I Blame Facebook.

When you've started blogging purely to keep up with bloggity-blah and distant friends, and then all of those up-keepers end up on Facebook, chatting and photo-sharing and thumbs-upping away, why would you bother to continue with the keep-ups-ing in the blogosphere?

That's right. You wouldn't.

Unless you had a kid or two, and lots of non-MyFace addicted or non-tech savvy family and friends needing to be kept informed of the goings on in the non-electronical areas of your life.

Unless you maintain a semi-anonymous persblogonality while in the throes of law school, as a place to comment on culture and happenings and random thoughts and all the unspeakable gossips of the intense campus/community/field into which you have begun to dip first your toes and then all the various appendages into, and about which you would not dare risk snarkifying in the SpaceBook realm due to the long, long, loooong memory of the oh-so-mature folks and future colleagues therein (but which really must be shared with friends, family, and the world at large because OH COME ON, PEOPLE, SERIOUSLY?!!).

Unless you simply want to write it all down and remember because your brain, well, your poor rusty brain is beginning to forget the day-to-dayness of it all and it would be nice to have a record of just what the eff all the time has been spent upon...

But if you started tap tap tapping away in a blogger window not just as a connection to the far-scattered friends and loved ones, but as a connection to the words that tended to escape, to the page and to the pages, and to the Giant Bubble Machine of a world out there, with so much going on every minute - spit out at you via RSS feed or Headline News or Alerts in the inbox - well, Facebook doesn't do a very swell job with all of that, I'm afraid. In fact, I'd say it manages to almost instantly (within a few replies, anyway) trivialise or diminish most everything posted or discussed within its pages (and I say that despite the experience of having the very choicest news of MJ's death being broken to me via Twitter/FB feed from a cousin in Italy, a full 30 minutes before CNN changed their headline from "grave condition" to "DEAD" - - - of course that's a moral of the story for another time). You may disagree. That's fine, I'll allow it. Let's chat about it over on my wall, shall we?

But really, I should never have stepped away, because Facebook (though I do love you, you sweet, innocently addictive crackpipe you) is no place for the in-depth, for the thoughtful, for the lengthy.* It is a place for photos, photo-essays even, edged with storytelling captions, but lacking any graciousness for the story itself. It is the land of the virtual connection, the shorthand, the easy way to reach out and click "Like!" and let someone know you are thinking of them, that you know they are out there, that you give a shit about what they are doing and saying and snapping and sharing. And for this I maintain many, daily, truly heartfelt appreciations and admirations. However, it is hardly the venue for the longer, harder, dare I say fancier braindumps and certainly not for the writings and the by-products of the (now rare) ass-in-chair, brain-to-hand scribblings, tappety-tappings or snip-snap cut-n-pastes. It's no place for the actual, I fear.

So I blame Facebook. And the sweet flood of relief of post-inauguration America-the-Beautiful that made it okay not to think but. at. all. for a few months in the blissful thereafter. And I blame therapy, of which I've certainly had too much by now.** And laziness. And indecision. And travel to California. And not getting into graduate school, AGAIN. And ambivalence. And efforts elsewhere, in strange small piles of intention and (in)action. And oh oh, gardening, the garden! I totally, lovingly, longingly blame the garden! And about a million fluid ounces of love and contentment from the constant stream of houseguests that fluttered through our giant drafty house from May to October (love love love).

But now there is no excuse. And barring babies and grad school or any tangible plans at taking over the world with my verve, vim and vigor, I'll just have to stick with what pours out of the pockets between the cranium and the sacrum and see what takes shape back here in this blackness.

So - Hi. How've you been keeping yourself these days, months and years?



*I claim none of those but the third. Ahem.

**Though I can justify the time in years (if not the money in dollars) by the simple math of twice-a-month = double the length of the process versus the standard once-a-week analysis. Right? Right.

Shout Out To Scout (And Other Random Pet News).

A shout out to Scout. Scout Bakken, that is.

After being sick in bed for five days, I finally went out for a brief spell this morning, to have breakfast with Joosh at an establishment we've taken lots of visitors to, mostly because it's cheap and has giant plates of goodness, but also because their motto (printed right on the menu) is "You Eat Here Because We LET You" and I like a little sass with my fast-breaking.

As we left our neighborhood, I thought how nice it would be to take a walk again, recalling that my last walk was a super one with a darling darling dog named Scout, a Norwegian Elk Hound (who knew?) with a terrific personality.

If you know me, you know I'm not a dog person, but I am partial to this sweet one and did indeed find myself wishing that Scout was available for some walkies (as Joosh and I call it when we take a stroll around the 'hood - and yes, we say it in sort of a sing-song pre-school voice: "Walk-eeeees" because that is how we behave when not in mixed company, I am both proud and mortified to admit to you here). If I can get Scout's parentals to pass over a photo, I will post it here, because she's truly a darling and unusual creature, often getting stopped and admired by strangers everywhere she trots. I was glad to have the chance to hang out with her while Moms and Pops were at a Wilco concert in Bend last weekend.

* * *

In other animal news, my stepsister friended me on Facebook yesterday. We've not spoken nor had any real words since her brief reply to my "Happy Birthday" email of last December, where she basically said thanks, and told me that I should write to my father as he'd probably like to know that I was all right. Ugh. Since when does she care about my dad? She despises the man (though she says he's good for her mom - which I have no opinion on either way). So she and I have never talked about last summer, she's never asked to hear my side of the whole fiasco, and she's still fairly dependent on the folks for support while she's finishing school in England, so I don't expect she'll ever broach it. Plus she pretty well freaked out last time I revealed a story that didn't match up to the official version she was given, and couldn't handle that her mother had conceivably lied to her, and started to short circuit in a very unpretty way. Subject was quickly dropped before new meds had to be ordered.

ANYWAY, my point here: She told me, in our Facebook chat, that my folks in Mexico have adopted two little sister kittens and named them "Fanny" and "Mae."

Which at first I thought was completely adorable and Jew-y and sweet. Then my sister typed: "Get it?" Oooh. Reallllllly. Huh.

