Thursday, March 31, 2011

breaking up is not hard to do, evidently

So you may as well know that it's over with the Fella. Don't feel badly at all though. I think we've both realized that it was time to move for over a week now.

In fact, it was such an easy breakup that now I'm wondering if we broke up at all. If I imagined that, I'm sorry, Fella! Tell me that's what happened.

Anyway, we were a pretty bad match. Our personalities just did not mesh and thinking back, I'm hard pressed to find anything we have in common. Not that you need everything in common in a relationship, but shouldn't you have something?

Well, we both felt that and I think we're both relieved, because it kind of felt forced there for a bit.

But I have to wonder, at what point does one start settling for someone totally wrong for them just because he's a nice guy or is a good potential mate on paper? 10 years ago, I never would have even gotten this far, but the older I get, the more I want to give someone a chance. Is that desperation? Or just a sign that the pool of good guys is dwindling?

Is it too much to want someone who suits me completely? Or what qualities will I begin to compromise on the older I get?

The thing is...I like being alone though. I'm independant as hell and I like me and enjoy the pleasure of my own company. I've never been one to settle for the sake of being in a relationship because why waste my time? Not to say that I haven't slept with people that weren't relationship material. THAT'S something else entirely. But I won't dedicate my time to a relationship that's not going to suit me. Why should I?

It's not 1850. I don't have to get married. Instead, I want a relationship because I want love and intimacy and connection with someone special. And as my friend Lori helped me figure out,  I want to look up to a man,  admire him, feel safe, but not weak and needy.

But I also recognize that I want to be a mother one day (like yesterday) and that is unlikely to happen alone (why helloooo, Turkey Baster) and parenthood is damn hard alone (as you single moms tell me). So I wonder if there will come a point that I lower my expectations just for the sake of becoming a mother.

Not that I will. Or won't. I don't know what the future holds and I don't know that I have the answer as to what one should or shouldn't do. I just wonder. Maybe you smartipants readers have some thoughts?

Anywayyyyy, that brings me to a command decision. In the meantime, while I'm waiting to find someone great for me, I'm starting a harem.

I'll be taking applications starting now. Qualifications:
  • Must be witty and intelligent. Nothing is sexier than someone who can teach me something and make me laugh.
  • No limits on build and age, except: you must be taller than 5'7" and/or big enough so that if I sit on you, you don't break. 
  • Must have plenty of sexual experience. I don't have the time to teach you anything other than my personal preferences and how I sound when I'm really, really, really happy. 
Now let the applications come pouring in.

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

On The Perfection Myth

When did it become so important to be perfect? The roomie/bestie and I talk about this allll the time. I really don’t get it. When did perfection become the goal? Why is it not okay to strive for anything less than perfection? When did it become an all or nothing? You’re perfect or you’re crap. Why?

Seems like folly to me.

Foremost because perfection is a lie.

Perfection doesn’t exist. In any form, whether it’s an accomplishment or beauty or intelligence or whatever? Perfection does not and cannot exist.

Here’s where the religious folk tell me their god is perfect and we are simply striving to be like him. Well, that’s one of my main issues with most religions. In the pursuit of perfection, we become to hard on our perceived faults and inevitably fall short. And if someone can’t fit in the mold for whatever reason, they’re screwed (or damned, as it were).

Well I say fuck that.

Perfection is not real and the pursuit of it only achieves unhappiness. We’re never happy with what we can do or have done or do know. Not that striving to learn and grow and become aren’t awesome things. They are. I’m a huge believer in life-long learning. That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about not always falling short of perfection, in being happy with who you are in this moment knowing that you’ll inevitably learn and grow and change and it’s fine.

I don’t regret who I was ten years ago, but I like who I am very much today, and I can’t wait to meet who I’ll be in another ten years.

Par example, my whole life was in striving to be perfect for my mother, but I was screwed, but it would never happen. I would never be good enough if perfect was the goal. When I let go of that, I was finally able to pursue a modicum of happiness. And these past few years have been the happiest of my life.

But beyond the pressure of our parental units, we all seek perfection in one form or another.It’s ceased to be okay to be mediocre at anything; we have to want to be perfect at everything.

On the flip side, when did we become so concerned about self esteem that we can’t accept our limitations? Or teach our kids (your kids, really, since my cats think they’re pretty perfect just as they are) that it’s okay to suck at something and find something else they might be good at?

It’s okay to suck at something. It is! It so is. Or even to do something so-so. I’m a so-so cook. I really can’t play a sport that involves a ball of any kind. And I can’t draw for shit. How many times has someone, when I tell them of these things, told me not to put myself down! I’m sure you’re great at everything!

Um, no I’m not. And that’s okay. I’m not putting myself down. I’m accepting my limitations. I still celebrate my strengths, but in being honest with myself, I find a contentment with the talents I do have.
One of my fave photos, by Susanne Junker
I’m a promising photographer, a pretty kickass writer, and an aging dancer who was once a pretty promising dancer (and that’s ok). I read very quickly and have a fairly excellent memory. I sing alright, but rock at karaoke. I can't wield a bat, a cue, or a stick, but I swim with great form.

I have an eye for fashion, but don’t give two shits about spending too much money on an effing purse or pair of shoes. I have an addiction to H&M, Target, and book stores. I’m pretty good with my finances, but not so great at eating well every day.

I’d rather eat something that will dazzle my taste buds than something that is technically healthy. I have a great ass that has some cellulite. My boobs are small, but it’s nice not to have to buy sports bras. I gain weight easily in my stomach, but sometimes that makes me fell Botticelli-esque. My skin is sensitive and I have great hair.

That’s just part of me. Some great, some mediocre. And I like that! My self esteem is okay because I accept who I am and what I can and can’t do.

It’s okay. We can be happy with okay.

I don’t want my lovers to think I’m perfect or call me perfect. I’m not perfect and my flaws (if you can call them that) make me unique. And the higher the pedestal, the harder the fall.

No offense to Pink, whom I usually love, but I hate this song:

I appreciate her attempt, but think it falls short. Why is it nothing or perfect? I’ve never liked the “perfect to me” concept either. It just seems rife with condescension or something. Maybe that’s not the right word. Placation? That's not right either.

I much prefer Darcy’s line from the first Bridget Jone’s Dairy: “I like you. Just the way you are.”

He’s not saying she’s perfect. She’s obviously not. He’s not either. They both have countless faults. He likes her just the way she is. Not despite her faults, not because of them. Because she is who she is.

Isn’t that a lovely thought?

Would that we could love ourselves for the package we are and not for what we wish we were or hope we were.

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Photo of the Day: Café au Lait Happiness

Cafe au Lait happiness

I thought I'd share a non-nature photo today. Look at me! All diverse and stuff! I don't drink coffee often, but the nice gals at the coffee shop still punch my card (that sounds dirty) when I get tea. So when I finally got my free drink, I splurged with a Café au Lait.

