted hours at a time. Then one day I realized I was totally sprung on him. After that it started getting a little saucy. We had been flirting all along, but it shifted to another level.

I’m a nice girl, honest I am. But I also have a very naughty side. I don’t share it openly with very many people, but with someone like him who I’d become so close to it just felt natural. So I just let my inhibitions go. I let my dirty mouth find its voice in the safety of a text message. It gave me bravery. It was oddly creative. And very, very sexy. The first time I sent him a picture was a huge deal to me. Looking back it was so tame too! I was lying in bed, under the covers but only in panties. I was on my side and sheets were barely covering my breasts. Like I said, tame. No nudity. You could still see my tan lines from our vacation & he loved it. After that it became even more fun. He’s a boob man, so I’d find all sorts of interesting ways to pose to, um, enhance our texting experience. I would get that rush of excitement, waiting to hear what he thought of them.

This lasted for months. It was a great way to get out my sexual energy in a safe, fun way. I think it stayed so interesting because I never sent him any where I was totally naked. I think out of the many I sent, I only flashed a nipple maybe three times and just barely and never anything naked below the waist. It was more fun to send a picture of me in a tank top with no bra on or with ass-spilling panties. I think he liked it better that way too. Dudes can get porn anywhere. All sorts of naked chicks any time for free. I think subtlety can be much sexier, and it always left him wanting more. And the times I did let a little extra spill out of my bra were all the more special. Combine that with conversations that make me blush and you’ve got yourself a fun night.

Alas, my heart got in the way. After months of such an intimate friendship, I really fell for him but the feelings were not mutual. So I had to pull away. We’ll still occasionally trade friendly messages but it’s certainly not the same. I miss it sometimes. I miss him sometimes. The was-supposed-to-be-my-rebound guy who broke my heart.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Raw Photos Contest: LOVE Winner!

This has maybe been the toughest contest yet. You people really brought the love.

Sun and I debated and deliberated. It was very hard. I wanted to everyone to win, but well, that's not the point of a contest now is it? But you guys should all be proud of your shots. They were lovely. Ultimately, the runners up and winner not only had excellently composed shots, but they tugged at our heart strings too.

Soooo after much deliberation, we have come to a decision.

Drum roll please......

The runners up are:

By Don Davidson Photo


By Yankee T

Now without further ado....

We are proud to announce the winner of the Raw Photos Contest, LOVE:

By SweetSalz21

Congratulations! You're a Raw Photo Maven!

raw photo maven

Great job! Your shot is excellent!

Email awesomecrazylady dot com to collect your badge.


Now, get your cameras ready. Pull out your best shots. Because after the holidays, it. is. ON!

The next theme is:  
Your Best

That's right. We want your best shots.
Whatever you do best. Whatever you're most proud of. Bring it!

But that's not all!

We're not judging. Oh no! Nope. You are.
Yup. It's reader's choice.  That's right. You guys will decide who wins.

We'll explain how you'll vote next month.
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