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.

Diabolique Biologique

After a hard year of nothing good, a year that came after another two filled with nothing good (save a few notable exceptions), I saw and said good bye to my Dad today. One year to the day since his calling the police on the love of my life, since telling great ghastly, life-altering lies to "the authorities," to a lawyer, to his wife, to me, to everyone, we met at a cafe, I said my peace (my many pieces, perhaps), and bid him farewell.

His morning message said "Hi, Amber, it's your Bio Dad..." which is a very weird thing to say. He followed this up with the fact that he would be in town for the rest of the day and the following morning (though he had already been here for nearly a week) and did I want to get together for a cup of tea? Which also struck me as a weird thing to say. The entire message = very weird. It's saved on my phone, if you care to listen. I value your opinion.

I'm not really sure why I decided to see him in the end. But I found myself on the phone, returning the stilted message, agreeing to meet if he could make in the next hour. Ten minutes later, Chai in hand, there we are sitting across from each other as if we had anything else in common but the mysterious coding that produced this particular nose, fair skin and graying strawberry hair.

Essentially I told him that I wasn't interested in investing in our relationship any longer, that I regret the amount of time and energy I'd put in over the course of my life (from early childhood on up to a year ago) trying to bridge the giant gaps between the two of us, as well as between me and his wife. I reiterated something I'd said last year, that I was glad to have at least seen behind the curtain and to know who they both were and what they were capable of (not just how they treated me or Joosh, but their employees, other family, friends, John Q. Public of their clientel), though I wish the lesson could have been shorter and less drawn out. I am dense, or naive, too hopeful and benefit-of-the-doubt-y, or probably all of the above. I said that while I wish things would have worked out differently, overall I am exceedingly happy to have stepped off the "Scott and Jeanne Showboat." Life is good on this side of the shitstorm-filled river.

In a nutshell, he disagreed with my perspective, told me that he has "deep and connected relationships with lots of people" and would like to have one with me. However, survey says: not possible. And I told him as such.

One moment that will live forever in my memory of this meeting is when I said that some people - Joosh, for example - only have one parent, and it's up to that one parent to be somewhat selfless in order to provide everything for their children, raise them up as best they can, etc. So here I am, with a whole bevy of parental units, the majority of whom end up being shockingly narcissistic, self-centered, not at all focused on their children, and what are the statistical odds of that happening? His reaction? Nope, not denial. He totally laughed, and then smirked in this strange shoulder-shrugging, "what can you do?" sort of agreement. Christ. Just like the time he offered up "Well she knew who I was when she married me, what did she think was going to change with a ring?" when I asked why he was such a cheater (blatant, blatant, cheater), as if it was matter of poor judgment on his wife's part, rather than a fuckface flaw of his.

So yeah. What can I say? Just what I said to him, which is that he's my father, I'll always love him for that reason, but that I'm removing myself from the dysfunction junction that is the life he leads and leaving the inadequate and unhealthy relationship dynamic until further notice. I know they say that blood is thicker than water, and you can choose your friends, but you can't choose family, and yadda yadda yadda, but with respect to the institution of familyhood, I am opting to disagree. Life is too damn short to spend in on this kind of treadmill.

Welcome Home - Hey, Why So Smug?

I must apologize for the fact that I left you with the erupting ovarian follicle photo for the last two weeks. Dreadful imagery for such an interesting and life-creating thing. Certainly not something one wishes to contemplate on a daily or even weekly basis. It did serve as a good reminder that I am out of Vitamin E and Evening Primrose Oil, however.

I'm back from California. It was a lovely trip. All-consuming, though. Portland and work and the blogosphere (you) and the election and 1000 words a day and everything from the normal (mmmm, "normal") realm of life ceased to exist, sucked up by the mighty Pacific and all the sunshine you could ever want. (More than enough sunshine, actually: hot and sticky, all day every day, soaking in through newly burnt skin, through sweat-stained and inappropriately dark-colored clothing, through steamed-open pores. Beautiful, yes. Omnipresent, of course. Gratuitous, I'm thinking so). Busy as it was, and packed full of visits and events and dinners and lunches and hellos and goodbyes, it was also that dangerous sort of rockabye that cradles and then crushes the fool who slumbers in its embrace. Ah Ventura, how you lull me in to your warm gentle bath, only to slowly boil me in a soft stew of complacency and meh.

On Monday, our last day in town, Joosh and I walked on the beach and strolled the boardwalk for a spell. Feet in the sand, toes in the water, it was perfect. We talked about how easy and kick back Ventura felt this time around. How totally busy and packed the trip was, but also how simple it was to get around (unless you try to leave the city proper, and then all sorts of freeway and timeschedule planning hassles ensue, but of course it was always thus), to see people, to come and go and chat and connect and blah blah blah. For Joosh, I think it was how easy it is to get things done and accomplished - the bike project, the Fiat 1100 project, the Fiat spider project, work projects at his main place of business, etc etc - that appealed to him.