Even if you don't like coffee, you gotta love the yummy swirls and luscious colors. YUM!

Monday, March 28, 2011

I'm not good at zippers

I fidget in my red plastic chair. The little metal bumps dig into my back and my bottom is kinda numb. I pull one corduroy leg under me and kick the other around, staring at my new red shoes with the velcro straps (I like the sound of the velcro).

 It’s only my third day at preschool and I don’t have many friends yet. I’m kinda shy.

“Craft time!” Teacher tells us it’s Safety Day and we’ll be making pictures of seat belts.

She passes out the paper and glitter and glue and crayons and scissors into the center of the long tables we gather around.

I select a bottle of glue, blue glitter, some construction paper, and a pair of purple plastic scissors and organize it all in front of me until it all looks perfect.

I chose blue because our car is blue and so it has to be blue. 

Then I draw out the seatbelt outlines with a grey crayon on the thick, white paper, making sure the square center where it buckles is colored in grey too, like metal. Then I take the glue and smear it with my fingers (ewewew) where the straps are.

Oh look, something white on my fingers. I instinctively lick it off. EWEWEW! That was glue. Ew. Ew. I smack my tongue, trying to get rid of the bitter, sticky taste. I wipe my fingers off on my pants. Gross.

I sprinkle the blue glitter everywhere the glue is. It’s finished! Almost perfect. There’s a lot of glitter and the lines are kinda wonky, but I like it. It looks just like our car.

Teacher tells me to write my name on it so it doesn’t get mixed up with the other kids’ when I go home. I’m not very good at writing, but I know how to spell my name. With a blue crayon, I spell out each letter:


The R is the hardest, but it’s okay.

We take our seat belts to a big table by the door so they can dry and the teacher tells us to go get our coats for recess. Teacher says to make sure we zip up our coats because it is cold.

I squeeze between two boys to get my bright pink puffy coat off of its peg in the cubby closet. I work my arms into it and try to zip it up, but I’m not very good at zippers. I struggle to get the bottoms to line up and I just can’t make it work. But teacher said to zip up, so I keep trying.

All of a sudden, it’s dark in the cubby closet. I look up and find my way out into the classroom.

A little light comes in from the windows by the ceiling. Empty. No kids. No teacher. I’m all alone.

I go to the door and pull at the metal handle, but it’s locked.

All alone.

The light switch is too high for me to reach.

My bottom lip quivering and my eyes watering, I sit on the rough, musty, brown carpet indian style and wait for someone to come get me. I grab at my braids I brush the ends against my wet cheeks and wait, all alone in the dark.

This was a post for the RememeRED prompt: Remember kindergarten. If, after thinking about it for a while, you can't recall anything, move on to first grade. Mine your memories and write about the earliest grade you can recall. What was special? What was ordinary? What did you feel? Hear? See? Smell?

Of course I HAD to write about this memory, even though it's from preschool, which I started pretty young. I must have been 3 when this happened. But it's one of my most vivid memories. And yes, they really did lock me in the classroom and never noticed. They found me after recess. Needless to say, my parents yanked me out of this school and a few others before I ended up at Montessori School. 

Instead of writing this from what I think adults would like to read, I really tried to stay true to my memories and write how I would have explained it back then, (with slightly better grammar and vocab of course), keeping my voice young. Some stuff I fudged, but most of it is exactly how I remember.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Song Sunday: Cosmic Love

Do you love Florence and the Machine? I sure do. I think it's way overdue that I share a song.

This song is both pretty and powerful, a great combo. It's moving and fun and I want to choreograph a dance to it. Or at least rock out in my car. Which I do.


Friday, March 25, 2011

This Week at Sprocket Ink

I was hard at work at Sprocket Ink again this past week! I'm sure, at least I hope, that you won't be disappointed.

Go read:

Obama, Just Send Your Secret Weapon into Libya
In which I explain an easy peasy way to win this new war.

Facebook, Now With Polygamy Charges!
In which I try to figure out a man who is charged with polygamy after his wife finds photos of his new wedding on Facebook.

Thanks for reading! We're a new site, so we very much appreciate comments and digs and stumbles and tweets and likes.

Photo of the Day: Hazy Haystack

hazy Haystack

Another shot from the coast of Haystack Rock. And yes, this IS where a big chunk of Goonies was filmed. That would be enough to make ME happy! Anyway, this shot was an accident of sorts. I hadn't changed the white balance from some earlier, much cloudier shots and at first I thought I would delete it. But, what do you know? I like the almost sepia-esque tint playing off the water and sand. I also love how the light was that day. The clouds had left, but as often happens near the ocean, left a haze. So the sun glittered on the water, but left Haystack Rock a blur. Love. That.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

On Learning

First and foremost, I love my mind. I know I'm attractive and I honestly am not so dense as to think I could compare myself to how I might feel if I looked differently. But in this body and this mind, my mind trumps looks every day. It's my best feature. My looks, aesthetics, the importance of pretty, all that is unimportant. It's nice. And I like to dress up and look attractive. But I'd trade all that for more learning and knowledge.

Seriously. If a university told me I could trade my face for tutition, I'd do it in a hot minute. I'd love to get my Masters, not necessarily because it could further my career (because you don't really need a Creative Writing MFA to write), but to increase my knowledge. But, hell, maybe I'd get a degree in something else, even though I'm a writer through and through. Did you know I have two AAs? One in English and one in Marketing, and my BA is in Literature.

But I happen to think my brain is sexy as hell. 
I love to learn. Most of my life was spent reading a book. But some of my best memories were in discussion in a classroom. I can't read something new or learn something that changes my mind and not share it, because I think it's so important to pass knowledge on.

It's frustrating to me that there's so much to learn and only so little time and resources. I wish I could find more time to read. I need learning in my life. I need people around that think critically. That analyze the world and seek out knowledge. That challenge my mind to grow and think and learn.

I really don't quite understand those who don't care about learning. Not that I don't respect their interests or whatever. I just don't understand it. It's such a huge part of my being that I simply cannot empathize with another perspective. Why wouldn't you want to know everything there is to know? I understand not being interesting in a particular topic, but I don't understand not wanted to know new things at all.

I'm a seeker. I need to travel. I need to discover the world and see places I've never seen and learn about their histories and cultures and norms and cuisines. I can't imagine just being happy in my little life, sitting in a bubble, not needing to break out and become affected by the differences of the world.

That's what it is. Unlike conquerors of the past, I don't want to change world by who I am. I want it to change me. To show me new ways of living, of thinking, of believing. I may not yield easily in some aspects of my thinking, but knowing more and more about different modes of thought expands our ability to think broadly and respect others' differences.

I want to learn all I can about governments and politics and policies. One thing I learned when living in France was not that the French do it best (which is what I expected to learn going there). Instead I learned that no one does it best. No one. We're all bumbling around this planet doing the best we can, trying to live. I like what some nations do in certain ways and not so much in others. And some nations just have it bassackwards. But if we think we're the best, we'll never learn to do it better.

