Dearest Kenneth,
It has come to our attention that it is your natal day and for that we offer you our deepest felicitations. A hear-hear to you, old chap. We’ve been wandering around the outback in what was once Her Majesty's India and, while adjusting our pith helmets and baking under the hot, hot sun, thought of you.
We fell upon a merry watering hole yesterday that you would have adored. It was the tops! Though the canteen was filled with unsavory characters and prostitutes, you would have loved the bourbon. Our companion is somewhat syphilitic as a result of a visit to one of the harlots, but it’s nothing that more drink won’t solve. He’ll keep a stiff upper lip and hope for the best.
Must fly as my elephant is on the rise. We leave on the morrow for a large game hunt and hope to bag a tiger by sundown. I shall save the eye-teeth in your honor and perhaps inlay them in the handle of a rapier for use on your next sojourn into the darkest elbows of the world. Does that strike your fancy?
So here’s to you, old boy. May your day be full of adventure and your evening full of the choicest birds. Perhaps you’ll even pull one, eh? One can hope! More news when we’re back from the hunt. Carry on and so forth…
Ta!
JK & Co.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Sorry, I'm busy laying out in the hot, hot sun
Morning internet! I know posting has been light and weird this week. I've been on a plane for most of it, traveling between Portland and home and San Diego (where I am currently) and will be home again after the weekend. My body isn't quite sure what to make of such drastic climate changes since I went from arctic temperatures last weekend to tropical ones for the past two days. Let's just say basking in 80+ degree weather is my preference. San Diego has effectively kicked winters ass, and for that we thank thee. Though I do believe I'm scaring off the natives with my pale, PALE skin, a problem I'll attempt to solve by laying by the pool this afternoon. I'll think of you all slaving behind your desks as I sip a margarita with my sister.
So here, to tide you over until next week, is a story I'm working on for submission to a magazine. It's the first cut, rough, and will go through endless edits and sessions of me tearing my hair out and moaning, "I HATE WRITING" until it becomes something worth sending off for further abuse by an editor. But enjoy! It's about me flashing an entire family, so that should be the right thing to send you all into your weekend with! Don't say I don't love you.
You would think that eleven miles into the back country would afford one the opportunity to be nude without an audience. I have never been one to take my clothes off in front of people, eschewing strip poker in my college days and changing underneath my towel in the ladies locker room, but here, where sighting a bear would be more probable than another human being, I was feeling brave.
And dirty.
My husband, Marc, and I had hiked for what seemed like a small eternity through the eastern sierras, on what was intended to be a romantic weekend. But, as was often the case, we had miscalculated either the distance or our tendency to break for snacks and had hiked until dark, our headlamps lighting the last few miles into a canyon and our lakeside destination. We didn’t even break open the wine over dinner, our conversation consisting of grunts and vague hand gestures. Instead, we ingested a cold meal and fell asleep in our bags wearing the same clothes we had been hiking in all day.
This was unprecedented for Marc who is one of the cleanest human beings alive. He showers at least twice daily when we’re at home and I’ve seen him dive into lakes with ice still clinging to the edges when we’re backpacking or climbing. He’ll take the few moments of discomfort to ensure his cleanliness and then spends the rest of the evening lording it over his filthy companions. While the rest of us contend with flies buzzing around our heads and crusty pants, he revels in his ablutions.
Regardless, here we were, many miles from civilization, and the grime of the previous day had developed an unpleasant layer of grime that even I, the non ice diving sort, could deal with. Marc had succumbed to altitude sickness and so had decided to spend the morning in his sleeping bag, hoping to stave off vomiting by remaining prone and very, very still.
I wandered down to the lakes edge, my feet happy to be out of my boots and in the flip-flops I always carried despite Marcs argument that they were only extra weight. I found a small cove not far from our camp, the beach surrounded on three sides by a 20 foot granite wall baking in the sun. A small bush pushed up through the sand, insistent upon survival even though we were close to being above the tree line.
It seemed like adequate cover. We hadn’t seen a person since the previous day, and they had been hiking out, complaining of the endless uphill slog that we had ahead of us. So I stripped down and happily waded knee deep into the cold water. My skin pimpled immediately against the chill and I quickly tossed water about in an effort to distract myself from the onset of hypothermia.