For me, it was how simple and easy it was to see family, friends, to chill and hang out and catch up. Portland is isolating, a bit, because of our age bracket (and the fact that we moved here after our twenties), our inclination to work from home, our lack of children or outdoor pets, our tendency to sneer at and alienate strangers, my propensity for deep and unwavering judgement from a distance... I kid. Mostly. But really, it's true that we are far away from family and all but two of our dearest friends (four, if you consider Seattle to be nearby, which I do and I don't). So it was nice and life-affirming (as in: yes, I am still alive and connected to people on this planet) to be in such close proximity, with so much easy access, to loved ones. I do miss that. (Hey, come visit!).

And then, as we were walking back to the car, shaking the sand from our feet, Joosh pointed out a tree that by all counts should be considered to have green leaves, but appeared to me more like a dusty brown-green. I looked up at a palm tree, searching for a more vibrant green. Nope. How about the hills? No, totally brown, with a few mustardy greenish trees dotting the landscape. Even the grass growing in front of the seaside condos was a kind of dull washed out color, more of an impression of greenness than anything that could be considered truly verdant. Back a the car a receipt from the previous night's meal fell out of my pocket with the keys. $41.25 for two people, consisting of a not-fancy (but delicious, I'll concede) cheese plate, a salad (better than most Ventura attempts at classy fare), and a martini.

And suddenly, I remembered life here. It's all green, all the time. The air is fresh. None of that why-so-dusty?/everything-needs-a-rinse feel to it. There's about a million different activities/events going on each week (just this weekend we've got the Organic Brewers Beer Festival, The Artichoke Folk Festival, The Cowboy Junkies at the lovely theater at the Zoo in the middle of Forest Park, and a million other shows with KCRW featured artists and local heroes alike, as well as a few book readings, several plays, art openings and a gaggle of $3 second-run movies at sweet old theaters serving beer and pizza in addition to the usual popcorn/candy/soda lineup). And, most importantly, $41.25 in Portland means three people, three full meals made from fresh locally grown organic ingredients, three or four beers, and maybe even a dessert.

I truly miss you, one and all. But damn, it's good to be home.

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.

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

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

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

I forgot to mention: the neice is six.

I. am. terrified.

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

Until then, I quake in fear.*


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

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!).

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.

Cutest Boy I Know.

While trying to find a photo of a previous Hanukkah bush (the first that Josh and I had in Berkeley, that had a super funny Dr. Seuss-like crooked bend in the middle), I came across these sweet snaps from last summer's camping trip at Lost Lake with the Watsons:

How unbelievably adorable is this kiddo, I ask you? He's like the poster child for the tremendous fun and good times involved in camping. Look at this face:


Such a sweetheart, and so good during our adventure! This was during some of the worst of the family business drama that I was dealing with over the summer, and this little man never failed to put a smile on my face through it all. I think I might have written down some of the gems he came up with during this trip, if I can find them I'll post them (after all, why should such a dollface be limited to public embarrassment from just his parents, right? Honorary Aunties with blogs should be allowed to kvell, too).

Speaking of public embarrassment, I also found some photos from New Year's Eve Y2K (what Millennium Bug?). I am still deciding if I will post them, a la Bex's "Old School Photo of the Day."

I am leaning toward yes. We'll see.

Why pine?

Joosh and I were discussing this question as we went to pick up a tree last week. Procurement and decoration of a tree is the next step in our sorta Jewy, sorta Atheistic/Agnostic,
Shut-up-Fundy-cause-Jesus-Was-a-Liberal (And Please Step Away From the Walmart Swag Pile'o'Hypocrisy) version of The Holidays. The inner Hippie wrestling to burst forth from within (getting stronger every year we live here, and every minute closer to the official childbearing years, I must say) wanted to get a live tree, but the Realist who understands that I live in a small apartment wrestled control of reason and rationality, and off we went to one of three tree farms scouted on the Internets that won me over with offers of hot cider and/or free flocking.


Just kidding about the flocking, kids. Can you see me getting that white sh*t on my Hanukkah Bush? Meh. (And yes, I know it's a Christmas Tree, but even though I am more of an I-heart-matzo-ball-soup Jew than a temple-goer, I must still refer to any holiday trees as Hanukkah bushes. And again, yes, I realize I am not fooling anyone. Whatever. Look away). But the cider, I would never kid about cider.