I want to keep informed about what's going on in the places I live and in the world. I also don't understand how people don't care about that. These things affect us directly as citizens and residents and, hell, as people. I really don't get not caring. I mean, live your life. But at least recognize that if you're not informed or you don't get involved, you forfeit your right to care what happens.

But who would you? It's so exhilarating to learn and absorb and digest knowledge. There's nothing sexier than a sharp mind. And nothing more exciting than someone who challenges me to a debate, who puts my mind to the test, who helps me learn about the obscure or interesting.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

So I was gonna write a post begging Portland to give me one sunny and at least somewhat warmer day.

And then I awoke the other day to the sun (partly) and warm enough weather to not need a jacket. It only lasted until the afternoon, but that fact is: my blogging controls the weather in Portland.

Clearly I have too much power and must be stopped.


I've had some questions about how Jeté is doing. The short answer? Who the hell knows. She seems happy. She gets moody occasionally. I have no clue what the hell is up with her tumor. It was HUGE then shrunk. Seriously, it flattened out as if I popped it. Then it got huge again.

I'm trying not to worry about it too much. As long as she seems happy and not in pain, I'm just gonna let her live.

Ya know?


I'm trying to move. It's time to move on from my current home. For a bunch of reasons really, the leasr of which being my trashy loud neighbors and my bitchy landlord, but mostly because the rent is being raised and I can't afford it.

So my friend Sonja and I are looking for a place. We found the perfect townhome the other day and fell in love. The price was right, the neighborhood adorable, and the view incredible. But we didn't get it because two girls swooped in and stole it. If I meet those bitches, I swear, I'm gonna start a life of crime ifyouknowwhatImean.

When I found out Sunday that we didn't get it, I was so freaking bummed. Not only was it PERFECT, but I'd gotten all competitive. It was ours and then it wasn't. Ugg.

So I'd appreciate it if ya'll could send all your energy toward us finding a cute yet affordable place soon. For serious.

I love you guys in my panties!


Here's my fave video of the week. This makes me happier than I can possible describe!

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Photo of the Day: Sea Glass

sea glass
The Fella and I went to the coast last weekend. It was rainy and stormy in Portland but at Cannon Beach it was gorgeous and sunny with just a slight haze. I nabbed this shot in the afternoon and the light was just perfect, the tide washing in, creating a mirror for the ohsofamous Haystack Rock. Have I mentioned how much I love reflective surfaces?

Monday, March 21, 2011

I missed her

Her email address was staring at me brazenly. My breath captive in my throat. An email. From her.

The last time I'd seen her was almost a year ago, sitting in her car, the dashboard illuminating our distorted faces with a macabre glow, the both of us overcome with sobs at the revelation of what she’d done.

I’d never felt so betrayed. So heartbroken.

I'd said never. She broke the rules. Her chance had passed. 

But I missed her. I missed her terribly. I missed her before I even slammed the heavy car door that night, the word slut howled into the chilly air.

I missed her down into my toes.

I ached with the absence of her. Every significant moment lacking because I couldn’t share it with her.

Overwhelmed with emotion, I held the mouse under my fingers. I don’t know how I expected to feel, but I felt it all. Apprehension. Joy. Anger. Relief. I was excited and I was terrified. The butterflies must have been chased away by the bees buzzing in my stomach. My throat convulsed with a thousand nerves.

With shaky hands and without even noticing the subject line, I clicked.

So much.

Tears immediately welled.

So much.

Words of contrition and sadness and remorse. Words like selfish and sorry and I miss you. Words that seeped into the gaping wound in my heart and filled it with warm light.

I read without reading, just letting the fact of their existence sooth my aching soul.

Then I read again.

I read each word ravenously with the gaze of a hungry beast, not wanted to miss one delicious morsel of apology and hope and love. Her voice, which I’d somehow forgotten yet remembered, was clear and honest and so reassuringly her.

With each phrase, forgiveness overtook me. With each expression, I let her back into my core. As I read, I suddenly knew I’d forgiven her before she’d even asked, but knew that what I needed from her was just that: to ask for my forgiveness.

Just that simple act. That offering of apology.

And I was mended. We were mended. Our friendship of ten years reclaimed and salvaged, now stronger than before. A friendship more important than rancor. A friendship worth forgiveness.

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: This week's prompt is about forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving yourself. Write about a time of forgiveness. I wrote this about an event that happened maybe 5 or 6 years ago. The friend in the story is one of my closest friends still today. We're stronger than ever.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

Song Sunday: World Spins Madly On

I think this a Sunday for The Weepies. I love their sound so much, this would be a gorgeous song even if the lyrics weren't so dulcet and poignant.

Plus how can you not love this sweetly quirky video? You must love it. The end.


Saturday, March 19, 2011

Sexy Saturdays: Hiatus


Please don't chase me down with pitchforks and torches. Sexy Saturdays is taking a hiatus. I just need a bit of a break and I'll be taking Saturdays off for a while. Not sure when I'll bring it back, but in the meantime, you can always go read all the delicious past posts.

Friday, March 18, 2011

This Week at Sprocket Ink

Don't you hate these wrapping up the week posts? I do. I always swore I'd never do them yet here I am!

I am so excited to announce that I am a contributor on a new site Sprocket Ink!

Sprocket Ink is an online news site that brings you the latest and greatest of all things in celebrity, politics, lifestyle and humor. And by news site we mean a bunch of snarky writers making fun of a lot of stuff. And by celebrity, politics, lifestyle and humor we mean.... things that make us laugh. Laugh with us.

I'm in really great company with an impressive crew of wit slingers and excellent writers. I'm really honored to be apart of this site.

Plus, I get to talk about things like politics, which don't always have a place here on mah blog. So yay!

This week at Sprocket Ink:

I explain how Planned Parenthood will save the economy.

Portland gives its love to Portlandia

I try to figure out why rape seems to be okay if the girl is slutty

Thanks for reading!

you say it's your birthday?

Today is my bestie, my roomie, my hetero life partner Lynette's birthday!

For serious.

I take such pleasure in knowing she's that much older than me.

And not only that, it's my little nephew E's (the son of one miss BittrBetty) 3rd birthday. THREE! How the hell did that happen? I'm pretty sure I was at the hospital holding his squishy little body just a couple months ago. Three. That's bullshit.

So to E and Lynnette:

Happy Birthday!

Thursday, March 17, 2011

Raw Photos: Laugh Winner!

Well it was a tough decision. It really was. All of your photos made us laugh and giggle and chortle and snort.

Let's picture that for a second. Hee!

I love that with each contest, you help us prove that great photos don't need to be PhotoShopped. They can be raw, straight out of the camera. And more than that, it's better that way. Way to go, all of you!

But there can only be one winner.

But FIRST! The runners up:

Even bears get cold
By LateEnough

Run Stork!
By nonspleen

And now. The moment you've been waiting for. The winner of this month's Raw Photos Contest.