My feet and lower legs had numbed and the feeling of water on my dirty body was immensely painful, but satisfying. I stood, looking out over the lake, enjoying both the feeling of the hot sun on my skin and the absolute quiet. The view across the lake was stunning, with 13K foot peaks across the way, snow still clinging to their slopes.
“GAH! DAD! THERE IS A NAKED WOMAN DOWN THERE!” suddenly tore across the water from overhead and my head jerked up quickly from my reverie. There, on top of the granite wall surrounding my private cove stood a small boy, perhaps seven or eight, his eyes wide and very much focused on my bare frame. Instinctively, I ducked down into the water, hoping for cover and gasping as the lower half of my body submerged completely.
His father and another son came into view within moments. The three of them stared down at me, a strange sight I’m sure as I was savagely gripping my breasts and hoping that the clear water was covering up the other important parts. The father was frozen in his surprise, not having intended a father/son weekend to become an anatomy lesson. I was panicked, rooted, wondering if perhaps I was going to have to live, squatted in this position for forever. Then, moved by the Siberian cold and an aggressive leg cramp, I rose out of the water and scampered the 20 feet across the beach to take cover behind the little bush that stood proudly between the four of us.
It was an endless distance, my mortification increasing as I stubbed my toe on a rock and skipped the last ten feet on one foot before diving behind the bush. My plan failed miserably, as its spindly branches offered scant protection, the family now getting a rather bizarre view of my behind as I hunched with my back to them.
The father finally gathered himself and said, “Come on boys…let’s get going!” and started to move his sons up the trail. It would appear, however, that the path traversed the top of the cove, so they were in sight for a few, desperately uncomfortable moments, their necks craning to keep me in sight for as long as possible. You can’t blame them. With the shape I was in, my hair poking out in every direction and strangely sunburned limbs, I’m sure I looked as though I had just come out of the bush, or had recently fought a wild-a-beast and lost.
The family dropped out of sight. I stayed crouched behind the shrub for a while longer, their voices still audible, the water carrying their comments clearly to me.
“What do you think she was doing?”
“Dad, do you think she lives here?”
“That’s the first naked lady I’ve ever seen!”
Clearly, it was a landmark day for all of us. I felt bad for the son whose first experience of nudity was this one. From what I understand, those things tend to stay with you and to see a filthy woman running and skipping across a sandy cove doesn’t seem like the event that good wet dreams are made of.
But, you know, whatever I can do to help.
So here, to tide you over until next week, is a story I'm working on for submission to a magazine. It's the first cut, rough, and will go through endless edits and sessions of me tearing my hair out and moaning, "I HATE WRITING" until it becomes something worth sending off for further abuse by an editor. But enjoy! It's about me flashing an entire family, so that should be the right thing to send you all into your weekend with! Don't say I don't love you.
You would think that eleven miles into the back country would afford one the opportunity to be nude without an audience. I have never been one to take my clothes off in front of people, eschewing strip poker in my college days and changing underneath my towel in the ladies locker room, but here, where sighting a bear would be more probable than another human being, I was feeling brave.
And dirty.
My husband, Marc, and I had hiked for what seemed like a small eternity through the eastern sierras, on what was intended to be a romantic weekend. But, as was often the case, we had miscalculated either the distance or our tendency to break for snacks and had hiked until dark, our headlamps lighting the last few miles into a canyon and our lakeside destination. We didn’t even break open the wine over dinner, our conversation consisting of grunts and vague hand gestures. Instead, we ingested a cold meal and fell asleep in our bags wearing the same clothes we had been hiking in all day.
This was unprecedented for Marc who is one of the cleanest human beings alive. He showers at least twice daily when we’re at home and I’ve seen him dive into lakes with ice still clinging to the edges when we’re backpacking or climbing. He’ll take the few moments of discomfort to ensure his cleanliness and then spends the rest of the evening lording it over his filthy companions. While the rest of us contend with flies buzzing around our heads and crusty pants, he revels in his ablutions.
Regardless, here we were, many miles from civilization, and the grime of the previous day had developed an unpleasant layer of grime that even I, the non ice diving sort, could deal with. Marc had succumbed to altitude sickness and so had decided to spend the morning in his sleeping bag, hoping to stave off vomiting by remaining prone and very, very still.
