Hi, I love you.

Okay, hi. Hi there. How're ya? Ya good?

See, I know it's been a very long time. And I actually have a lot to say to you, my sweet Interwebs, but things have been so so so so so busy lately, that I haven't been able to sit and organize any thoughts (let alone the photos, oy the photos!) to send your direction. I will try, I will. Very soon.

When? After I'm done packing for our move to the giant house this weekend, and have finished the 2500 word article I have to write for one class, and written and practiced the 10 minute story I will be presenting orally (snicker) for another class, and have trained the new girl at the Wellness center, and read three loooooong books for school, and workshopped 7 articles for the first class and read some Flannery O'Connor for the second, and previewed tons of good/bad/heinous submissions for the Portland literary magazine I've committed my eyeballs and exceptional discernment (ha) services to each week, and organized the next meeting for my writing group (that I've COMPLETELY dropped the ball on, you guys, I'm sorry - I'll make it up to you with fancy drinks and an extra large deck on which to smoke your wicked writerly cigarettes), and cleaned my old small pretty apartment, and cleaned my new giant weird house, and phone banked at least once more and hosted my awesome Obamania brother for a post-election decompression, and hopefully having thrown the celebration of the century after the Election in a few weeks. THEN I will sit and put it all down here for posterity. For myself. Because I'm old and I have started to forget things. And for the five of you who might be curious as to what's been happening all up in these here Northwest parts.

So I will tell you about the new house, and my Facebook addiction, and Josh's birthday, and the weird coincidences that have been happening lately, and the dream I had about Jojo giving birth to twins (actually a very fun dream, all things and strange subject matter considered), and perhaps I will have more interesting stories to tell you. For the moment, all my words have been reserved for the classes I impetuously signed up for a few weeks ago.

In the meantime, lacking anything of substance, please watch the following, compliments of Z The Wonder Volunteer, who keeps me well liquored in the lubricating grease of campaign and peripheral greatness:



I know you won't judge me when I confess to thinking these two too skinny Ruskies are hot. Especially not after you hear the "I love you" at the end. I love Al Gore, or whoever invented the internet. I don't know how I lived a life before it came to be.

What Kind Of Special Bus Rider Are You? Vote!

Thanks to Bex for this one. I am essentially too lazy to email five friends, so instead I'll post here, for my five friends to see for themselves.

Of course my five friends are truly the chorus to which I am preaching as I know y'all are already registered and ready to go, chomping at the bit to cast your ballot. Let's hope it counts.

Dear Small World of Mine - A Treat for You.

Hurry up and go to this website and watch this video before the woman responsible for it yanks it and puts up something else.

Bite My Cookie.
http://bite-my-cookie.blogspot.com/

BMC, whose web site you'll visit by clicking above, is one of my favorite ladies in Portland. She is fierce, a firecracker, a connector, a scrape-the-lining-of-her-insides-out-for-you-if-you-need-it, a ball of energy and chaos and giant-hearted snark. She's funnier than sin. She has the most adorable family (this is heresay, or blogsay, I guess, as I've not actually met them yet) and a neverendingstory of stories to tell that will make you cry with hysteria. Also, she makes the best cookies in all the land. Hopefully she's going to have a rad website selling these cookies in the next week or two (if someone you know and love can get her ess-aytch-eye-tea together ay-ess- ay-pee).

In the meantime, she's just had the ultimate crapperfull of a hellish experience in business wherein all of her talent and energy and huge vats of effort got swallowed up by The Man (in the collective patriarchal sense, as well as in the penis-bearing-personage pissing absurdities on a years worth of bloodsweatmoneytears sort of way). I think she's trying to sit still for a moment, water the roots at the base of the pruned bush, so to speak, gather her strength for the next thing. But in the meantime, she offers periodic treats on her site, but just like the incredible cookies she bakes, you've gotta run and get em while they're hot. I can't guarantee that what you'll see when you click above will be the video to which I am directing you, but hey, don't shoot the messenger.