The winner is.....

Drum roll please.....



mad scientist hair
By She Suggests

At the end of the day, the winner was a clear pick for us. This photo fits everything we asked for. It's excellent quality. The light and composition are fantastic. And it makes us laugh and laugh and then laugh some more. That face is utterly irresistible and THAT HAIR! My goodness this photo is fantastic!

Great job, SheSuggests! You are a Raw Photo Maven!

Email awesomecrazylady at gmail dot come to collect your badge.


Now don't pack up your cameras just yet. We have a new contest coming up in May. This one should be easy peasy but leave lots of room for creativity:

Theme: Springtime

So maybe spring is still cold and grey where you live. Or maybe spring means you start planting bulbs in the cold ground or shave your dogs or clean out your house or start buying short sleeves and flip flops or plucking flowers for yourself. Whatever spring is for you, photograph it! Get creative. You've got over a month to shoot. But remember! Raw photos only.

Good luck! See you in May!

Erin go effing braugh, bra!

Yeah, I'm Irish. Which is not that big of a deal as I learned when I visited Ireland for the first time several years ago. American Irish are not the same as real Irish, I learned, and you really have to prove your heritage to get in the Irish club.

Well that aside, I've always been proud of my Irish heritage and I celebrate St Patrick's Day with gusto. What? I hear you scoffing. I know I hate most holidays, but I love the day when I get to don Kelly green and drink Guinness (more on that in a sec) and celebrate my Celtic roots.

Some of my best childhood memories are listening to my mom's records of Irish drinking songs and eating her homemade corned beef and cabbage.

And I do my part to be proudly Irish. When I was in Dublin, I magnanimously shagged a barely legal jailbait Irish boy and drank my weight in Guinness.
Irish jailbait I shagged. Just doing my part.
See, on my mom's side, I'm a McGinnis and if you know anything about history, the English persecuted the Irish, clans split, potato famine, blah blah blah, all the different names (and diff spellings) go back to the same main families and basically I deserve some claim to the Guinness family fortune. Or at least a lifetime supply of the best beer ever brewed.
good Irish girls nuzzle their Guinness
 Every March the 17th, I don my favorite green shirt.

but it's MISSING! someone put out an APB!
 And my traveling hat (purchased in Dublin and has traveled with me to every country and state I've been to).
my traveling hat
So today, expect to find me in a pub somewhere, singing drinking songs, wearing my traveling hat and some other shirt because my damn lucky shirt is missing, and getting ridiculous on Guinness. 


Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Raw Photos: Laugh Finalists!

Well you guys really brought your best game. Yes you did! Every photo made us laugh heartily. Well done!

Remember, we judged your photos based on adherence to the theme and photo quality. And here are the finalists:

Even bears get cold
By Late Enough
This bear makes me happy in my heart. Why does a bear need a snuggie? WHY?

Run Stork!
By nonspleen
Oh my. This is such a wonderful action shot and I really want to know the back story. So funny!

By amydpp
Oh creepy squirrel, how I love you. I can't look at this without laughing.

mad scientist hair
By shesuggests
How can you not love this shot? Her hair! The look on her face! Perfect.

by lovelyleyphotography
I am giggling with childlike glee. So much happiness in this shot.

Winner announced soon! 

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Photo of the Day: Arboreal Pond

arboreal pond

I snapped this last weekend when walking along the waterfront. Near these condos were decorative ponds and between the grey day and the stillness of the ponds, I found the most irresistible reflections.

Have I mentioned how much I love reflective surfaces?

Obsessed am I.

Also? Yoda apparently.

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

I am not managing my time well these days. I've taken a lot on my plate without any plan on how I can manage it all.

Also I'm feeling pretty homesick and for no good reason. I just miss my friends and family and California in general. I just want to see a palm tree and hear ten different Spanish dialects. I still love Portland, but California is still a little bit home. 

And on top of all that? I'm struggling to be social. I know you all picture the bubbly, outgoing former cheerleader you see day after day, but truth be told, I have to work at that. My true nature is pretty anti-social and when I get stressed, I retreat deeper into myself. So please forgive me if I ignore you. I'm just overwhelmed.


I hate daylight savings time. Hate. Despise. With the fire of my soul.

I have a sensitive body and I don't react well to time change in the spring or fall.

Why must we change anyway? As a friend of a friend put it, it's like cutting the end off a blanket, sewing it to the other end, and saying you have a longer blanket.

It makes no sense!

So it makes me cranky. And annoyed. And headachey. Blech. Double blech.

And you know what tops that crankiness off and takes me into murderous? How everyone assumes we're all toddlers who can't tell time or understand the concept of changing a clock.

"Don't forget to change your clocks!"

"Just making sure you know the time changed!"

First of all, there is this magic thing called TECHNOLOGY and all our cell phones and computers update automatically. It's MAGIC!

Not only that, this isn't my first time change. I've been around the clock, as it were. I've done it twice a year since I owned my first clock. Sure, in the early years my dad had to help, but I got the hang of it pretty fast. Because it's not that hard!

So shut the hell up about it and stop acting like a smug bastard as if you're in on some knowledge the rest of the stupid fucking population is ignorant of and shut the fook up.


The Fella doesn't want to read my blog.

He says he doesn't want to learn about me this way, which I think is sweet. But I also want him to read my writing occasionally. It's what I do. It's my work and my art. Which I'm eager to share. He tells me about his work, so I don't think it's unreasonable to ask him to read my writing.

I mean, am I right? So what would you do? Ask him to read occasionally? Send him links you want him to read? What do you think?


So I'm a huge dork. And as you know, I don't watch an actual TV. I get all my televised crack online, so I don't experience commercials like the rest of y'all do. BUT, I do get commercials on Hulu occasionally and, I have to say, I am utterly in love with the Frontier Airlines commercials.


I giggle like a little girl on laughing gas every time. They crack me up! Such comedic genius is rarely captured in such short spots (unless you count the Twitter). I mean, mattress commericals anyone?

Anyway, so I tweeted the other day about what I dork I was for getting such a kick out of these commercials and this dude who writes them tweets back that I'm not a dork and then I died of happiness.

And asked for his autograph. Just kidding. I didn't do that.

I've met celebs. When I worked in Hollywood, I met Michael Jackson, put bras on Gwen Stefani, and watched Andy Dick change his clothes on my desk. And I couldn't give a rat's nasty ass. But this was like meeting a real celeb. Someone who writes famous things that make thousands laugh? That's my kind of celebrity.

Like I said, dork.


So I'm sad to say that my Etsy shop is going under. I haven't sold a piece in over a month and am about to close it up because I can't afford to keep it. I started it to raise money for Jeté's cancer debt, but it's now costing me much more than I can handle. I even have a sale going, but it doesn't seem to be moving any stock.

So if you want a piece, please order one until I let the shop go. I'll keep the free shipping sale through the end of March and then close up.