I imagined them in their brand new 3000 sq foot slave-labor-built, staff-serviced fiefdom looking down over the ex-pat dominated and newly yuppified old town of San Miguel while people all over the US are losing their homes from the shitty decisions that resulted in things like the Fanny Mae and Freddie Mac meltdown and how the worst is likely still to come and how they moved South to exploit the cheaper services and healthcare available on the backs of the indigenous in Mexico rather than fight for something better here (and they had it just fine, here, by the way) and man, I just wanted to voo-doo dollhouse their new crib down the side of a mountain.

Saving the kittens, of course, because excepting the insensitive reference, little sister kitties named Mae and Fanny would be nothing short of idiot-smiles and awwwwww-worthy adorable.

Fun With Analytics.

Did I mention that I have been writing 1000 words a day for the last month or so? I have. With moderate success (if by moderate you understand that the middle ground between super great and unbelievably horrible is just that).

Actually, I have been tremendously successful at the actual writing of 1000 or more words every day. I've only missed one night since I committed to the daily activity. Ass in chair, blah blah blah. This does not mean that I have been writing 1000 GOOD words or strings of words each day. But whatever, it's a start.

The very first day of writing these grand or so words, I wrote something to read at my writing group, about the process of committing to the page and all the shit that floats up for writers sitting down to write. Well, all the stuff that floats up for ME sitting down to write, anyway. Not surprisingly (because apparently we writers are nothing if not unoriginal in all the shit that floats up around the process, the act, the desire, the actuating, the ass-sitting, etc etc), it was some pretty familiar stuff for my fellow wordsmitheons: I got plenty of positive feedback, and a lot of head-nodding and amens around the table.

Afterward, a gal that I particularly like (the instigator of the nerdy ladies board game fun) grabbed my paper and a red pen and bracketed six or seven sentences or segments that she felt particularly stood out. Right on. When I got home and did the casual math, I was running about 10% good, stand out stuff, to the remaining 90% comme ci comme ca stuff. Honestly, I'm fine with that. And if 10,000 monkeys pounding on 10,000 keyboards will come up with Hamlet in 10,000 years (um, isn't that how that goes?) then surely one girl, at one keyboard, in 10,000 nights can come up with something usable in 10% of all that scattertyped text, right?

So here's the problem: Procastination. It's insane to me how very much I resist the task at hand. I can sit in this fercockt (probably not the correct yiddish spelling of this, my favorite Grandpa word) chair all night long, and read all y'alls blogs like 18 times over, ignoring my real-life to-do-lists and the blank page in front of me, read read read and catch up on CNN and Buzzflash, and write a few words, and head over to Facebook for some Scramble and some spying on my friends and family, and then tap out a few more words, and then go scare the crap out of myself with stuff about the environment and warming and the war and the conspiracies (oy fucking vey, the conspiracies of those that are conspiring and not yet geting caught, holy hell) and the sea of plastic in the Pacific and the damage done and doing and gonna do, and then go write a few more bits (in a decidedly lower tone) and then back all y'alls blogs, and then internet-stalk people like Julia Kernochan from Junior High (she's a Yale-educated lawyer on Senator Schumer's team, if you must know) and back to Buzzflash and on and on and on. (I can imagine one or more of you sitting there with your wee one in your lap as you try to read my overly long post here, in the few spare moments you have to catchup on web bizness, thinking that clearly I need a child in order to stop having infinite time to not focus on the thing that I sat down to accomplish, right? Right. Sorry.)

My ultimate point here, however, is not about my fierce and ridiculous need and ability to procrastinate, but rather to talk about my latest good time in the avoidance realm. Bex treated me to a lovely procrasty show of her own (oh Veronica, oh Logan, how I miss you so) and then I thought about how much I feel that her blog is written just for me (by the way, writers are apparently giant narcissists, so look out) and then I started thinking about what others might think in stopping by her site and then I thought "hey I wish there was a way to find out who was visiting a site, that would be funny" and then I immediately recovered my brain and remembered the miracle thing known as Google Analytics.

I signed up with the old Analytics tool back when I created this little vanity project. And I couldn't figure out if I'd inserted the tracking code correctly (it did not seem as though I had), got super annoyed and then gave up on the effort (shocking, I know). I've not logged in since that day. But hey man, what a perfect procrastination tool!

And indeed it was a sweet little surprise treasure trove of goodness. So much information! More than you could ever need/want/take in/make use of in a million years. But lots of helpful bits and bytes and bites. Here, my friends, is the tastiest morsel:

The top ten (er, eleven) searched keywords/phrases that have led people to This (Amberican) Life this week-

11) anna beth chao.
10) Important stuff to know in life.
9) I'm going to ride my bicycles and roller skates.
8) 3 month old drool.
7) momby porn. (that is not a typo. momBy porn. someone should really spellcheck their blog, am I right?)
6) Sun chips flying pig. (nice)
5) scurvy more tests and diagnosis. (wow, sorry dude, that sucks)
4) Chastity-belt. (hahahahahahaha)
3) sucktastic. (um, ha).
2) 1950's aprons.
1) momboob. *

God I loves me some interwebs, I really do.

And guess what? 947 words, suckers, yeah!

But now I need to wrap it up and go watch last week's BSG cause apparently the 5th Cylon is revealed and it's bugging me that I've gone this long without seeing it but Josh grabbed a crap copy and then he grabbed a super nice, super huge copy that wouldn't play on the computer we've got hooked up to the projector (have you heard the expression "the cobbler's wife wears no shoes?") and then the final copy was just right, but Sunday I babysat* and Monday I procrastinated too long into the evening to allow for viewing and now tonight I'm coming dangerously close to same. So au revoir, mon amies. I hope you enjoyed this last segment of rambling smack wherein I tried to up my word count to make up for all the numericals above, which really shouldn't count toward the sum word total, don't you agree?

1097 give or take.

It counts.

*As it's related to the otherwise baffling search term "momboob" and the aforementioned babysitting, this might be a convenient time to tell you about a mortifying thing that happened while babysitting the wee Watsons on Sunday. Except I just wrote it and it's a million miles long, so I'll make it a separate post, backdated, and thus appearing below. Enjoy.

Well Played, Frito-Lay.