I wandered down to the lakes edge, my feet happy to be out of my boots and in the flip-flops I always carried despite Marcs argument that they were only extra weight. I found a small cove not far from our camp, the beach surrounded on three sides by a 20 foot granite wall baking in the sun. A small bush pushed up through the sand, insistent upon survival even though we were close to being above the tree line.
It seemed like adequate cover. We hadn’t seen a person since the previous day, and they had been hiking out, complaining of the endless uphill slog that we had ahead of us. So I stripped down and happily waded knee deep into the cold water. My skin pimpled immediately against the chill and I quickly tossed water about in an effort to distract myself from the onset of hypothermia.
My feet and lower legs had numbed and the feeling of water on my dirty body was immensely painful, but satisfying. I stood, looking out over the lake, enjoying both the feeling of the hot sun on my skin and the absolute quiet. The view across the lake was stunning, with 13K foot peaks across the way, snow still clinging to their slopes.
“GAH! DAD! THERE IS A NAKED WOMAN DOWN THERE!” suddenly tore across the water from overhead and my head jerked up quickly from my reverie. There, on top of the granite wall surrounding my private cove stood a small boy, perhaps seven or eight, his eyes wide and very much focused on my bare frame. Instinctively, I ducked down into the water, hoping for cover and gasping as the lower half of my body submerged completely.
His father and another son came into view within moments. The three of them stared down at me, a strange sight I’m sure as I was savagely gripping my breasts and hoping that the clear water was covering up the other important parts. The father was frozen in his surprise, not having intended a father/son weekend to become an anatomy lesson. I was panicked, rooted, wondering if perhaps I was going to have to live, squatted in this position for forever. Then, moved by the Siberian cold and an aggressive leg cramp, I rose out of the water and scampered the 20 feet across the beach to take cover behind the little bush that stood proudly between the four of us.
It was an endless distance, my mortification increasing as I stubbed my toe on a rock and skipped the last ten feet on one foot before diving behind the bush. My plan failed miserably, as its spindly branches offered scant protection, the family now getting a rather bizarre view of my behind as I hunched with my back to them.
The father finally gathered himself and said, “Come on boys…let’s get going!” and started to move his sons up the trail. It would appear, however, that the path traversed the top of the cove, so they were in sight for a few, desperately uncomfortable moments, their necks craning to keep me in sight for as long as possible. You can’t blame them. With the shape I was in, my hair poking out in every direction and strangely sunburned limbs, I’m sure I looked as though I had just come out of the bush, or had recently fought a wild-a-beast and lost.
The family dropped out of sight. I stayed crouched behind the shrub for a while longer, their voices still audible, the water carrying their comments clearly to me.
“What do you think she was doing?”
“Dad, do you think she lives here?”
“That’s the first naked lady I’ve ever seen!”
Clearly, it was a landmark day for all of us. I felt bad for the son whose first experience of nudity was this one. From what I understand, those things tend to stay with you and to see a filthy woman running and skipping across a sandy cove doesn’t seem like the event that good wet dreams are made of.
But, you know, whatever I can do to help.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
A report from what felt like the tundra, but with better restaurants
I’m convinced, now, after our trip to Portland that Oregonians are the type of people with whom you would want to be trapped in an elevator. They are unfailingly polite and kind so, even if you never got OUT of the elevator, you’d be calm and soothed by their lovely demeanor and end up thinking, “What a charming group of people to perish with!”
It was a perfect weekend, albeit cold (and I know all of you people over in the Midwest are thinking “COLD? I’LL SHOW YOU COLD!” but you don’t need to as I’ve LIVED there and survived 20 degrees below zero and this is why I moved back to California and deal with the property taxes and disproportionate amount of fake breasts). I think I felt the cold more because I had forgotten my gloves, a rookie error, I’ll admit. I stubbornly dealt with my glovelessness, however, because I have a drawer full of them at home for every conceivable temperature and physical activity, so it seemed, in these economic times, frivolous to purchase another pair. I instead shoved my hands, which turned blue then red then back to pink as they would thaw out, into my pockets while Marc hollered things like, “HAVE YOU LEARNED YOUR LESSON?” “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU MADE SUCH A BASIC PACKING ERROR.” “BOY YOU’LL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN, WILL YOU?” He bleeds sympathy, that one.