Monday, March 14, 2011

It tasted pink

He ate one every Sunday morning, the comics lain spread out in front of him in their full color glory. I’d sit on his lap and we’d read together as he peeled away the pinky flesh like an orange and I’d inhale the smell of pink and newspaper print.

He’d always make a slit in the peel with a knitting needle, infuriating my mother, and make a pile of the thick husk on the classifieds. I was always mystified that the outside of the peel was so soft and pink but the inside so white and messy.

Then he’d pull it apart with his big hands and take each juicy wedge and pop it in his big mouth, citrusy liquid dotting his mustache.

It always seemed so foreign to me. So grownup.

Cereal and bananas were what I had for breakfast, not this exotic fruit that my Daddy seemed to like so much. But now? I wanted to taste some.

“Can I have one?”

“Sure, Panda.”

He separated out a small pregnant pink wedge, a little juice spurting onto my lap, and handed it to me.

I held it for a bit, touching it. The clear skin was rubbery and that just didn’t seem right. Eating rubber. Gross.

So I pulled away the skin carefully and methodically, exposing the dense city of perfectly pink little juicy tadpoles, all nestled together just waiting to rupture juice everywhere. I liked the site of it. So intricate and perfect. So much there to see and taste.

I bit into the wedge and the juice of it exploded on my tongue and dribbled down my chin. The intense tart flavor became surprisingly sweet as it worked its way back my tongue and down my throat.

With each bite, little fruity tadpoles danced around my mouth and I mercilessly captured each one and burst it with my tongue, little pops of zing.

This is what pink tastes like. It bit more than a grape. In fact, it wasn’t like a grape at all. But it wasn’t like an orange or a lemon. It was too sweet. It was something new. Something new and I liked it. 

I finished it with intense relish and let my juicy lips overtake my face with a silly grin as I licked my fingers.

“Can I have another one?”

“You like it?”



“Okay. Well, here’s the last one. I’ll have to buy more now.”

After that, my dad and I shared pink grapefruit every Sunday. He’d peel them for us and we’d eat as we read the paper, first the comics then we’d scour the print for typos and spelling or grammar errors as juice drippled onto the crisp pages.

Years later, I was surprised to learn most people eat grapefruit with a spoon and even sugar.

I still prefer peeling it. It tastes differently on a spoon. Not quite as pink.

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: This week, we'd like for you to write about your favorite fresh fruit or vegetable. Share a memory of when you first tasted it, where it came from, when you last had it, a favorite way to prepare it, and such. As you write your piece this week, think of it as writing a scene. Be sure to engage our senses, make us feel, see, taste, hear, and smell. Pull us in with your description.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

Song Sunday: Bluff

It's been a testosterone fest on Song Sundays lately, but I care not. I love me some male melodies and Pilot Speed is no exception. I love the sweet, passionate verses. I love this song. I love this video. I love his hair blowing in the wind and I want to kiss his dark, caterpillar eyebrows.

Yeah, I'm weird. Enjoy the song anyway!

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Sexy Saturdays: A Dam Shame

Kiddos, I couldn't be more excited for the guest poster today! I have known Deb (TheBadassMuppet) since college, since one fateful film class actually, where we talked politics and race and gender theory and not so secretly bemoaned the several Neanderthal men on our campus... Ahh good times. I'm so glad she and I have stayed friends since. She's a fellow bookworm, an incredible woman, strong and opinionated, and a voice in the queer community. I just love her to my toes.

Plus? She's an awesome writer. I mean it. She's so talented. I'd like to say we were taught by the same professors, but I suspect she just has loads of innate talent. You can find her on Twitter and make sure to check out her work at Bitch Magazine. Enjoy!
 “That was ‘C.’ Any better?”

“I – I think so,” I managed, stalling from saying At least I could almost feel that, a little.

Lesbianism was harder than I’d expected.

In high school, my secret girlfriend and I had never had to navigate the slippery waters (har, har) of cunnilingus. Both of us lived with watchful, less-than-gay-friendly parents, and I had barely started to accept that maybe watching bad movies with junior college guys wasn’t as good as it could get. Secretive hand-holding and furtive kisses were as far as we’d dared to go.

Many angst-filled journals later, I was essentially “out” (except for, you know, the family thing) and feeling free and great and blah blah blah, but sex continued to baffle me. In a way, it was like puberty all over again, and, like any adolescent with middling confidence, I hadn’t yet learned to be picky. I dated the first ladies who came my way, regardless of chemistry or how little they had in common with Veronica Mars. The woman in my bed at that moment, for instance, was spacey and appeared to have no other friends or interests. I could not honestly say that I liked her – yet there we were, reinventing the wheel with her head between my thighs. Playing around with boys and men may have been boring as all get-out, but at least I had known what was expected of me. I had always wished sex was like in the movies, in a more literal sense than people tend to say that: sensual kisses that cut directly to post-coital satisfaction.

Years later, as a proud, happy dyke with a rockin’ sex life, I would have a different view. But there was one factor, dear readers, which I’m afraid doomed my first proper Sapphic encounter before it began.

I am referring, of course, to the dental dam.

104/365: I love the dentist.
I was promised Novocaine! (via Flickr)
Lesbian advice gurus Lipstick & Dipstick have asked if the dam might be sexy if it were called something else, something that doesn’t so strongly suggest vagina dentata. Hoo hoo hoody, cum curtain? Funny but, um, no. It wouldn’t. Erecting a rubber wall between your eager mouth and your partner’s treasures, or vice versa, is about as sexy as a root canal, which is probably where the name came from in the first place. Mint flavor is especially bad at taking your psyche out of the dentist’s chair.

If you’ve never had the displeasure, a dental dam is a square of latex big enough to serve as a floatation device. It’s meant to block labia from tongue so that no sexyfluids pass on anything unseemly. If the device sounds, well, unpractical for territory full of nooks and crannies, it is, to the point where most packages’ official instructions (never had to look at those for a condom, did you?) advise to cover the genital-side of the block with lubricant.

Did that kill any sex-buzz you might have had going before checking out this entry? Yeah. That’s the point.

Let’s recap:
  1. Lube is no longer an aid for when things get extra-adventurous. It’s an adhesive. And while I’ve read a lot of sexy stories, not a-one has included the word “glue.”
  2. You think that strawberryish-if-you-close-your-eyes glove is unappealing on a phallus? There’s a reason the pussy gets infected after contact with sweet food: THE TWAIN WERE NEVER MEANT TO MEET.
  3. You have no contact with the other person’s ladyparts, 
  4. or more importantly (to me, at that particular point in time) the opposite is true, which leads us to the crucial minus in this equation: 
  5. you can’t feel shit.

So there I was, lying on a snakeskin-print sheet feeling all safe and responsible, and I had plenty of time for that because I wasn’t feeling anything else, except a growing sense of anticlimax.

“There, I finished the alphabet!” Her face popped back up, looking triumphant. Now I know my ABCs… I bemoaned the recent demise of my vibrator, Ruby the rabbit.