So on the last day of Hanukkah - sorry, fellow Chosen Peeps - Joosh grabbed the Crackberry and I, the camera (but not cash or my checkbook) and off we went for an hour or two of tree-hunting adventure. Or several hours, as it turns out that in a well-pine-treed area such as our new home state, it is few and far between out in the countryside off-the-beaten-path tree providers that accept credit cards. Luckily we had the aforementioned Crackberry, and it led us on a long and finally fruitful goose chase to a WAY off the beaten path tree farm that happily accepted the old plastic AND had cider (I had all but given up hope on the cider after four tree farms that were all cash-or-check only).

We were greeted by a super cute dog - um, Lab, maybe? - and a jolly old guy who sort of laughed when I asked if he accepted credit cards. I thought for sure he was scoffing at me since we were something like 14 miles from the main road and had just slip-slided up a super freaky muddy gravel road and was I kidding with a question like that? But then he said "Little lady, we have everything here but wagon rides. You want it we got it... 'Cept the rides, of course." He looked past me, eyebrows raised, I assume looking for the crestfallen faces of the wee one(s) I must surely have dragged all this way on a weekday afternoon to enjoy the funtimes of a U-Cut tree farm. "Awesome," I said, and waved to Joosh that we were good to go. Jolly guy looked puzzled as Joosh rose from the car, and was clearly baffled by us at this point... either that or he was trying to work out a hard math problem in his head, but I am assuming that we were the source of his does-not-compute face. That's okay. We are, of course, used to it by now!

"Okay, well, great, so over there you got your Nobles, then behind the pond you got your Dougs, Frasers and your Nordmans, and of course the Grands," he pointed and swung his arms in all directions. "Anything with a yellow tag is a Grand, so watch out for those." He gestured toward the price list, spraypainted on a white board next to the Get-Yer-Cider/Pay-Here canvas tent. Grands were $40, any size. Ouch. (Granted, that is A STEAL compared to what we paid for trees in CA, but during this downsized holiday I was planning for a tiny tree, coming in at no more than say $15 or $20). Other trees ranged from $4 - $6 bux per foot, extra for the white stuff, natch.

I moved to grab one of the grizzled, rusty, mud-caked hand saws hanging from a makeshift bike-cum-hacksaw rack, and Jolly guy stopped me with a dismissive wave. "Those are pretty, uh, hard to manage, and it's pretty muddy out, so unless you have your heart set on pulling yours down all by yourself, you can just holler up at us and we'll come out and chain it for you."

Score! I love the heartiness (hardiness?) of the Do-It-Yourself experience at UCut farms, but I love it even more when I don't actually have to get muddy during the DIY-ness of it all.

The search. In our eight years together, Joosh and I have had five trees, I think? And every year, including those when we traveled and did not select a tree, we have argued over the nature of what merits a good holiday tree. I can't keep the names straight (especially here in the Northwest where there are more than just Doug firs and Nobles found on lots in Ventura, for example), but the main difference comes down to bushiness. J loves those very needle-y, very full, classic pine triangle trees, where the ornaments sort of hang but mostly lay nestled against the backdrop of thickly crisscrossed needles. I prefer the more sparse look of the Nobles (the name of my faves, I can of course remember), where there is room between the elegant branches spiraling out from the tree trunk, and the ornaments hang freely down between them.

I usually win the argument (not sure how, come to think of it, it can't be purely based on the repetition of the words "elegant" and "classic" and "refined" and "more aesthetically pleasing, duh" over and over - it's probably more because he feels silly putting his foot down over something ornamental and temporary... either that or he just likes to make me happy more than he likes to win... nyawww) but this year, I thought I should maybe throw him a bone and get one to his liking.

Since we won't be traveling to see family, and since it will pretty much just be the two of us for what is usually a very active and busy holiday full of clan members, I thought it would be nice for him to have the tree that makes him most nostalgic and feels most like Xmas. And also? I, um, sort of blurted out something totally assholio in parking lot of the first tree farm (prior to being turned away for our lack of more than $12 in cash). I am ashamed to admit that in response to his "If you want to, we can get a tree you like, we can skip a bushy one" I said something like "No no, that's okay, we can get your ugly-ass bushmonster ghetto tree." I am cringing right now. I don't know, it just came out. Not with terrible venom, but definitely without any forethought whatsoever. And after that, well you can bet that nothing short of Joosh screaming loudly and repeatedly that he REALLY HATES THE BUSHY KIND would allow me to select anything else on that farm but the most piney, bushy, needley, ornament-nestling thing I could find.