So go, run, click, do it. BMC recently took down her archives, which were time-suckingly entertaining (and which I used to read long before I met her at work by happenstance one day, long before I realized that she was BFFs with an LA blogger, Rebecca Wolf, long linked on this site that I'd been reading for months and months.) Anyway, you unfortunately will not have the honor of experiencing those BMC, days-gone-by, belly-laughing posts, but please, please please go watch her darling 4 year old give a life lesson about what it means to be four. It is beyond precious, absolutely sums up four years old - and the important bits of life in a nutshell, really - in under a minute and a half.

Ps - I got two hours of sleep last night, due to an early morning airport run for Le Mama and some damn inconvenient insomnia involving a terribly unnecessary late night fixation on h'ors d'oeuvres (because I am retarded) for this weekend's shower-to-end-all-showers for our darling Joj, so please forgive if this entire post makes no sense, which I suspect it may not, but am too wiggy to double check. Bottom line, go watch the vid - I can't imagine you'll be sorry.

Dispatch From A Roadtrip I'm Not On: Days 1 & 2

"There she is... Miss America." Honda ST1100. Don't remember the year.

Joosh is off. I am abandoned for a two-week venture with OMT* that will see them travel Easy Rider-style through several states, ending up in South Dakota (Wounded Knee, and no, he won't be burying any hearts, I already asked and he rolled his eyes mightily in my direction). About 200 - 250 miles a day. Sore bottoms will abound.

So that we may all enjoy the sights and sounds of this, our great nation, as they roll through, I offered something of a vicarious blogging situation wherein Joosh can send photos and some brief information, and I will in turn share it with you. I had hoped to speak with him at length in the evenings in order to fill out the narrative a bit, but since this is day two and that has not yet happened, I think that maybe I'll just go ahead and make up the stuff to fill in the gaps. Kidding. (Mostly).

Day 1 - Portland to Klamath Falls. 296 miles.
Joosh kept calling Klamath Falls "Clackamas" for some reason, which is only like 12 miles away. It was confusing. Also? I always thought there were two M's in "Klamath" but I guess I was terribly wrong. Huh.

He hit the road after a morning of dawdling and packing, around 1:30pm. Off to Clackamas Falls. I'd had a super hearty laugh when at one point he sat down and I noticed a seam looking a little precarious in the crotchal region of his jeans and said, "You want me to fix the hole in your dick... jeans?" He looked at me quizzically and said "Nooooooooo. Thanksssss." In my weakened state from all these days and days of being sick in bed, I have clearly lost my ability to communicate. But man I could not stop saying the word "dickjeans" (because oh yeah, that's a word now, people) and cracking up. Which was excellent for phlegm loosening, let me tell you.

There was some sort of big Washington/Oregon game in Eugene and rolling through was apparently quite trafficky and unfun. This photo was taken just south of there (if I'm not mistaken). I suppose we're to admire the bike and notice the long road ahead.










Salt Creek Falls.
You stay? You pay!
The Ranger would only let him stop for a minute to put on warmer gear (it was about 54 at this point). Otherwise he'd need to pony up the $5-a-day day use fee.





Odell Lake.
Just came over the pass.
It was cold.
Got down to 47.





This is my favorite dispatch from the road so far. Here, let me quote: "Sketchy rest stop 68 miles from klamath falls. Put on the rest of my warm gear. There was a really scuzzy looking old guy that kept asking me if I needed anything. He said he could make me a really good deal. He didn't say what he was selling and I wasn't gonna ask. Unfortunately he got really irritated when I tried to take his pic. He didn't seem to have a car so I don't know how he got there. He took off when some state troopers stopped to use the facilities."



Shall we wager whether this guy was selling drugs or a BJ? Hmmmm? If Joosh was wearing full leathers, I wouldn't even have to ask the question because Helloooooo, Papa Bear.

God, he's going to kill me if/when he reads this post.