The second half of my first time confirmed what I already knew: the dam is a damn shame. It seemed less like sex and more like licking a banister. But hey, I thought, at least I’ve officially Been With A Woman now. The knowledge was enough to make me shake, though not in the way one would hope. As Laura M. Carpenter argued, the first time exists so that there can be more. Still, before we stopped, something genuinely exciting occurred: rogue wetness found my tongue when the dam crumpled a bit. (Like I said, they’re unwieldy, which spoils even the official “point.”) She tasted like honey, which was much more arousing than grape eraser. Next time, we’ll both get checked at a clinic beforehand, I vowed to myself. It might take some extra planning, but I knew it’d be worth it.

Friday, March 11, 2011

The thing about memory

 "I've never tried to block out the memories of the past, even though some are painful. I don't understand people who hide from their past. Everything you live through helps to make you the person you are now.” -Sophia Loren

You know those TV shows where someone gets amnesia or they've blocked out a chunk of their childhood but then they see a hypnotist and all the memories come flooding back?

Yeah I used to think that was total bunk.

And it is. Mostly.

But the whole block out memories thing and then suddenly remembering them all? I never believed that was possible.

I thought that memory was all or nothing. People with trauma must block out the whole thing. The past must be a total blank, just a fuzzy dark recess of nothing where memories should be.

I was sure that hadn't happened to me because I remembered lots of my childhood. I remembered laughter and dancing and coconut cream pies and the smell of chlorine in the morning. I remembered Barbie dolls and Thunder Cats. I remembered kittens and horses and violins and roller skates and bicycles with streamers. I remembered Janet Jackson and side ponytails and LA Gear.

Clear as day, as it were. The metaphorical day which must stretch blue to the hills.

In 2008, I decided to go to therapy. I'd been stressed at work. Not just stressed, overhwelmed. Not handling my stress. The walls of my soul breaking down. Plus I thought it would be good to talk about all sorts of things, not the least of which being the toxic men I picked, my adoption, and my relationship with my mother.

And I talked. And I talked. And my therapist listened. And I talked. And I talked.

And then a light turned on.

It was as if I'd been living my life in the small corner of a room. But I'd thought that corner was large. I lived there with a small light illuminating just that one corner and I was happy there. Well, I wasn't happy there, but I thought I was happy and that seemed enough. Enough for 28 years of life and memories.

Then someone turned on a bright light and suddenly I saw that the room was large and I saw everything that was piled and cluttered. They had been sitting there for years, ignored, collecting dust, out of sight, out of mind.

All my memories. So many. Years of memories which I never knew were missing were suddenly back.

I didn't like what I saw. But I was happy to see it.

I remembered the fear and the pain and the tears. The pieces fell together and I understand why I behaved the way I did. I understood that certain things were not, in fact, my fault. Remembering allowed me to let go of my guilt for not being good enough. Allowed me to be angry for things I didn't remember to be angry for. Remembering allowed me to heal my wounds and to move on with my life. Remembering allowed me to be an adult. Finally.

Nobody planted those memories there. Nobody hypnotized me or guided me to them.

The talking turned on the light. I found those memories myself.

And no offense to Miss Loren, but I didn't choose to block out those memories. I didn't have a choice. I didn't even know I'd done it. It just happened. Like a heart beat or a lung taking in breath. 

It was hard for people to believe, hard for my father to believe, which I understand. I would've found it hard to believe too. I thought that kind of thing was bunk, until it happened to me. Or, at least until I realized that was me.

I'm as whole as is possible at this point. I worked hard. Therapy was indeed hard work and I went ready to put in the time and effort. I still work hard. It will always be hard work and I know that.

I'm not the same person I was before. Things that rolled off my back before I have a hard time letting go now. I no longer let others push me around. I don't bury my feelings anymore; I swim in them until my fingers get all pruney. I'm quicker to cry but I'm quicker to laugh too.

But when I write about my past, posts like this one, it might be hard to articulate, hard to write, but the memory is right there ready to express itself. It doesn't feel fresh, the pain doesn't sear like it did two years ago. I imagine it's how most people remember their pasts. Somehow vivid yet distant.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

If you decide to learn to knit, don't be surprised when your cats take a vested interest in your endeavor.

Just sayin'.

Yarn is irresistible. 


If you knit the world's longest scarf, then get to the end and miss a loop when tying it off and the whole thing falls apart, don't freak out.

It's okay. Sure, you spent an inordinate amount of time working on it, but you still had fun. It still distracted you from your mercenary uterus and throbbing headache.

So take it apart and start over.

But don't fuck it up this time.


I had a dream last night that I couldn't find my flip flops.

It was awful.

Clearly I love flip flops.

And am ready for spring.



I love Portland. I love that I live in a place where several times a day I think, Only in Portland.

I love that I can sit by the window in my favorite coffee shop and see all sorts of disparate sights. A hipster douchebag walking with a guy dressed like a lumberjack, a tiny woman carrying a huge accordion, a lady in cowboy boots and short shorts on a cold day, a man bundled up for a blizzard on a hot day, and any number of small children who are more adept on bicycles than I am.


I spotted this contact juggler at the Portland Saturday Market last weekend.

For those who don't know, contact juggling focuses on the movement of objects, such as balls, in contact with the body. For example, there are videos of this guy all over the internet and I've heard he's supposed to be one of the best in the world. Or check out this guy.

Anyway, I took so many shots that I decided to take a handful and put together this short vid. Hope you like.


The Raw Photos Contest is in full swing! Aren't you excited? I'm excited.

Theme: What Makes You Laugh.

You have until Saturday at midnight to submit your two best shots. Submit here.


Don't forget I'm having an Etsy sale!

Free shipping on all items in my shop for the month of March.

Use coupon code: SPRINGCLEAN

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

yes I SHALL covet, thankyouverymuch

Today? Another delicate subject that is forcing me to write about it.

This happens often to me. The Universe seems to converge and topics find their way to me. What choice do I have? I can't mock the muses can I? Of course I can't.

A reader and I had a little banter on my facecrack page the other day. I don't share this to single her out (which is why I blurred her name) or make her feel badly, but because it got me thinking about this subject.

So, my dear reader, I know you were kidding and we had a good laugh. 

But what this got me thinking was that I'm not exactly happy being childless. 

I know it probably doesn't seem that way because I try to make the most out of my situation. I believe in finding happiness where and when you can. I know that children may not happen for me and so I try to be happy with what I have. 

It's not just that I haven't had the opportunity to even try to motherhood yet. That is a big part of it. I'll admit. I'm bitter. I'm pissed that I've wanted kids for years now and it's just not happened for me. It sucks and I won't pretend it doesn't. 

But it's also because my hostile asshole of a uterus probably won't let me ever have kids.  If the damn thing didn't make me so miserable, I might feel sorry for it. And hopefully by now you all know my opinions on adoption and I fully plan on adopting some day whether I can pop out an earthling or not, except that adoption is incredibly expensive and I only hope that once day I can put forth the necessary funds to bring home a cute baby from the baby store. 

