Sunday, May 13, 2012

Random Thoughts of a Crazy Lady

You read that right. Random Thoughts are back! You lucky ducks.


So the other day I was sitting in downtown Portland, enjoying the sun (finally!) and getting the first sunburn of the year (awwyeah!) and avoiding the rats with wings. I mean pigeons. I hate pigeons. Hate them. They're disgusting.

Anyway, it occurred to me that that song in Mary Poppins, Feed the Birds, was about pigeons. That bird woman was feeding the pigeons of London. She was asking kids to give her money to feed the pigeons.

Why were we all so enamored by this? She was a crazy bird lady feeding the disgusting pigeons! London's pigeon problem is probably all her fault. And doesn't this make you question Mary Poppins' sanity? Why did she convince those two kids to give their money to a crazy bird woman instead of investing it in the bank? What the hell was the teaching those kids?


Do you want to know the truth? The real reason dancers wear tights? It's not to look pretty and it's not, as we tell you, to keep our muscles warm. It's to hide all the wounds and bruises that dancing causes. It's true. Dance is brutal and they wouldn't want their pretty ballerinas to look all beat up and bruised would they? What kind of message would that send? Therefore? Tights.

In fact, even though I don't dance anymore, my legs still get all bruised up. It's like my legs are magnets for desk corners and random walls that come out of nowhere. I need to start wearing tights again. People must think I'm a masochist. Which I kind of am, I admit.

Next week: dancer's feet!


Today is mother's day. I hate mother's day. Just like I hate all family and religious holidays. These days are supposed to be all about making us feel special and included, but they forget all about those who aren't included. Those of us without mothers or fathers or children or who don't practice a certain religion are totally left out and completely screwed.

At least on Christmas, you have to stay home because not one fucking place is open. On mother's day, if you go out and about like a normal person, you get inundated with reminders of your lacking. I swear, if one more person asks me what my big mother's day plans are, I might punch them in the face.

Because it doesn't stop with one question. I say no plans and they ask why and then I have to explain that I don't have kids (why not? oh don't worry! you'll get some!) (barf) or that I don't talk to my mom or sometimes I say that I don't have a mom, which then gets sad faces and sympathy and makes me feel like a jerk for ruining their lovely day. But fuck, they brought it up! Or sometimes they say, Oh everyone has a mom! Or they respond, Oh she's your MOM! Don't you want to call her? As if they know one fucking thing about my life and I really shouldn't have to explain myself to every random fucking stranger.

So in summation: mother's day sucks. I know this is also true for my friends who are step moms are have lost babies or lost mothers. I'm with ya, sisters. I'm with ya. Stay strong and fuck Hallmark.


I am brilliant. Most days. Yesterday was not one of those days.

It was a beautiful day. And I really wanted to get outside. I also wanted to swim laps at the gym. So I decide that I'll walk the roughly three miles there. In flip flops. Because I'm a genius.

Also, the day before, I'd spent all day taking photos at a golf tournament and the bottom of my feet had started to get a few blisters that weren't that bad and wouldn't have gotten bad if I hadn't decided to walk three miles in the hot sun in flip flops.

So you can imagine what shape my feet were in by the time I got there.

I did have a good swim, but then I had to make my way home. Luckily, I'm smart enough to take the bus, but that included walking to find a business that would break a bill so I'd have exact change and then hobbling to the bus stop and then home.

I had planned on hiking today, to avoid mother's day, but as you can imagine, my sore soles are in no shape for a hike. At least there are cozy coffee shops with ice tea and rose gluten free cookies and wifi where I can write random blog posts.

There is that. It's brilliant really.

Sunday, May 6, 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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