A few weeks ago, Joosh flew home from Ventura on the ever-reliable Alaska Airlines/Horizon Airlines Burbank-to-Portland flight. As usual, beer and wine was complimentary (a shocker in this era of spendy spendy but more than bare bones travel - American is now charging $15 for checked luggage, for pity's sake!). Unusually, the choice of snack was interesting.

So interesting in fact, that Joosh grabbed me a sample of the latest "here eat this and don't complain a lot please and thanks" food item being handed out by persons with thin-lipped smiles and extremely well-sprayed hair.

What was so tasty and compelling that he sweetly brought me home a bag? So-called "Veggie Chips" from a brand called Flat Earth, in an unassuming Tomato Herb flavor. They were delicious. And they were fascinating, because they advertise themselves as having a full 1/2 serving of vegetables in every portion. Further investigation into the nutritional contents showed 2 grams of fiber and 2 grams of protein, as well. Hmmmmmm.

I was skeptical, as I often am about non-food food. You know, the food that isn't really food, but rather something processed, stewed up and extruded, then baked or fried or otherwise made to mold permanently into the shape of some kind of food and then heavily marketed as food (Kraft Bagelfuls, anyone?). I'm not big on this sort of thing. But damn if these not-chip chips aren't damn tasty! And I would be totally lying if I said that the whole vegetable/protein/fiber angle didn't hook me, line and sinker. Someone did their focus group research, yo.

So after eating these tasty jibs, I say casually to Joosh that we should get some sometime. Then I promptly forget about them.

Until last week when I: a) find the empty Flat Earth bag in Joosh's shorts pocket and b) see an ad for the little buggers on Television while cradling the sweetest baby on earth (no, the baby has no bearing on the story, I was just holding her slumbering little infant bod while viewing the commercial, hence it was a good memory). The ad was a little confusing for me, something about pigs flying and the impossibility of the product, making me feel like they were offering something too good to be true and therefor must be so - I don't think that's what they were going for, right? I was supposed to feel happy and astonished that the claims were SO true, that pigs were flying. Instead I just felt like I was being made fun of. Still... the veggies, the fiber, the protein, oh my!

So the commercial reinvigorated my interest, and the folded up bag in pants pocket sent me out on the quest. Actually, it sent me talking again about going out on the quest. Which made me mention them to Jess, which then made Joosh make me go out on the quest last Sunday night after we left the Watsons house. (I say quest, by the way, because our regular market was not on the list of stores where these chippies are currently being sold, so we had to go to the big ole chain store we rarely set foot in, except for gum, Glamour magazine, and butter spray for popcorn... truly it is an effort not often made by the likes of me).

And here's what happened on the quest: Enter the store. It's the size of a Super Target and the harsh white lights are eye-ball searingly bright. It's fairly empty, as it's getting on toward closing. (Not entirely empty: there are a bunch of random single people walking in a sort of daze with several items stacked haphazardly in their arms, as if they came in to get two or three necessities for the coming week, didn't grab a basket, then remembered - or were suckered into needing - seven other items along the way to procuring the original two or three items, but refused to grab a basket, instead balancing six to nine items precariously in their folded arms. Three times I hear the thumps and slaps of items dropping out of piles onto the linoleum floor, followed by muttered curses, sighs, and in one case a drop-kick as a woman punted a box of trash bags to the self-check out aisle rather than risk bending over with all the crap clutched to her bosom. Hey, I don't judge - I can totally relate).

Back to the quest: Walk in store. Chuckle silently at, I mean, in solidarity with fellow shoppers. Head to chip aisle. Make first pass, scanning up and down the shelves. Make second pass, scouring each shelf in each section. Retch at a few of the new products that have cropped up since last noticing the cumulative category of non-tortilla chips. Have momentary nostalgia for Funyuns, a staple of swim team days back at the Santa Monica YMCA. Immediately regret nostalgia with memory of oniony chlorine swimwater burps and the associated taste of fear, being yelled at by crazy swim coach who would bellow "LACTIC ACID, YOU NEED LACTIC ACID BURNING THOSE MUSCLES OR YOU'RE SHIT" leaning over pool, two inches from face, mid-backstroke.

After third pass down loooooong chip and snack aisle, remember that this store places all its "healthy" food in the back, so as to not offend mainstream shoppers, or perhaps to singleout and shame all healthfood seekers. Skulk to hidden Where-Non-Preservative-Filled-Food-Goes-To-Die area of store and scour their chip section. Notice that Cheetos has a "Natural White Cheddar Puffs" in a bag that looks suspiciously like Barbara's Natural Cheddar Puffs. Think that makers of non-food food are getting very clever. Feel simultaneously impressed and disgusted. Continue search for magical fiber filled veggie chips, to no avail.

Make Joosh look up product on his Crackberry, except have trouble remembering the brand name. Mention flying pigs, something about earth, and the fact that they are chips with veggies and fiber. Because he is magical (or because their SEO people are fantastic) Joosh finds the Flat Earth web site, and suggests that they should be in the "Healthy snacks" section of your local grocery. A mild annoyance that has been creeping in at the edges of this misadventure rises significantly. Snap at Joosh that there is no "Healthy Snacks" section, except where we are standing. Sniff dismissively when he suggests trying "the granola bars aisle." Whatever, dude. (Ignore sudden craving for Quaker chocolate chip granola bars, a staple of soccer practice back in the 80's. Mmmm, orange wedges and Capri Sun. Feel the need to start humming "Like a Virgin" but resist same).

Upon final perusal of helathy chips and snacks section, become further enraged at the entire quest and prepare to storm out of the store. Until Joosh says "Why don't you ask someone where they are?" Because, hello, that's not how I roll. Ask "Do you not know me at all?" and remind him of my guy-like tendancy to not want to interact with store employees or people on the street in order to ask for things like directions, guidance, or advice. Note the disappointed look on his face (cause he's sure as hell not going to ask someone, sure bet!) and decide to ask employee on her knees in the popcorn and snack crackers area. (Ignore sudden craving for Ritz crackers with peanut butter). The crackers are directly across from the cookies arena. Ignore Joosh when he says he has a sudden craving for Oreos. Don't notice that he disappears as on-knees store employee with coke bottle glasses asks if she can help find anything.

