Um, Snow?

Snowed for about an hour this morning. Which I'm pretty sure is not normal for the end of March. It's cold and rainy now, with periodic chunks of ice and clumpy snow-like drifts mixed in falling slush.

Gorgeous though it is, I was really ready for spring. So were all the bulb flowers and tree buds and blossoms that have sprung up in the last few weeks. Sigh.

Maybe the big chill will be gone by the time I return from Sacramento on Monday. Bon weekend, y'all. Stay warm. Watch out for patches of black ice on the road.

Why The Thought Of Becoming A Parent Scares The Ess-Aytch-Eye-Tee Out Of Me.

A writer here in Portland received the following message on his answering machine from his goddaughter/niece:

"Uncle Marc, it's Amy. I'm calling to find out why do bad things happen. Why do people get sick or have accidents? Or why do they fall in love with you when you don't love them back? And why is the oil on the ground rainbow-colored even when the sun doesn't hit it?"

I forgot to mention: the neice is six.

I. am. terrified.

If/when I can stomach the full leap into parenthood, I suppose I'll have to find some good godparent-types out in the world upon whom, along with Uncles Z and J, I can foist all the hard existential, metaphysical and otherwise unanswerable questions upon, as they inevitably come spilling forth from my child's mouth.

Until then, I quake in fear.*


*I suppose quake is a tiny bit melodramatic. I quiver, how about that? Tremble? Shudder?

I Ride My Bike, I Roller Skate, Don't Drive No Car.

Please imagine a wee spotty Anthony Michael Hall singing to Molly Ringwald in the passenger seat of the front half of an old American car in a typical High School shop class garage as you read the following: "Duh nuh nuh nuh nuh, you say it's your birthday, duh nuh nuh nuh, it's my birthday too, yeah!"

It's my birthday! Or it was my birthday, several days ago now. (Thursday, according to the belated email I received from my Stepmother on Friday that said "Yesterday went by in a minute, and I'm only now sending you my birthday wishes" but truly, it was Wednesday). It was terrific, thank you.

The darling man who spoils me rotten at every gifty opportunity purchased a fantabulous bicycle for me. It's called "The Amsterdam" (from Electra), and yes I feel totally Euro riding it around. It has a sweet not-too-shrill bell and a light that generates power from the turning of the front wheel (which my grandfather says adds a twenty pound drag equivalent, but I am inclined not to believe him because this is the 21st Century and I am confident that the technology of such things has improved since the last time he had anything similar on his bicycle in the 1980s). The chain is enclosed, as are the gears, so no grease or catching of my skirts on moving parts (because when have you ever known me to wear pants, except overalls once or twice while fishing or carving pumpkins ten years ago?). All I need to complete the oh-so-EU package is some kind of saddle bag on the rear and maybe a wicker basket for the front.

The aforementioned darling, taking the shiny new toy down from the crusty old bike rack that lay neglected on the porch all winter and seems to have served as a nice shelter for several insect and arachnid families.

Wheeeee, biking! I am especially thrilled that my shoes match the bike. I totally planned that. And the fact that I look like I just woke up, put on a velour jogger over my nightgown and hopped carefree onto my stylin new ride? Completely intentional as well.

Earlier in the morning we went to breakfast, and I tried my hand at food porn photography:Not quite what I was hoping for. (It might have been helpful if I had remembered to take photos before digging in - smeared red pepper coulis is probably not attractive in any light, I would think).

Went for a swing around the hood. Nice day for it. Didn't fall off or kill myself: It's like riding a bike.

Napped. Chatted on the phone. Wrote in my journal. Read tarot cards. Chatted with Joosh. Hunted online for reviews of the city's best Carrot Cake - really just wanted the cream cheese frosting, and Portland's infinitely discriminating Foodies helped a sister out by continually reviewing different options based on their components, cake and frosting, instead of just whole enchilada. Awesome.

Headed out to "A Piece Of Cake" which was well-reviewed, conveniently close to the Watson's and claimed to be voted "Best Cake In Portland." Which is maybe not the whole truth, as it turns out. It was mighty fine, don't get me wrong, especially for the vegan and gluten-free options we sampled (yes, yes, I'm turning into THAT person, whatever) but I don't know that I would say best in the city. In fact, having satisfied the chocolate itch but not the Carrot Cake need, the next day I bought slices of Vegan Carrot Cake and Vegan Wheat Free Oatmeal Cake from New Seasons and both were amazing, much more satisfying than the carrot option from the night before. Maybe my error was in purchasing Cupcake cake, instead of Slices of Cake cake.