Moving on.


Upper Klamath Lake.








About 7pm.








15 miles to the lovely hotel I had found on Hotels.com and booked for him. The Maverick Hotel. (Very timely, yes? What with the old coot choosing his unexpected running mate, proving he's just a jolly old independent spirit like always? Ugh.)






The hotel got some good reviews for being way cheap and shockingly clean and tidy for the degree of cheapness. I reserved a non-smoking room for the boy at $45 per night. Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me? I rock.





Then came the food finding:
What passes for Pra Ram in Klamath Falls (left).








And Mango with Sticky Rice. Hold the mango. So, um, sticky rice. With cream white goo sauce on it. And no mango. Even though he ordered mango. It happens. I guess. Right?







So listen. Vicarious blogging Day One while G-chatting with my brother about this ridiculous election and Tom & Jerry cartoons and other highly important matters (is Sarah Palin's Down Syndrome baby her daughter or her - gasp - GRANDDAUGHTER?!?!) has completely worn me out. We're gonna have to pick up this party again tomorrow.

Love you, babe. Be safe out there on the wide open road. Watch out for hookers in Nevada and Mormons in Utah. And vice versa (I know they can sometimes be hard to tell apart - Katherine Heigl, I'm looking at you).

Day Two. Klamath Falls, OR to Reno, NV. To be continued.

*OMT is "Old Man Todd" - not to be confused with the much younger BabyDaddy Todd or BDT, who also lives in Ventura. BDT is a good long story for another time.

Oliver William is Heading This Way!

Sorry, please to forgive the ridiculous pun. But my brother just recently turned me on to the absurd farewell that goes something like "Time to make like a fetus and head out" and it somehow seems appropriate to use in this crazy moment when I've been told that a certain mom-to-be is fully dilated and ready to birth her babe any minute! So very exciting.

Wishing you all the best in the universe, Doc and Mister Doc. We're all so excited to welcome Oliver.

In Memorium.

A truly wonderful man died this week.

His name was Mick Murphy, and he was an exceptional person - larger than life, full of stories, always meeting and befriending new people, bringing groups of strangers together for smashingly good times, regardless of the activities of the day. A world traveler, writer, devoted husband to an ailing wife, he was the sort of person that was keenly interested in what was going on with you, made you feel like the only person on the planet worth knowing and talking to at that moment, taking in your stories, pulling forth an anecdote or helpful piece of information to the topic at hand. And always laughing, lots and lots of laughing.

Mick was a friend of my Dad and stepmother for almost 25 years, and I'd see him and his lovely wife Laura during summer and holiday trips to Oregon. We went on several adventures, hiking up to Mt. Hood, berry picking, picnics and outdoor concerts at Washington Park and the Riverfront. He was the master of finding fun, free events, and terrific Happy Hours in Portland, "Pub Meals" he called them. I ran into him in Trader Joes 7 or 8 weeks ago, and after a bear hug and a "We don't hear much from your folks down in Mexico these days" (to which I replied "Well, neither do I, so what are you gonna do?") he asked when would we get together for a Pub Meal. He said that he and Laura had both been recovering from a bout of pneumonia, but that as soon as they were all clear and back up to speed, off we would go.

We exchanged a few emails, then a long silence and the next thing I know he's gone, within a week of finally receiving a correct diagnosis. The lingering pneumonia was not herpes in the lung or any of the other random and seemingly implausible ills hypothesized by the medical folk. It was lung cancer that had metastasized to his ribs. Until this illness, he was a robust and incredibly young 82 and I thought there were going to be several more good years before a decline. There is so much that I take for granted in this life. It's shocking to confront. How very easy it is to forget how absurdly fast things can change. Especially when you are 32 and a lot of things have not yet sunk in below the surface tension of your life.