But despite the constant threat of hypothermia and one instance of almost getting shivved over on the east side, we had a splendid weekend full of eating and drinking and walking. If ever you need a city through which to graze, Portland is it. I come from a family in which we often plan the next meal in the middle of our current one and Marc was amazed by my gastronomic dedication. While our pants’ waists were worked to their utmost, straining under the pressure of yet another good meal I’d say, “Ok, here are our options for dinner…” and Marc, wiping the sweat from his brow and popping a Tums would moan, “SERIOUSLY? How can you be thinking of eating? I’m still digesting lunch from yesterday!” Amateur. No, really, he sacked up and we enjoyed so many good meals that it’s worth the extra time I need to spend on the treadmill this week.
I think one of my favorite things was seeing a movie at The Living Room. It's a movie theater thinly veiled as a swanky eatery. You walk in, sidle up to the bar, order a drink and can either take it into the movie with you or pick a fireplace and consume your drink there. Dinner is also available (but we had just eaten and I'm not THAT well acquainted with gluttony) and the food looked glorious. The theaters are made up of rows of love seats with exceptionally wide armrests with deep drink holders so that your glass of wine or beer won't go sloshing all over the place while your cuddle with your date. The films are all small and independent and DIGITAL! So SUSTAINABLE! Without being in your face about it! In fact, that is something that impressed me about all of Portland. While they are one of the most eco-friendly cities in the entire nation, it does not at all come with a hearty dose of self righteousness, a combination often found in my fellow Californians. It's more like "Meh, whatever. Why wouldn't we try to preserve our planet? What did you have for dinner?" My kind of people!
So my 33rd year was brought in properly and I feel very fortunate to have been able to explore another city that is beautiful, full of kind people and great food. If anyone need recommendations, I have a list! Though my first piece of advice, should you go in the winter months is: BRING YOUR BLOODY GLOVES. My hands are still thawing out.
It was a perfect weekend, albeit cold (and I know all of you people over in the Midwest are thinking “COLD? I’LL SHOW YOU COLD!” but you don’t need to as I’ve LIVED there and survived 20 degrees below zero and this is why I moved back to California and deal with the property taxes and disproportionate amount of fake breasts). I think I felt the cold more because I had forgotten my gloves, a rookie error, I’ll admit. I stubbornly dealt with my glovelessness, however, because I have a drawer full of them at home for every conceivable temperature and physical activity, so it seemed, in these economic times, frivolous to purchase another pair. I instead shoved my hands, which turned blue then red then back to pink as they would thaw out, into my pockets while Marc hollered things like, “HAVE YOU LEARNED YOUR LESSON?” “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU MADE SUCH A BASIC PACKING ERROR.” “BOY YOU’LL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN, WILL YOU?” He bleeds sympathy, that one.
But despite the constant threat of hypothermia and one instance of almost getting shivved over on the east side, we had a splendid weekend full of eating and drinking and walking. If ever you need a city through which to graze, Portland is it. I come from a family in which we often plan the next meal in the middle of our current one and Marc was amazed by my gastronomic dedication. While our pants’ waists were worked to their utmost, straining under the pressure of yet another good meal I’d say, “Ok, here are our options for dinner…” and Marc, wiping the sweat from his brow and popping a Tums would moan, “SERIOUSLY? How can you be thinking of eating? I’m still digesting lunch from yesterday!” Amateur. No, really, he sacked up and we enjoyed so many good meals that it’s worth the extra time I need to spend on the treadmill this week.
I think one of my favorite things was seeing a movie at The Living Room. It's a movie theater thinly veiled as a swanky eatery. You walk in, sidle up to the bar, order a drink and can either take it into the movie with you or pick a fireplace and consume your drink there. Dinner is also available (but we had just eaten and I'm not THAT well acquainted with gluttony) and the food looked glorious. The theaters are made up of rows of love seats with exceptionally wide armrests with deep drink holders so that your glass of wine or beer won't go sloshing all over the place while your cuddle with your date. The films are all small and independent and DIGITAL! So SUSTAINABLE! Without being in your face about it! In fact, that is something that impressed me about all of Portland. While they are one of the most eco-friendly cities in the entire nation, it does not at all come with a hearty dose of self righteousness, a combination often found in my fellow Californians. It's more like "Meh, whatever. Why wouldn't we try to preserve our planet? What did you have for dinner?" My kind of people!