However, I'm also pissed that anything that has to do with my lady parts has to be a big ordeal. I'm prone to ovarian cysts. I have endometriosis and a tilted uterus. Which means that with my monthly business as usual comes a buttload of pain and misery. Birth control pills help immensely. Before them, I could count on not being able to walk for a few days because of the pain. In the 9th grade, I passed out in my school bathroom once, the pain was so bad. 

I also worry about the day I have to go off birth control to try to get pregnant. How much will it hurt? And will I even be able to get pregnant? I've had lots of close calls with boyfriends in the past. Plenty of chances to accidentally incubate a fetus. Yet, nada. And my gyno was not surprised. According to him, pregnancy will be my Everest. Which is why he wants me to start trying like 3 years ago. 

But short of tricking some troll from a bar or getting all too cozy with a turkey baster, there's nothing I can do about that is there? I still think I could hang around a fire station and hope some junkie drops off her baby. It could happen.

Which brings me back to my first thought. I'm jealous of you moms. I am. Insanely jealous. I'm jealous of your accidental pregnancies and your birth stories and photos of your babes. I want to inhale their little baby smell and stuff them in my uterus.

I know you're joking when you call your children monsters and lament how they drive you nuts. I know you're kidding. I hope you are. 

And I know motherhood is a difficult job. I'd go so far as to say the most difficult job. I'm not under any illusions about that. I don't need anyone to explain to me how it's harder than I think and I couldn't handle it. If I had a dollar for every mom who told me that, I'd be a rich woman and could buy all the babies I want a la Angelina. 

I know it's hard. Stop condescending me. I still want it.

But I'm not so narcissistic that I don't recognize that I still have it better than many women. I've never lost a baby. I've never had a difficult pregnancy. I've never been through any number of pains women the world over experience and endure. I sympathize with the heartaches and physical pain that I've yet to face. 

The point being, you never know what someone has been through or how someone is hurting.

The other day, I read this post over at MommyPants. Go read it. I'll wait.

This line cracked me in two: “I had a child die right after birth. What I wouldn’t give to be busy with three kids.”

Though I can't know that kind of pain. I empathize with it. I know a small inkling of it. I haven't lost a baby. But I carry around a certain emptiness anyway. 

What I wouldn't give to be busy with just one kid.

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

I just need to move

I’ve been looking forward to this all day. I shove a burrito down my gullet, grab my bag, and make my way into class. If Lynn catches me eating a burrito, she’ll tease me endlessly about how the young think they’ll be thin forever, so I gulp it down and throw away the wrapper.

Dropping my bag in the corner and kicking off my flip flops, I pull off my sweats and pile my hair into a messy bun on top of my head.

I find a spot on the hardwood floor and plop down as ungracefully as possible. Other girls are wandering in and we gossip as they find spots in front of the mirror. I spread my legs out spread-eagle style and begin a good, cool stretch. 

With my arms leading, I pull my head down to my knees and grab my bare toes. My feet point and flex and point and flex and I feel the power of each tendon. I stretch my back and arms and ass and muscles most people don’t even know they have.

Lynn turns on an African beat, and we chat with her as she begins the warm-up. She leads and we follow along to the syncopation that resonates into the floor. The movement is a language all its own. 1 2 3 4 relevé, turn, plié, forced arch, relevé, tendu, turn, battement attitude, contract, release, and return. Again. Again.

After warm-up, we settle on the floor to stretch again. Fully warm muscles move into even deeper stretches and we groan as Lynn pushes further into our limits.

20 minutes at the barre in pain and agony as we focus on technique and feet and ankles and hips as we tendu and battement and round de jambe.

“Isn’t this fun?”

“Masochist!” we laugh back at her.

Time for choreography we’ve been working on for weeks. We take our places and Lynn starts the music. She counts us off but most of us know our cues. Immediately, my mind lets go and my body takes over. I cease to exist and my body is all there is of me. I can’t think about anything else. Only movement and music. 

My mind is gone and my muscles know each step. Bare feet slide and jump and mark time as fingers stretch, toes flex and point, legs and arms fly deliberately around, finding the floor and then up again, rolling, spinning, leaping, extending, and tilting.

I breathe into the movement. Ahhh ooh AHH shh oooh ah sss AH. Knees knock on the floor, toes scrape, muscles pull, but I don’t feel any of it. I just feel the steps, the movement, the pull of the dance from every inch of my body into my soul.

We repeat it over and over until class is over and even though I’m drenched with sweat and  my hair is a tangle and my lungs are threatening to burst and my muscles might just abandon my body for a much more sedentary host, I wish I could keep going.

Nevertheless, I pull on my sweats and flip flops and wobble out to my car a happier person.

Dancing is happiness. My whole life, no matter who I am or what is happening, I can forget everything and just move. It’s all I ever really need. Always just what I need.

This was a post for The Red Writing Hood RemembeRED prompt: Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself. Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self. This is an exercise in showing, not telling. You need to show us why this particular moment defines you, or why you want someone to know this truth about you. Be descriptive without bogging us down in extraneous details.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Photo of the Day: The Birds

the birds

Last Saturday, The Fella and I hung out at the Portland Saturday Market and someone was feeding the seagulls (aside: why do seagulls hang out on the Willamette when they're SEAgulls, not rivergulls. okay, bad joke. womp womp.). And they were going totally bonkers.

As I was furiously snapping photos, not even bothering changing my settings, just inwardly hoping to get a decent shot, all I could think was, My roommate would be so freaked out right now! Oh, Hitchcock, thank you for touching our lives.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Raw Photos Contest: What Makes You Laugh

The beloved Raw Photos Contest is here again! Can you believe it?

Theme: What Makes You Laugh

This is completely open to interpretation, 
but remember that the judges will also be looking at photo quality. 
Bring your best work and make sure it's something that truly makes you laugh.

Once again, THE RULES (dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuun):
1. You have to have taken the photo [duh, don't be a jerk and enter someone else's photo. NOT COOL.]
2. The photo has to be a raw photo. What does that mean? That means NO PHOTOSHOPPING. You can screw around all you want with exposure and white balance on your camera, and we'll even let you crop the photo, but that's it. No changing hues. No intensifying colors. No adding aliens or unicorns. RAW PHOTOS, baby. That's what we're looking for. (Both digital and digital scans of film are okay)
3. You have one week to enter a photo. You can enter up to two [2] photos per contest.

Submission are now open! Submit here.
You have one week. Then we'll announce finalists and a winner. 

Song Sunday: New Shoes

I love Paolo Nutini. You should too. He's eclectic and unique and oh so delicious. After you listen to this song, check out Coming Up Easy and Candy.