When I was much younger I had a crush on Mick, a Grandpa Crush, I guess you could say, and longed for some of his charm and good nature to rub off on my father. I know my Dad respected and looked up to this utter gentleman - gentle man - who was about 20 or 25 years older, and I always thought that perhaps Mick could teach him a thing or two about being a man, a husband, a father. I guess maybe it doesn't work that way. Admiration and emulation, respect and edification, are not necessarily bound up with each other. I suppose it's never too late, as they say, but I am not holding on to any hope. To be a better version of yourself, a more fully developed person in general, you actually have to want to be, to desire the most evolved state you can imagine for yourself. Mick, it is clear, was just that sort of person - a "suck the marrow out of life" kind, and a learn-all-that-you-can, be-all-that-you-are-able, taste-all-that-can, live-the-best-you-might, love-beyond-the-capacity-you-thought-possible while wandering through this mortal coil. A rare man indeed.

I attended the memorial on Sunday. It was beautiful. Mick's children, who have filled so many of his stories over the years, are wonderful. His Grandchildren are wonderful, shining stars even on a darker day. Everyone had such sweet, raucous, hilarious stories to tell. I could not stop crying.

One dear friend of the family told a story about sitting with Mick in the last day or two of his life, and his taking her hand and telling her that it is all amazing. I am paraphrasing, of course, but in essence he said that life is amazing, living is incredible, and even this dying is wondrous. It is ALL amazing. Leave it to Mick to be excited, not to leave this world, his beloved family, his fading wife, but having no choice in the matter, to remain excited to learn about what it means to be dying. Oh my god.


On the program from the service was an Emerson quote that struck me and even in the weeks after I started this post, has stuck with me vividly:

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can.

Tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense."

I've taped it to the side of my computer screen. I hope you might take this one with you, too, and maybe think of Mick, someone you never met but who had a thing or two to pass around about the simple and yet ever complex topic of living life.


Be well wherever you are, Mick. I'm so glad I had the pleasure to know you.

But... it's BRUCE.

Hey. Hey you. You like Bruce? Bruce Springsteen?

Really? Cause I thought everyone loved The Boss. C'mon, baby: He's. THE. BOSS.

Well, whatever. You should like him. If you don't, for whatever crazy anti-80's, I-hate-people-from-Jersey-and-guys-named-Bruce-and-men-shorter-than-five-feet-nine thing you got goin on, I have to suggest you check out his album called "The Seeger Sessions." It's been on constant rotation - er, stream - over here for a week or two now. (That and Modest Mouse "The Moon and Antarctica" but not in the same breath of time because that would, of course, be weird).

But "The Seeger Sessions" people, it's a gift. It's a little treasure, I'm telling you. Yes, it's the Seeger sessions, as in Pete Seeger, and yes it's a wee bit folksy (um, okay, it's almost all folk songs) but it's all done up Bruce-like and man does it just totally capture something. I don't know if it's his gravel voice, like he's been chewing rocks (but in a good way), or if it's the enthusiasm of the instrumentation, or if it's just the joyous energy of the singing, even in the saddest lyrics... I can't put my finger on it exactly, but if you have any love for Bruce baby, and any tolerance for songs like "Pay Me My Money Down" and "Jesse James" (two of my faves), then check it out.

Be forwarned, however, about the second to last track, which I'm sure you probably heard back in aught Six: "Bring 'Em Home." Yesterday this song prompted a long, drawn out fantasy involving my joining the military, somehow surviving boot camp, then shipping out to go (with a very sketchily detailed plan of action, mind you) and save all our brave but forgotten, unseen and unheard-from soldiers in Iraq. Sure, it's an obvious song for the poor heartstrings, but it's totally not a cheap shot. The way his voice implores the listener to bring em home, man... it makes me burn, trachea to tailbone, all through my core.

I wish all music was like that.

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?

Hey Buddy, Can You Help A Brother Out?

My (awesome smart talented funny quiet hard-working self-sufficient clean non-smoking and non-pet-owning) little brother is graduating from UCLA next month. This means that a) I'm really old and b) dude's gonna be looking for non-student housing come Summertime.