Describe chips, forgetting the name again, but mentioning earth, and servings of vegetables, and fiber. Employee says "Oh, well, I'm not sure if these are the same, but there's something like that on aisle 17, try there. And if not, try the healthy snacks area in the back." Grrrrrr. I smile and thank her and head over to aisle 17.

Have you guessed what aisle 17 is all about? Let me give you a hint: Jolly Green Giant. People, it's the vegetable aisle. Start laughing out loud and look around to see if Joosh has followed to this delightfully ridiculous discovery. He has not. Marvel at the scene. Stacks and stacks of canned veggies, topped by a row of furit and veggie chips, as if they were truly another variety of veg. Consider that the marketing department for the makers of this product are total geniuses, and don't even bother to feel sheepish at being shepharded in such a manner. You are a sucker. So what? These critters are delicious. Opt for three bags: Garlic and something, Cheese, and Apple Cinnamon.

Go look for Joosh, who finally appears with a pack of gum and a magazine. He looks a little bummed, until he sees the triumphant chips on the checkout stand. He's been looking for small snack packs of Oreos but was not succussful. (When it looks like he might go pick up a regular size package of the cracky little circles, remind him that they are made with lard, and that if his brand of vegetarianism isn't going to allow thai dishes with even a drop of oyster or fish sauce, he's sure as hell not going to be purchasing a shit-ton of rendered animal fat sandwiched between two chocolate wafer cookies). Distract him from the oncoming existential -ism crisis by telling him about the awe-inspiring placement of the long-sought after veggie chips. He is not a believer in the tale. Drag him to aisle 17. Watch his eyes widen at the scene. Crack up anew.

The kicker: Joosh picks up a bag and examines the back. Veggies - check. Fiber - 2 grams, check. Protein - 2 grams, check. Vitamins - check. Calories to fat grams - eh, not too cringeworthy, about the same as other chips, except with veggies, so better, right? Check, check, check.

"Oh. Huh," he says.

"What?" says I.

"Flat Earth is Frito-Lay."

"Ha ha, sure." I am sure he's just being funny. I turn over a bag in my hands. Nope. It's funny alright, but not intentionally.

Nicely done, Frito-Lay. Well played. I surrender.

Pass the not-chips, please. Did I mention they have a half serving of vegetables in every portion?

No Longer In Danger Of Becoming A Friendless Joyless Luckless Misanthropic Shut-In.

My first two years or so in Portland, I knew exactly six people. Two of these were the dear dear Watsons, friends made years and years ago when we were young (babies, all of us) and childless (them) and extremely proficient drinkers (mostly me).

Another two knowns were my hapless co-workers at the ridiculous excuse for a company owned and operated by my coo-coo-for-cocoa-puffs Dad and Step-mom.

And two of the six, of course, were my family-business-owning folks. Who promptly decided to MOVE TO MEXICO three months after I got here (the myriad problems this eventually brushed up against most certainly contributed to the fact that I continued to know only the same few people for months and months and months after they moved away... but I digress). So soon it was down to just four people.

I worked a lot while employed at the parental units' company. On the weekends, Joosh and I would run around town and have fun as only the two of us can, but never in any kind of branching-out-and-meeting others sort of way. Often I would get drinks with my poor tortured co-workers, Happy Hour bitchfests, running, jumping, diving into sorrow-drowning cocktails after work. But as much as I love these women (more than a year after leaving Crazy, Inc. I still adore them), they are a generation and/or two ahead of me. Our lives are very different and so more often than not it was less socializing, per se, and more bitterly complaining about the encroaching insanity at the office. Other than that, until the Watson's moved here, in fact, the most out-of-work socializing I managed was with periodic out-of-town visitors!

In short, the moral of the intro story here: Not exactly an instant social butterfly in my adopted home state.

Until now, that is...

Not only did I meet incredible people in my writing class last Quarter, I've managed to force about 60% of them into continuing to be my friends and associates by starting a writing group and demanding that they gather to read and listen to me, um, I mean to each other every other week. So far so good.

In addition, one of the lovely ladies I met in the class started what she calls "Nerdy Ladies Board Game Night" and involves a rotating group of about 30 gals who gather five and ten at a time at a local pub on Sundays and Wednesdays to play board games. Last week we played The Game of Life - Simpsons version - and as in the real deal, I was excellent at making money but more exceptional still at losing it. I did manage to get away with only having one child, where another gal had to get a second car to tote around her giant clan, but she actually ended up having a pile of a million and a half bucks in spite of all the college and orthodontia and whatnot, so maybe there is something to the whole "have a litter" mentality. But this is beside the point! The point is, I met new people! I ventured out! I socialized! It was amazing.

And so. Between these intellectually stimulating pursuits and the myriad people I'm meeting at the Wellness Center (free massage, free acupuncture, free chiro, free! free! free!) and in the strange world of business networking* I am clearly on my way to being the absolute Belle of the P-town Ball. Appallingly, I don't have the wardrobe for it, I'm afraid to admit. And since Wellness Centers pay well in free treatments but not necessarily in greenbacks, well, I'm rather poorly equiped to span the bridge between student-y/bordering-on-slovenly casz and creatively proffesionally artfully well put together. Well put together has never been my strong suit. This is my only complaint in all the newfound goodness, and therefore I am not actually complaining. That would be ridiculous.


*I don't even know how to describe this weird phenom called networking - there are networking groups of 10, 30 (100!) who get together every other week and, like network, and then once a month a bunch of these smaller networking groups gather together in one giant room to network with each other and though it all seems absurd, tons of work is passed around and met about and contracted and completed and paid for or traded. I have already been contacted by two potential new clients, and I've only been to one networking event, not even as part of a group (cause ps - they cost money to join!). Oh strange and unusual new world I've stumbled upon. I know people have been so-called-networking for years and years - wasn't it like the power word of the late 80's? - but that it still goes on, and that it is not just a code word for getting shitfaced drunk with peers and writing it off, I don't know, I am a little mystified.

Suspicious.