Anyway, went to Sushi at the old favorite. The kids did very well and the food was huge, fresh, delicious and cheap, as per usual (the best part though was the fact that Sarah and Jakob threw us into the parties-of-six-or-more category that can leave a cell number and wait somewhere warm to be called back to a ready table, instead of freezing our collective buns off outside with the rest of the shnooks - since the Watson's live so close, we kicked it at the house and then hightailed it over apres phone call).

Then back to the house for statements like "Ugh, I'm so full" and Jakob's cute attempts to stall bedtime, and a little bit of baby snuggle time for me.

The object(s) of my affection (the one in pink, with the round head, and the one in black, also with a round head, though the one in blue bearing a slight resemblance to Ben Affleck is no chopped liver and does tell a wicked story).

Can I just take a minute to say: Baby snuggles are the best best best. Followed by cupcakes. (Which were totally good, don't let my curmudgeonly withholding of the "Best In Portland" moniker deter you. The only thing that should deter you is the scary "Amby's-Kitty-Cat-Pee-Grandma" style decor of the interior of the shop... dusty old 1950's aprons, weird ceramic antique-ish tea sets, boxes and boxes and SHOEBOXES of random single cards for all occasions, including some in Spanish and Russian. I wish I'd taken photos. Oh wait, you can see a small one right here, but it really only scratches the quaint surface).

More bad food photos for you. Chocolate Cherry, Carrot, Lemon White Chocolate Chiffon, Chocolate Caramel and Chocolate with Vanilla Frosting. Three of these vegan & wheat free, if I'm not mistaken, but I can't remember which three.

We divided each in quarters and went to town, but were bested by 3 and 4 quarters each. I'm told that the next day Jakob said "I'm going to have one of Amber's cups!" which is especially cute since I didn't think he had even spotted them the night before. Smooth operator, and cute to boot.

The piece de resistance of my entire birthday, however, was this:

I keep opening that sucker up and giggling. Eventually it will probably stop making me laugh and start making me feel heinously old since that movie came out TWENTY-FOUR YEARS AGO. But for the moment I am still blissed out on birthday goodness, so who cares, years are just numbers and blah blah blah. And I loves me some Jake Ryan always and forever... even if I am now old enough to be a cougar to his high-school hotness (the only thing about this that doesn't send me screaming to the botox clinic is that the actor was at least 25 at the time of filming, and while maybe not totally kosher, that's still better matched with 32 than 18 will ever be - too bad I keep getting older while Jake is frozen in cinematic time). Sigh.

Happy Saint Joseph's Day.

Once again, I have been completely spoiled, like the bratty brat brat that I always knew I could be. I will post braggarty photos of my bounty, fun and fortune tomorrow.

All in all, it was an awesome birthday - mellow, and sweet and full of good friends, good phone calls, good humor, good food, good times... good life.

Thanks for all the cards, phone calls, emails, presents and love. Feels like a million bucks. (Better actually, cause it can't all be hosed away by non-tangibles like the roller coaster stock market and bad mortgages!).

Cannot Wait For This (Warning: Nerd Alert).

Oh, oh BSG. Where have you been all my life? What's with the bovine gestation-length hiatus, hmm?

For other fans, here is a normal, relatively milquetoast (yet still thrilling!) Season Four preview, below.



For other fanatics like me, explosive Season Four "Exclusive Preview" (with SPOILERS so if you haven't seen the end of S3 yet, beware) can be seen on this web site.

I am retardedly excited for the season to start, even though I am bummed it will be the last (I did see a headline somewhere that SciFi may be doing some kind of prequel involving life on Caprica or New Caprica? Not sure. Remind me to look up). At any rate, I love this show with the same feverish passion I held for "The West Wing." And that, my friends, is a muthalode'o'love.

Must. Stop. Blogging. LateAtNight.

Apologies to all you lovely people who visit this little vanity project to see what's going on all up in Portland, only to find my not altogether coherent ramblings sprinkled liberally (and perhaps inappropriately) about. I just re-read the Whoring Monthly post, and it basically makes no sense. Especially not when compared with what was intended to be written there. Whatever. I would explain, but it's just not even worth it and plus, I am totally over it now. Hmph.

This One's For You (NSFW).

Someone is turning in the following cover art (um, "art") for a final project today:

The assignment, I am told, was to create a magazine cover and related topical content (headlines, not actual content, thank you Jesus, although there really is a "How To" article to be included titled: "How to Steal Another Woman's Man and Suffer No Guilt").