I thought I might post a little inquiry out to you LA-based folks to please keep your eyes and ears out for any sweet living situations you might come across in the hot and heavy areas of the former City of Angels. You know: a roommate situation, a soon-to-be-vacated apartment that he might obtain to share with someone, a guest house, a spare room, wild tiki-inspired living quarters and a cabana-boy position for your rich Hollywood step-grandma, whatever.

He's gainfully employed at a law firm (considering law school, smart cookie that he is) and tends to go snowboarding on weekends during the Winter, and sometimes home to visit the folks in Ventura. He can make full meals from un-preprocessed ingredients (that's more than I can say for some of my friend's husbands, by the way!), knows how to clean up after himself (again, rare in some populations of husbandry, I'm sorry to report) and I'm almost certain that he's grown out of the annoying stage of always coming into your bedroom and interrupting when you are on the phone with your best friend talking about who to ask to the Backwards Dance. Pretty sure he knocks on closed doors these days instead of whining outside of them to be let in, as well.

I jest. He's terrific. (He was terrific even when he stood outside the door whining, I was just too teenaged and retarded to know it). At this point, I can say without reservation that he falls solidly in the pre-Mensch area of the manspectrum and I have no doubt he would be a fabulous roommate/housemate/subletter/tenant.

So. Holler if come across anything of note. Thanks in advance for your housing and brother related attention. Much appreciations from me, your friendly (un)neighborhood domicile-y Yente.

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.

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!).

Ouch, dude.

Yeah, what he said.

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

Ignore Travolta and his "Hair" - Watch the Rest.

You probably saw this on Sunday. But I think it's worth seeing again. And again. Hence I'm putting it on my blog so I will watch it again. And again. And probably a few more agains after that.



The only thing missing from this, is after Glen speaks, Jon Stewart says something to the effect of "God that guy is so arrogant!" Nyaw, love you Mr. Leibowitz.

My screenwriting professor is IN LOVE with the movie Once. Juno too. Can't get enough. He joked that if Once had been made in Hollywood, they would have lived happily ever after immediately, and it would have been called Forever. (Side note: Read further down in his blog, he's kvelling about three excellent finished scripts. None of those are mine. Here, though, where he's talking about one-on-one emails with the slower of the bunch? Totally me. Sigh.)

It's a great class - very straightforward, very practical, and I love how simple storytelling is when it's all about what happens next. Let the actors detail the emotional layers, let the director "describe" the expressions, the scenery, heighten the drama, let the art director flesh out the pretties and the uglies, alls I gots to do is say who and where, make them say interesting multi-dimensional things, and move it the hell along with some punch. Sweet, dude. So different than fiction. Freeing, and yet informative for all formats, really: Because of this class, I might finally be able to tell an anecdote in proper order, without accidentally blowing all the tension and interesting bits at the beginning. Well worth the exorbitant tuition, I think.

Important Stuff To Know About Stuff That Like Fills Your Closets And Stuff.

El Jefe Goldstein recommended this video to me a while back. It's simple, and probably preaching to the choir with all of y'all in this audience, but still important stuff I think. Well done, anyway - everything is clear, concise and woven together thoughtfully.

THE STORY OF STUFF


So maybe you can pass it on to your non-Hippie, heads-in-the-sand consumer "I want/I need/Gimme" family members and friends. But in a less judgey tone than I seem to be able to muster.

Ketchup, part 2: Trip to California, subpart A.

Trip to California: The Cemetery Visit.

My favorite Un-Niece, Hedrita. Joosh's older brother's daughter. She let's me call her "Cookie" just like the Jewish Tante I've always wanted to be.