I stumbled upon the following blog and was VERY suspicious that it might have something to do with a dear friend of mine. Having investigated further, I see now that it is likely just a giant coincidence and does not relate directly to her dear cat-loving, legal-geeking self. But for those of you in the know, how could I NOT think that an ASU Law Blog with Ross in the name and featuring something called "Law Cat of the Week" showcasing the cats of ASU law students was somehow related to our dear Bex?

This will only interest you law geeks - one in particular - so move along if your name doesn't start with an R and rhyme with Hecka:

Ross Blakley Law Library Blog.

(Oh, no, no, it's my pleasure, you are truly very welcome, my dear).

And while we are on the subject, congratulations times ten billion on completion of your first year of school, Honeypie. I am infinitely excited for you, even more so by the fact that you are now free to talk on the phone for five hours in a sitting again.

On a related note: I'm pleased to report that I now know how to pee without any splashing sounds echoing in the phone. Totally. Awesome.

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.

Two unrelated things of great importance to share with you immediately because they are so dang important.

First:

Why did this not exist when I was a Lollapalooza/Lillith Fair/outdoor all day concert goer???

Feh. How much could I have saved in a) Money spent on expensive-ass water, b) Time on quests to get ungettable booze and c) Tissues used to ferret out all the black crusty boogers created by dusty outdoor concert locations mixed with total and utter dehydration? I remember being SO PISSED when I had to toss out the water I brought to Lollapalooza (1994? is that right? Jesus, whatever) and then having to fork over $3 or $4 for a tiny bottle of lukewarm spitwater. Had I had this lovely water jug contraption to wrap around my own jugs, I would have been stoked! I also would have looked like a Russ Meyer movie, even more than I already might have with a perky high-school-breast-worthy D bra, but it would have been worth it.

Second:

Bex's friend and former co-worker, GPP (who I had the pleasure of re-meeting and dining with a few weeks ago in Portland when much of Peachpit showed up for Karen's wedding) made an excellent point on his blog about the direction of media technology that Apple seems to be pushing for/reinforcing with the release of the envelope laptop (as I've taken to calling it). I'm sure others have been talking about this, but since I'm living in a house that Linux built, the only Mac news I get is from one half of the Watsons, or from Bex. Anyway, so it's interesting to me that part of the Mac push basically takes for granted that media will continue the march toward file formats and away from discs, CD, DVD, whatever. I don't know how I feel about that. I don't miss floppy discs either, or VHS tapes. I kind of feel like I would miss CDs and DVDs though, but then again I watch TV online, use a memory stick instead of burned CDs and mostly listen to music from mp3 files instead of on CD.

Hey, so, like 20 minutes ago when I found these things and felt like I had to share them with you, I had a ton of really interesting things to say about them. And now, well, not so much.

So I'm done now.
Bye Bye.

Whats I Beens Doin?

Since December, when last I typed a peep*, this is what I've been up to (in general order of life appearance):

1) Heard this on the radio and cried for an hour in my car.

2) As a form of recovery from the above song-listening and crying, spent WAY too much time on this site, laughing hardest over the following in particular: Bacon, Emo (because it reminds me of a certain singing friend from the nineties), Balloon, and Devil Cat. I must admit that I am not laughing nearly as hard now as I was in December when looking at these initially, but Bacon still gets me every time. Also, someone told me that the bible is being translated into this language, the LOLCATS speak, so to speak. I didn't believe them. I was wrong.

3) Missed family at the holidays, but enjoyed a nice quiet time here in Portland. Kicked it with the Watsons. It was cool. Literally:



4) Tried to keep Christmas shenanigans to a minimum, and almost managed to succeed, until Joosh went out and spoiled the bejesus out of me with this:

(It's a giant Timbuk2 bag, the size and beautiful colors of which you likely are not able to discern from this hideous photo. It is big enough for all my schoolbooks, a laptop and most of my torso and shoulders, should I ever need to haul those around in a satchel).

And this:

(A keen-eyed rememberer of clothing named Jojo might be able to place the fabric from the quilt patch on the sewing machine. The flowery stuff. It was a hippie skirt. There may have been two tinkly bells on the tie at the waist, which I am not willing to admit to just now. It was a senior year thrift store find. I loved it long time. The black stuff is from a silk robe purchased in Chinatown, in college. Good times.)

So, me, I was very much spoiled. And I, in turn, got him a box full of foreign beers and a hand-made Shop Class metal arts type project craftily using wedding favor candy tins and rolls of self-adhesive cut-out magnet material (please. don't. ask). And pajamas, whoopee. So someone needs to get a real job and give someone else a nice Christmas in July, or something redeeming like that. Yeah.

5) Received several lovely items from AC, to whom I have still not sent my thank you note. Three items were for Joosh, and I have taken over all but one.

6) Started seeing an Acupuncturist, to discover that I suffer from "Dampness." Ooookay, then. At least it's not called "Moistness" since, as some of you know, I despise that word (yes, even when describing cake). Actually, the treatments, herbs and diet adjustments have been pretty miracle-working. I'm okay with not eating sugar (most of the time) but the bread, booze and fried stuff was not so easy to give up. When I partake of the above, however, I am So. Pissed. afterward. My traitorous belly punishes me severely, and I re-learn the lesson anew every time. Goddammit.

***Updated to say that Chinese Medicine is good for people and puppies, too. (Warning to women of childbearing age: clicking this link may cause spontaneous ovulation and/or immaculate conception from the cuteness of the wee child leading the post. The cheeks, holy, god, the CHEEKS. And the eyes. And the faces. And and and... Obviously I am completely smitten). But back to the canine family member in the Lalaland household: Best wishes for a speedy recovery to Lulu the super dog.***

7) Spent lots of time with these folks:


8) Had some excellent times (chats, fun, laughs, near-peeing-self-on-couch-misses, meals and entire host of other things we miss by living far apart from each other) with this gal.

9) Enrolled in two writing classes at this school. Began writing A LOT.