Saturday, March 5, 2011

Sexy Saturdays: “He’s mine tonight”

Here on Sexy Saturdays, I like to get posts from all sorts of different people and I love that today's poster, Nush (Ivy Blaise), while a somewhat new friend, has become a good friend through my blog. I don't want to sounds like a douche, but at first, she kind of felt like my biggest fan. She faithfully reads my blog and comments. But that's how you get to know someone right? So pretty soon we were having convos and talking on the twitter. And I found myself super digging her!
She's super cool and sweet and funny and supportive, is Swedish (she referred to herself as "weird Swedish chick") (also, my dad is Swedish decent and has declared that we all therefore love Swedes), lives in one of my favorite cities, Dublin (I AM Irish after all), and turns out she writes a pretty kickass blog too! When it occurred to me that I wanted my favorite reader to post here, she was pretty shocked but I am oh so glad that she said yes. Her post is delightful. I think you'll think so too.
First, make sure to check out her blog and follow her on the Twitter. Enjoy!

When asked to guest post by Andy I was pretty blown away. Then the first panic kicked in... what the heck will I write?! I am in a long-term relationship today and I am not really into kiss and tell so...

In the end I decided to write about one night quite a few years ago when I was still single.

An evening and night that was pretty awesome.

It was a Saturday night. Spirits were high and a group of us were hitting town. There was, at the time, this very hot and trendy club called “Cuba”. Latin inspired dance music was pumping and the dance floor was heaving with sweating dancers giving it all.

We walked in and straight away I saw this dark-haired gorgeous guy on the dance floor. I do not know what possessed me at the time but I turned around to my friend and said: “He’s mine tonight”.

I remember standing at the bar watching him dance for some time. He moved with the music and looked hot (in more ways than one). It was time to hit the dance floor. We connected straight away. Bodies moving in sync. Eyes smiling and teasing. Hands grazing body surreptitiously. Lips meeting under the pulsing beat.

The others decided that we were going back to the house that I share with my best friend for a few drinks. He comes along. At this stage both of us are very interested in each other and I am really wishing my friends would pick a different place to continue the party.

Everyone plants themselves in the living room with a few beers. We sneak out in the kitchen to continue kissing and running our hands over each other. Somehow we end up in the bathroom and the touching escalates. Buttons are opened and the heat is turned up. Our hands roam freely. Tongues battle for dominance. At this stage we are both so turned on our breaths are coming in gasps.

There is a knock on the door... we are in the only available bathroom in the house. We look at each other and I do not remember who but one of us mouths: “Bedroom?”.

We almost run out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Totally ignoring the catcalls from the living room. Clothes are shed quicker than a blink of the eye and then...

I never saw him again nor do I remember his name but, by god, that was the best one night stand I have ever had.

Friday, March 4, 2011

Letter of Recommendation

So I've had a little bit of friendship drama as of late. And this is not the place to discuss it. I only mention it to set the stage. I have a lovely friend here in Portland named Sonja. I've mentioned her before I think. Anyway, she is a total sweetheart and I'm so glad to have met her, as you will see in just a moment.

Sonja, sweetness that she is, wrote me a letter of recommendation for friendship and gave it to me the other night along with some other goodies. Yes she did. It made my day and I can't help but share it with you.

To whom it may concern:

It is with great pleasure that I am writing this formal letter of reference for Andrea. In the time that I have known Andrea I have seen her exhibit many outstanding qualities for the position of friendship that she holds. I can attest wholeheartedly to her outstanding performance in this position. Andrea has many talents in this field and I will list them accordingly as she has displayed them.

Andrea is open minded and a good listener- I am no easy nut to crack and yet she puts up with all my randomness with no judgement.

Andrea is funny- I will not expound on this too much because if you know Andrea, you already know this! (She can't hide it.)

Andrea is efficient- Recently I held a very lavish birthday soiree and not only did Andrea go over my lists with me, she also accompanied me on the necessary shopping trip for supplies. My usual shopping time was cut down by a third due to her efficiency.

Andrea is willing to do whatever is needed to get a particular task finished- At the above mentioned birthday soiree Andrea evidenced her skills in culinary feats (as her about her amazing Angel Tiramisu), photography, and cat herding (hey, you try to get 15 party revelers to change locations mid-stream!! Andrea did this with ease!).

Andrea demonstrates a cooperative attitude and good cheer- these are important and appreciated when a friendship is considered with me. I can test the patience of a less pat friend when the perfect storm of alcohol/karaoke/and my favorite dive bar are assembled!!! Andrea has always been ready and available to enjoy said storm but seems to keep her wits about her (She never has to make apology or regrets for what she has said or done the next day as I have been known to do!!).

Creativity, Beauty,  and Intelligence are all further qualities that Andrea demonstrates and utilizes.

Andrea deserves serious consideration whenever a friendship position needs filled, and I recommend her highly.


Could you ask for a better recommendation? What a great friend I have!

Thursday, March 3, 2011

waves of homesickness

 PST! Raw Photos Contest starts in a few days so get your cameras out! Theme: What Makes You Laugh

Oh and go check out this post I wrote over at This Blogger Makes Fun of Stuff. I teach you how to shop. For realsies. You don't want to miss it. 

We now return you to your regular programming.


I've been feeling a little homesick for California.

Not for the sunshine.

Not for the palm trees or beaches or long desert highway.

Certainly not for the traffic or the smog.

It's for the food.

It's for In-N-Out. For a Double Double Animal Style with extra cheese and fries (also animal style) and a shake and a lemonade. For the fresh vegetables and grilled onions. For the freshly made buns lightly toasted on the grill. For the best fast food your tongue will ever lay taste buds on in the world.
I don't care what they say here, Burgerville does not come close. I have never had a burger or fries as insanely tasty as In-N-Out. I miss it. I need it.

Does anyone know someone who works there? Maybe they can make it happen for a homesick blogger? Fed-Ex some goodness in a cooler? Mama needs some In-N-Out love!
this needs to happen now
I also miss burritos. Not the kind you find at food carts here. Or even the kind I make at home. I want a dirty taco stand burrito, the kind you only find that close to the border, the greasier and dirtier the better. Huge, soft tortilla, browned. Refried beans. Tons of cheese and hot sauce and sour cream.

I want to have a heart attack looking at it. I want to have to unhinge my jaw to take a bite. And I want to feel as if I swallowed a sea lion after I've eaten it.
actual burrito from my fave taco stand in So Cal
Now this last one isn't so much California as the last city I lived in. In said small town, there is the best Greek restaurant I've ever been in counting my time in Europe. This place is heaven and my friends and coworkers would head there to nom on hummus and pita and destress any chance we got. The owner, Michael, is awesome. He remembers your name (even years later) and what your fave foods are. If you order something else, he'll tell you what you really want. And he'll be right.

He makes ALL the food fresh right there for you. The hummus with fresh oil drizzled, the soft warm doughy pita straight from the oven, the falafel and euro rolls. MMMM I'm dying of happy just thinking about it.

And I miss my friends and family. Of course I do. But who are we kidding? My friends would be eating with me too!
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