She and my youngest brother are the same age, and went to the same High School and according to what I have gathered on Facebook (The MyFace, I call it), they refer to each other as cousins. But if Joosh and I actually did get married, she'd be my niece (by marriage, but still) and my brother would be... her uncle-in-law? My brother would be Joosh's Brother-in-Law, and Joosh is her uncle, so wouldn't that be it? Uncle-in-Law? Maybe they'll have to stick with cousins. It'll be much more fitting for the day when they get drunk at a party and make out and I have to tease them incessantly by calling them "Kissing Cousins". God, I hope they don't find this blog. They will kill me.



On Sunday, the day after we arrived, I went with the not-in-laws to visit the family cemetery plots. Our friend ML here in Portland has been doing some Geneology research (she LOVES it, apparently - ask her about the Royal Family line, go ahead, I dare you), and Joosh's mom is in that sort of family reckoning stage of life, so armed with two notebooks and some vague plot numbers, off we went to the most beautiful, most glamorous, possibly the most would-be-expensive-land/ currently-occupied-only-by-dead-people-not-able-to-enjoy-the-million-dollar-view I have ever seen. Right on the bluffs at the edge of Santa Barbara, this no doubt used to be the outskirts of town. No longer. It is smack dab in the middle of Oprah territory, huge swaths of gravestone-dotted prime-ass real estate, totally gorgeous. Breathtaking.

First we went to the park where Jojo got married and had ourselves an old-fashioned picnic full of mayo and cookies and lunchmeat, etc. Char made fabulous hummus for her (shockingly) vegetarian brother (meat family, very very meat family) and the jackass refused to eat it. I found out later it was because he thought the roasted peppers were tomatoes, but that may or may not be the full truth of it, one never knows.

At the park, we totally annoyed some hippie dippie group of Food-Not-Bomb'ers having some sort of free-out in the center by the turtle pond. Apparently we sat down too close to their food collection area or something, and they kept looking at us with decidedly un-peaceful expressions. Peace and love kids, peace and love. Hopefully we redeemed ourselves when several homeless looking dudes came over and asked for food, saying they'd been told there was food to be had by the tree (all I saw were sacks of uncooked potatoes, by the way, and a fuck-off HUGE clear hefty sack of hard-tack looking bagels with a double knot at the top that people kept picking up and putting back down again). We gave them food, and they were excited.

Best moment by the tree: An adorably overeager college student came over and dropped a brown bag off on the other side of the tree (where the bagels and potatoes and oh oh, I forgot to mention the rotten looking bell peppers! were) and turned to us with a jaunty little informational sing song: "Butternut squash! From my garden! Organic! Tra la la!" Oh Peace and Conflict Studies peeps, how I miss you.

So up to the Ritz Carlton of cemeteries. It took us a while to find the right plots. In fact we had to flag down a groundskeeper. It was a Sunday, so the main office wasn't open, but there was a tour of some kind being led around the grounds. I was exceedingly annoyed by a super disrespectful woman wearing a green and black striped witches hat throughout the tour. Show some respect, lady, jesus. I seriously wanted to yell at her, but settled for sneering whenever she passed. I'm not sure if she noticed or not. It was sunny and there was lots of squinting, so I highly doubt it.

Here, for your amazement, are more cemetery photos (I'm obviously having trouble getting images to rotate, but it's too late at night for me to bother with it, so apologies for the neck cramp in case you care to turn sideways for viewing).











Bury me here please. Oh wait, I want to be cremated, or neptuned or something. So scatter me here, or in that beautiful sea off the bluffs from here. Or just think of me fondly when you pass by.

We managed to find both family plots, but there's a bit of a mystery about the Sprouls because there are 5 people listed on the records as buried in the plot, but only 3 names appear on the newer looking headstone, and the dates of birth and death appear to be off slightly. Hmmmmm.

At some point when I am feeling less "What am I going to do with the rest of my life" and more "Nancy Drew" I may attempt to get to the bottom of this like the super sleuth I know I can be in my heart of hearts. I suspect it will be a nice chunk of a novel one of these days, from all the stories I've heard so far. (And you thought YOUR family was bad?!?).