10) Waited impatiently for this little lady to arrive:


11) Attempted to try out for this but was foiled at the pre-tryout clinic by my Britney Spears Sketcher Skates (Damn you, Britney! Why you gotta put a weenie back stopper on your stupid skates?) and when offered a pair of replacements from a Breakneck Bettie (which smelled really bad, but were otherwise awesome - the skates, not the Bettie), I totally bailed out waiting for the second run of a sprint thing that involved running five steps on the toestops (front ones, BritBrit, duh) then full tilt boogie skating supa fast, then spinning and stopping short, again on the toe stops. Notice my words here: I bailed WAITING for the second run. I kicked ass on the first run. Then, while waiting in line for the second run, I totally toppled over just standing there, not even moving. Bottom line, I totally f'ed up my ankle on the Saturday before try-outs and was hobbling around like a dweeb with an ace bandage for days.

12) Was delighted by aforementioned ankle troubles when forced to miss out on actual trials, as I watched from the stands and subsequently understood them to involve thirty laps of fast skating BEFORE any of the timed trials, relays, etc. Had I not been hobbled, I would have killed at this, and then died, and then returned home after 3 hours completely deadxhausted, only to shower and turn around to head to the Watsons for Sarah's birth march. Okay, not a march, but it was in no way a fast experience. And there was some slow walking, almost a march, maybe sorta kinda a little. I kid: It was amazing. And I would have been suffering terribly and in no way able to provide any kind of support to Mama and Papa had I just been beaten down by all the bashing babes on blades. Er, skates.

13) Experienced the miracle of all miracles with Ms. Watson's birth. I swear I am STILL high from the whole thing. Jess was amazing, Mark was terrific, the baby is perfect. The entire event was totally mind-blowingly insane and scary and miraculous and great.

14) Continued to write lots more. Including a "please excuse my absence from class" paper about the fact that I was away giving birth. I'm sure that sounds bizarre, but we have to write these one page make-up papers about why we missed class, and they can't be true. So I borrowed heavily from what I had been witnessing whilst having to miss said class. My classmates responded well to the piece, though one gal felt the need to tell us all about how one thing "they" never tell you is that there is lots of poop involved in birth. (There was not in this birth, let me just clear that up right now). I told her, and thus the class full of people, that I had a lovely book, The Girlfriend's Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth (from the 90's, written by music producer Jimmy Iovine's sarcastic and not entirely unmean wife) which did indeed warn us all about the poop possibilities. The men in the room, with the exception of the one who wrote a fantastic "Dear John" letter to his masculinity** (I love him), were not super excited about our side conversation.

15) Decided to apply to this program at the above mentioned school (in spite of the fecal related feedback of my potential peers).

16) Did so, with the procurement of some very lovely last minute letters of recommendation and the crazy scramble to write/edit 30+ pages of material for submission (and an unquantifiable amount of constant patient support from my man - he's a saint or a masochist, I haven't decided). I don't know what he's doing in this photo.

So, yeah. Turned in app on 2/1/08.

Started to wait.

Am still waiting.

Will continue to wait.

17) Due to above decision, chose to skip a lovely Bay Area visit with the Davis girls in order to make a dent in the 30 pages, but did get to see this gal again briefly, which is always good.

18) Took this harder than I would have expected.

19) Fell suddenly and pretty hard for this guy. And this only added fuel to the fire (of my political support AND my wretched crush on young ScarJo, because I am a dirty old lady).

20) Got excited that my kid brother got himself a job (and tried not to think about the fact that he's starting at $4 an hour MORE than I was making as an emotional toilet bowl at my last job - not including commissions and non-existant bonuses, of course, BUT STILL). Congrats, moneybags.

And now, internets, I think we are relatively up to date. I have lots more to tell you about terribly unimportant things, but this will have to do for now.

Good luck to Grandma and her eye surgery tomorrow morning.

Happy Ash Wednesday to the rest of you. No sinning for 40 days (right? isn't that how it works?). Can you deal? No? Then come on over here and sit by me.

*The unforeseen stoppage in writage was due to the information that my mother has been alerted to this portal in the blogosphere by one or more of my careless brothers who left it in the browser of her computer "by mistake". Dork(s). It wasn't some big secret, just nothing I had planned to advertise until there was a delicious pile of baby or something equally splendid to advertise on these pages. Until then, I'd hoped not to think too much about the audience (future job offer prospects and the egos of people I still care about in life not withstanding). Oh well. Hi, Mom. Hope you got over that nasty flu by now.

**Oh my God, this guy is so funny. His piece was a total break up letter, to his masculinity, with the whole "it's not you, it's me" and "I hope we can still be friends" and it ended with "You know you're still my favorite to fart and shotgun beers with." So totally great. Unfortunately, as I was trying to give some feedback about the format, I said something to the effect of liking the whole "It's not me, it's you" bit, and how we could all relate to that and suddenly the class started laughing. It took me a minute to realize what I'd said. I started to correct myself, but then decided that, no, my slip was actually more apropos to any of my possible Dear Johns or many other interpersonal troubles: It's not me, it's you.

Happy Hanukkah, Goyim.

Happiest of Hanukkahs, folks.

For you, a gift, the gift of the miracle of light:

It's the little menorah that could. The very one purchased with Bex at Noah's Bagels on Solano, in Berkeley, like a million years ago (um, more precisely: eleven years ago).

Don't you like my fetching pastiche here, arranged around the fire in demonstration of the conflicted struggle between Boho Artiste and would-be Business Woman, the oppositional forces of which I am obviously grappling with on a daily basis? To wit: Oh wait, this is the wrong photo. Dang. This is the one I took with my camera phone, because I could send it to myself by email because I can't find the thingy (you know, the thingy) that lets me pull photos off my camera and put them on my computer. I do know the name for it, but it escapes me just now. I'm very tired. Be quiet, I do too know the name.

Anyway, okay, well in this photo you can see only a tiny piece of my Boho/Business identity crisis, namely that there are two phones and two business credit card settlement notices on the table (long story there, not important or interesting, except that there will be cash back, oh yes there will be cash back); as well as my expensive and pillar-shaped "Deluxe Hanukah (sic) Candles" from New Seasons; a chestnut that I found on the street and thought would be a cool thing to do something cool with (like what? Your guess is as good as mine at this point); and my little silver piggy bank Christmas tree ornament that I think I may have accidentally stolen from Target because it was not on my bill post checkout, and was more in my purse than in my shopping bag when I unpacked the goods at home. Hmmm.