So here it is:
And again, in case you missed it (shorter when next to a human, yes?):


And in it's final resting place, all decorated and purty:


On the way home, with the car all filled with sweet crispy pine smells and the earthy mud crusted on my shoes, we continued to discuss the original issue at hand: Why pine? How did that happen? I had a feeling that I used to know, and that it had something to do with Pagan symbols or something, but then maybe I was getting easter eggs and xmas trees mixed up. So out came the Crackberry and onto Wikipedia I ventured. But guess what? I still don't have a satisfactory answer. Partially because Wiki pages are full of crap, and partially because the Wiki explanation of the origins of the Xmas tree was SO BORING that I completely lost interest before we'd left the gravel road of the tree farm.

And now, sitting in front of my tiny cute (bushy) tree, I totally don't care anymore. Pass the eggnog.

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

And shortly the All Hallows Eve, full of sugar and expensively-suited small people running up your steps, was upon us.

Halloween-y at Joosh's mom's place. Nephew Liam, being the damn cutest giraffe you'll ever see. Except that his outfit was a tiny bit too tight and he kept trying to yank the crotch free. Technically he was a bit of a skeevy giraffe, I guess.



And still later in the week I drove through parts of LA previously unknown to me (Irvine, Santa Ana, godforsaken places one and all) to see El Jefe, with whom I'd been working on the aforementioned ridiculous project for the last few months. We were supposed to go the Oceanography center, but when I arrived at about 1, there was a police blockade, so we renegotiated our plan to involve mediocre pizza and a park for some fun times.

The kids were along for the ride, and if you know Jefferey and his lovely wife, you'll know at first glance that these two are literal chips off the old blocks. May I present Mini-JLG and Mini-CSH:


They are incredibly funny and absurdly smart. And it's probably a good thing they are home-schooled, because they are the kinds of adorable precocious who would get their hilarious butts kicked and their brains shrunk in public schools (yes, even the snotty la la schools in So. Cal!).

Here I asked them to make their kookiest craziest grossiest faces. This is what they came up with:

With a smidge more prompting (grosser! crazier! C'mon!):



Ash conquers the rings:



Autum(nal) conquers the rock wall:















El Jefe conquers Dana Point (while rocking the ever-sweet 'Refugee Facial Hair' look, apparently grown during the wildfire evacuation the previous week):




The entire family (sans CSH who did not join, but was surely wearing them within a hundred miles of us all the same) wore Crocs. I found this funny.



Hipster parents and their hipster spawn, taking over the world one dress-over-jeans or punked-out-hoodie outfit at a time:

(Please note the evidence of California's real estate market shining on the hilltop in the background, just above jeans/dress girls head).

I didn't get a good shot of the possibly older women dressed youngisher (so of indeterminable age) in tight leopardy-slash militantish yoga wear who Jefe insisted were a lesbian couple. I had hoped you might weigh in on the subject. They were wearing Neimen Marcus versions of ghetto caszh, basically. And I disagreed about the couple thing. But Jefe also thinks that JK Rowling outed Dumbledore (who is CLEARLY not gay, not that there's anything wrong with that) in order to make the actress who plays Hermione feel better about the fact that she is, in fact, a total lesbian. So take his assessments with a grain (or several) of salt.


Prior to the arrival of the other kids in the photo above, I had a total "That kid is STILL on the ESCALATOR" moment with this aging skater punk dad and the daredevil egg-onment of his progeny.

It might be too small to see without enlarging the photo to full size, but man, I could practically hear the bones breaking, precognitive echoes playing over the voice of Brodyman in Mallrats in my head. A few minutes later they busted out a skateboard and went to town. No, no helmut. (God help me, I'm an old old old lady).

So that's about it. There were many other activities on the California trip, of which I did not manage to photo document any further. Visits with grandparents, brothers, mom, dad, step-brother and fam (where I broke the news about the fact that one of their Halloween pumpkins was covered in the recalled "Aqua Dots" beads, you know, the ones that turn into the frickin date rape drug when ingested? Thank you, China, you piece of shit, and thanks all you nutjob USA consumers so desperate for cheaper and cheaper crap that you don't give a rat's ass about where it comes from, how it gets here, what the impact is, etc, until your own spawn are threatened with immediate comas or a case of lead poisoning. Grrrrrr. Though I should offer the caveat that the Aqua Dots were not at all cheap, they are absurdly expensive, actually - I guess you have to pay extra for a drug in your toys that some people actually want and pay good money to procure on or before date night).

Hmmm, I seem to be getting bitter and crankypants. Perhaps I should leave off about now. I meant to end with a tribute to my love and yours, Mr. Ben Harper, who graced us in Portland with his harmonious presence last week, but my account of the lovefest, it will have to wait.

Congrats to Bexy on her last day of classes for the first semester!!! Crazy fast, this semester flew by. I've yet to try the New Year's Drink contender recipe yet, but I will do so soon. There's always the sweet Saphire nectar to fall back on come 29 December, right? Congrats, honey. You are totally rocking the school of law.

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?!?).