It came down to a choice between this, The Journal Of Inappropriate Humor (featuring AR ad* campaigns, of course), Evil Overlording Weekly or the controversial Self-Hating Jew (a magazine for Jews questioning the policies of Israel's current government).

But Whoring Monthly, that's A + right? Especially since the students are to submit a document that demonstrates their own grade in one format or another. This student chose a Press Release, highlighting the simultaneous win of both the Nobel Peace Prize and the Nobel Prize for Literature, featuring the factoid that she (or he, you know, the anonymous student) received a BA from Cal, an A in Dangerous Words, and will be donating the proceeds of the unprecedented prize win to her (or his) International charity, Bitterroots.

*If you don't already know what this is, I'm pretty sure you don't want to, so please don't ask.

Scurvy fighting melons.

Accompanying Joosh to the market just now - beer run, Brah! - I was overwhelmed with the urge for citrus. Not just any citrus, but red grapefruit. Which is weird because the only time I ever eat grapefruit is in the winter when we eat at this sweet homey cafe at the Oregon College of Arts and Crafts that serves little slices of lemon, zucchini and carrot bread with 1/2 of a pink or red grapefruit sprinkled with chopped candied ginger. Outrageously delicious, but really not often on my radar. Rather than panic that I must surely have scurvy, I decided to treat the craving as related to a healthy sublimation of my former sweet tooth (er.... current sweet tooth, usually beaten into submission with a variety of strong arm tactics). So indulge the non-sweet sweet need, I would.

(Now that I think about it, I seem to recall that my sudden urge was inspired by staring at a bottle of Ocean Spray Ruby Red Grapefruit juice that looked AMAZING. In which case I was probably craving a Greyhound, but vodka is basically another form of sugar or at least on the not-so-healthful list, so too bad, Inner Lush, go twiddle your thumbs with Mr. Demonic Sweet Tooth over there in the corner or I'll be forced to pummel you).

I love to peruse the amazing produce section of my favorite spendy market, New Seasons. So much to see, smell, fondle inappropriately. In my quest for grapefruit, I happened upon several strange looking fruits that seemed to insinuate themselves as grapefruit-equivalent. One was extremely ugly. Indeed, it is called "Ugly Fruit" and with a name like that, how could I not take the large and unlovely fruit - the red-headed stepchild, if you will - home with me? But the Texas Red grapefruit called out to me as well. And I was scared that the unsightly citrus would taste of it's name, so as a precaution, I selected a star from the Lone State pile, too. It smelled fabulous. And of course, as I tried to walk away, my salivating palette made me pick up a gigantic sunshiney orb called a Melogold. It was too beautiful not to take home (I hoped it would play nicely with poor Ugly, and not increase its already sure-to-be intense inferiority complex). Excellent: A grapefruitish taste-off for one*, coming right up.

So I just ate the Ugly Fruit, and I am astounded at how delicious and sweet and weird it was. Like an orange, a non-sour grapefruit, and maybe some Naked Tangerine Juice flavored juiciness to it. Fantastic. I sliced it in half, and did the whole sectioning between the membranes thing (wow, that sounds gross, i never realized). And you know, it totally hit the craving. So much so that I can't really imagine cracking open the others. I suppose in a taste test one should really try all samples at once for comparison, but I just chowed down on that single luscious and unattractive globe. I am a happy, sated, non-borderline scurvy diagnosis girl.

Of course the best part of the citrus adventure was standing at the check out, with two large bottles of beer, and three SUPER large citrus fruits on the conveyor belt. We step up to the checker, who is cute as a button and maybe 23 or 24, fresh-faced as all get out, and he exclaims "WOW!! Look at the size of those melons!"

Which is not something a girl hears every day, right? Especially in reference to, essentially, three grapefruits, but nevermind.

I wish you could have seen the look on Joosh's face. It took a second for him to realize the kid was speaking about the actual fruit in front of us, rather than being inappropriately cheeky.

I looked at the checker and at Joosh (simmer down, honey!) and said "Well, that's not something a gal hears every day." Checker Dude looked confused - for a beat and a half. Then, with a large globe in his hand, he turned about as red as the inside of the grapefruit.

Ahhh, kids these days.

*Joosh doesn't go gaga for citrus things like I do. He's a little bit sensitive to the acidity, I think. Not as bad Teabagger and his super weird "Geographic Tongue" (vile!) but somewhere earlier on the road to such a thing from Joosh's description. Since I have to kiss that mouth, I don't force feed the acids, you know?

Ouch, dude.

Yeah, what he said.

(This seems to be viral, not actually sponsored by the Chosen One as indicated, fyi.)