(Not shown and/or just beyond the frame of the cameraphone version of my desk: camera; watercolors; post-its; biz credit card; biz receipts; web site how-to book; artsy "To Do" pad from Powell's; knitting needles - I suck, in case you were wondering-- bead project; pretty paper for folding interesting paper boxes with which I had reasonable success for Jess's shower; ten printouts about how to market using Facebook - gag, not for my own business, fyi -- and of course my giant 22" LCD monitor. Please hold all judgments until the results of the duke-it-out match have been tallied in full and new business cards - or artist cards! - have been printed).

So anyway, the focus of the photo, the menorah. It's moved with me 8 times so far, and been lit probably 9 out of the 11 Festival of Lights'n'Latkes since then. Not bad for a $6.99 little bitty from the bagel shop.

Two years running I couldn't find candles that fit the wee holes, and both years Joosh whittled the ends of the candles to the right size. Once they were giant thick 'oh no the electricity is out' candles, and he fully slivered them down to practically matchsticks. Every night. That's like, 2+3+4+5+6+7+8+9, so what 42 candles total? How cute is that (especially for an anti-semite, right Ma?)?

Unfortunately, bad jew that I am, I ALWAYS forget the third and fourth to the last words of the candle-lighting prayer - l'had'lik neir - and have to go look it up on something like Jew Faq (dot org). Thank g-d, once again, for the interwebs. I would be a shiksa without it.

And speaking of (the interwebs, not shiksas!)... In addition to the Hanukkah wishes I want to say a mighty Congratu-effing-lations to Bex on completion of her first semester of the brutality that is law school. Dude, you are 1 down and only 5 to go. And you are a rockstar.

I feel like I had very deep thoughts to share with you all about my acupuncture treatment today, but unfortunately anything remotely deep and/or sensical has fallen straight out ma heed.

So I will instead share with you my new haircut and wish you good leftover latkes tomorrow morning.

You like? I went to a salon that specializes in curly hair. The camerphoney quality of the photo, on top of the low lighting (of the menorah flame in an otherwise dark room, thank you very much) doesn't show all the magic that is the separate little spiral curls out from the top of my head, but trust me, they are luscious. And of course they are nothing that I will be able to recreate tomorrow, but that's okay. Just for tonight I will love them like they deserve to be loved, and tomorrow I will lament their loss and see if any of my ridiculous hair product (that I never use because hello, I work at home and who cares?) can reassemble anything even remotely similar without the shudder-inducing crunch of mousse, as is the standard when trying to coax out the ringlets.

And yes, I'm wearing a pajama top. And yes I wore it all day. Whatever. At least I wore a skirt, and not PJ bottoms, as I've been known to wear in places like Andronicos and Baker's Square and Spat's. The only bad thing about the PJ top wearage today, actually, is that there's this ridiculous little bow at the bust, under a line of lace, and I wonder if my new haircutter lady (tats, pin-up girl style, etc) thought I was some sort of Holly Homemaker. My hair was a teensy bit Baby from Dirty Dancing when I first walked out, which was not what I had in mind when I said I was "looking for a bit of a change". We'll see what tomorrow brings.

I bore me. Care to join?

It poured today (shocking for Portland, I know, alert the media).

I wore Birkenstocks, a skirt and a beer sweatshirt (the one with Rasputin's image, that gets me lots of guys staring at my chest and saying "That is an AWESOME beer" and lots of girls staring at same, trying to figure out what the hell they are seeing, as The Unkillable's head sort of gets crammed in the bra-fashioned concave between the twins - the girl-staring is usually followed by a sneer, by the way, and yeah, I totally get it). So after walking around for a few hours like this, I was both proud of, and disgusted by myself. And not a little bit uncold.

Sun came out for a bit. Second rainbow in as many days. Nawwwww.

There was some sort of weirdo streetside snowboarding-in-October event today in what I did not previously know is known as "one of Portland's most famous alleys" (due to its location off the backdoor of a well-known strip-club), at the top of the North Park Blocks. I couldn't get a super good look at the action due to the throng of parka-ed and knit-capped young people standing around drinking the Redbull, Rockstar and other energy drinks being thrown at them by the "savvy" flash marketing teams crowded around the busy block in their slick marketing vehicles, but from what I could gather, there was essentially a fake-snow covered skate ramp and lots of daredevil youngins jumpin around and hollering and cheering for apparently amazing feats of snowboardery. I thought about trying to get a closer look, and perhaps a camera phone snap or two, but the weed smoke started to make my eyes burn (were that it were not true, but yes, I am obviously settling into utter old ladyness without even the hope of trying to fight the inevitability) and I was crankypants hungry (see above), so we kept moving on to the always-reliable if not funnily named Thai Peacock for late lunch/early dinner.

While enjoying veggie Pad See You and Pra Ram (listed on the menu with the words "It so good" after the description, and truly it is so), and watching the Red Bull Mini parked outside get mobbed by Trustafarians in dirty ripped pants and super expensive looking, Ready-for-Aspen-Mimsy? snow gear, I suddenly understood the context for something that I'd witnessed earlier while standing in Peet's, waiting impatiently for the condiment station to clear:

Four early-teen boys in what appeared to be coordinated down snow jackets (not rain jackets, mind you, but the fluffy puffy and totally unwaterproof fancy jackets that always make me think of Coco Chanel because of the cross-stitching) and ski hats (one boy in yellow jacket/yellow cap, another in purple jacket/purple cap, etc) crowded around the condiment cart trying to docter their beverages. Their ensembles troubled me, but as I had not yet had a drop of coffee, I didn't possess the powers of concentration needed to focus on the troublesome bits, nor the brain power needed to try to resolve it by coming up with plausible explanations for who they were or why they were there. Rich kids staying in the Marriot above, fully unclear on the concept of Portland as wet but not freezing, is the best I could come up with before forgetting the question altogther in my utter annoyance at how long the little pishers were taking to pour milk and sugar into their drinks. How hard is it to put some shit your cup and move along, hmmm?

I heard one of them say "No no, she said she likes it 'Light and Sweet' so put more cream in it" as he tossed three more sugar packets to the one pouring the milk (Whole milk, by the way, not cream or half and half). Purple Cap said "What does that even mean, anyway?" and Orange Cap repeated it "Light and sweet, you know, Light. And. Sweet." as if Purple Cap would get it if repeated to him several times in rapid succession. I involuntarily snickered, but I swear it was not about teen boy stupidity, but rather the fact that I so badly had to fight the urge to say something to the effect of "She likes it light and sweet, like her men!" At the slight snicker, Yellow Cap realized I'd been standing there waiting and seemed to get a bit desperate to move on. He poured more milk in, then more sugar, then more milk (and again with the Whole milk, which if you know Peet's coffee, you know is about as likely to lighten the cup as my pointing to it and saying "light and sweet, light and sweet" over and over again). Finally I couldn't take it anymore and stepped up with some elbows between the boys and grabbed the half and half jug to tip into my cup so I could get the hell out of the strange universe into which I had inadvertently stumbled. Orange took notice of my choice and totally punched Yellow in the arm and said "That's not even cream, you idiot, gawd" and rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner in my (or maybe Rasputin's) general direction as he grabbed the cup and poured a bunch of coffee into the trashbin next to the counter. "Yeah, but why is it called 'Light and Sweet?" said Purple again.

Let's hope it was the gange, yo, because otherwise I continue to live in fear for the future of this once great nation.

What must Google think of me?

Have you noticed much about the Google ads on the side of your Gmail account, when you are reading your harmless, innocent, email messages? I happened to take a closer look at mine the other day...

While viewing a message from the Hyatt Regency RFP for event services in Tampa, Gmail gives me the following off to the right:

Kits, Buggles, Gear
www.coastalwindsports.com
"Life is better when it blows"

Followed by:
Find Married Swingers
"Married but Feeling Unfullfilled? Find local like-minded partners".
(I'm NOT linking to that one here, sorry Mr. Burton).

And finally:
Special Event Favors
"Say it with favors: Unigue and Elegant Favors and much much more..."
(Again, not linking, because some of those favors are way NSFW).

Wow, what must Google think of me??? Obviously that I'm a wh0re, for one thing. Wow, whatever I did to lead you on or piss you off, Google, I'm sorry.

In other news, I can't believe I wrote 18 paragraphs about fermented juice last night. Apologies to my myriad fans.

Sucktastic.

I am a truly sucky blogger. It's true. So true that I've had to use 'truly' and 'true' in adjoining sentences, right out of the gate. That is some truthy truth. See, I thought it had been maybe two or two-and-a-half weeks since logging in some mindless sharing here, but no no. When I clicked over today, I realized: it's been over a month. Shiza.

This is pretty typical of me and projects. Fun or otherwise. Big ideas. Lots of thought/discussion. TONS of intent. A decent start, full of commitment and maybe a dash of ingenuity (I'm thinking of the millions of bead-store-necklaces that are sitting around half finished, not necessarily the bloggy blog here). But delivery? Um. Yeah.

I don't have any great excuses. It's only stupid Working On Work Projects stuff. And since I sit at my computer 10 hours a day some days (14 on more than few, I'm sorry to admit), it's not like I couldn't click over and login and dash off a post. Except I can't. Because I'd have to log out of my work Gmail and all associated Google docs (people, Google docs are amazing - a bit slow on occasion, but cheap and convenient... like my men). In logging out of work Gmail, I risk not only missing something time sensitive and critical (it's been one emergency after another, I'm telling you) but also having to log back into 25 spreadsheets and templates -that would be pure craziness- anytime I want to say something. Plus with the constant sitting and writing and stressing and staring at the (lovely and large but glaring) screen, I'm completely boring and have nothing interesting to say, can't even pretend to have anything noteworthy to note (hilarious conversations & periodic chat with Bex notwithstanding, but totally inappropriate for bloggage, I'm afraid).

But you know, popping in this evening, I realized something: I've lost time. Not X-Files lost, but like, blink of an eye/where is my-life-flying-off-to-now lost. I don't know what happened to our beautiful summer, or how the cold crept in and bit the leaves red and yellow and called in the Big Storm guns to battle the sunshine and shower us heavily in bursts throughout the day (super beautiful, I must say, but best of all: washes away all the damn crazy HUGE spiders that have invaded the building and the greenery around here). So suddenly there are only a few fragrant peaches and crapload of pears, apples, pomegranates, and other fall-ish fruits where the plums and plucots and berries spilled forth just a few days ago (or possibly a few weeks ago since I am obviously completely dissociated from real time right now). If I didn't have a calendar and had to guess the date, I'd think it was maybe Labor Day at most. So wrong.

But as far as blogging goes, it's not that I haven't made some attempt. In the past few weeks I've written and somehow not saved for editing the following posts:
Why Iowa is Great (a beginners guide)
Why Jakob is Great (an ode to the pre-three's)
Sneaky Subversive Movies and the Studios that Hide Them (until two minutes before the Oscars, forcing me to suffer "I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry" when I need some movie time but the screens are utterly bare.)
The Coming Recession.

I will likely not try to recreate these, with exception of Why Iowa is Great, but it will be sadly lacking in photos as my phone was an unworthy tool for capturing more than a few up-close details, and the fellow traveling with me through it's cornish hills and prairies can't be relied upon to send me any of his promised photos (from his dumb i-phone that totally didn't work anywhere in the entire state except Des Moines, by the way).

Oh yeah, that was another entry: Why iphones Are Dumb. I will likely skip that one too, so as to avoid the wrath of the growing Applafia.

Though it has kept me from participating in the blogosphere lately (writing or reading), the one good thing about current work is this: the utter ridiculousness that will make an excellent story one day, maybe even mildly amusing enough of a sitcom scenario to get a pilot made (but not shown, of course). The bad side of this absurdity is that some of the circumstantial hoopla is so totally implausible outside of something like an (admittedly poorly written) sitcom that you will think me totally trite and/or a lier if I try to explain it to you here in a factual rendering.