So my 33rd year was brought in properly and I feel very fortunate to have been able to explore another city that is beautiful, full of kind people and great food. If anyone need recommendations, I have a list! Though my first piece of advice, should you go in the winter months is: BRING YOUR BLOODY GLOVES. My hands are still thawing out.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Your word for today is Synesthesia
So, I received not one, not two, but ELEVEN different emails from friends who were all, “What’s wrong with you that you see people in color? Did your mother drop you on your head when you were a child?” Answers: How much time do you have?, and No, she did not. Or she’s just been lying to me about that scar on the top of my skull and my tendency to veer left when I walk.
Anyhoo, the color thing. It’s called Synesthesia and I discovered through the world of Facebook that my niece has it too! Neat! Genetic anomalies unite! It’s attributed to only a tiny portion of the population, but I think more people have it and just don’t talk about it. Not because we feel like freaks but because it is so normal for us to see things the way that we do that it doesn’t occur to us as being different.
I have three manifestations. The first, that I referred to yesterday, is that I see people in color. Not all people, only some. Those that I come into direct contact with tend to become important to me in some fashion, but in any crowd, I will see several people that have an aura about them. Men tend to exhibit cooler colors and women warmer ones, but it’s not always a hard rule. When I was little, it happened with greater frequency. If I looked out over, say, a restaurant, most people would just be a wash of color. Now, as an adult, I’ll perhaps only see someone in color a few times a week. Does it freak me out? Nope. But if I meet someone and they are letting off a hue, I take note. Like I said yesterday, what will often happen is that by the third time I come into contact with the person, the aura has faded and I can see their features clearly.
The second thing is that I see color along with music. Higher notes are bright colors and lower ones are dark, usually deep reds and purples. Violins and cellos are always gold. The colors just flash across my vision – basically every concert I go to is my own version of a safe acid trip - I totally get Pink Floyd! This is the primary reason that I don’t like loud, screamy music. It stresses me out to no end because it’s overly stimulating in both an auditory and visual way. If the TV and stereo are on simultaneously (and this happened ALL OF THE TIME in college) I have to leave the room as I feel like my head will explode. It’s too much. If ever you need to extract information from me, put on heavy metal and strap me down. I’ll have no defense.
The third thing, and I’m going to borrow from my niece here, is the way I see the calendar – it’s a 3D picture of an oval. December and January have a gap between them and are at the bottom of the oval, while June, July and August are the topmost curve. It’s just how it shows up in my head.
A lot of people who have Synesthesia also have right/left confusion, which I definitely suffer from. If you’re ever in the car with me, for the LOVE OF PETE just point which way I’m supposed to go - if you say “GO LEFT!” I will go right, almost automatically.
So there you go. Ways in which I am weird, #496. But hey, I’ll bet my days are prettier than yours. Suck on THAT.
Anyhoo, the color thing. It’s called Synesthesia and I discovered through the world of Facebook that my niece has it too! Neat! Genetic anomalies unite! It’s attributed to only a tiny portion of the population, but I think more people have it and just don’t talk about it. Not because we feel like freaks but because it is so normal for us to see things the way that we do that it doesn’t occur to us as being different.
I have three manifestations. The first, that I referred to yesterday, is that I see people in color. Not all people, only some. Those that I come into direct contact with tend to become important to me in some fashion, but in any crowd, I will see several people that have an aura about them. Men tend to exhibit cooler colors and women warmer ones, but it’s not always a hard rule. When I was little, it happened with greater frequency. If I looked out over, say, a restaurant, most people would just be a wash of color. Now, as an adult, I’ll perhaps only see someone in color a few times a week. Does it freak me out? Nope. But if I meet someone and they are letting off a hue, I take note. Like I said yesterday, what will often happen is that by the third time I come into contact with the person, the aura has faded and I can see their features clearly.
The second thing is that I see color along with music. Higher notes are bright colors and lower ones are dark, usually deep reds and purples. Violins and cellos are always gold. The colors just flash across my vision – basically every concert I go to is my own version of a safe acid trip - I totally get Pink Floyd! This is the primary reason that I don’t like loud, screamy music. It stresses me out to no end because it’s overly stimulating in both an auditory and visual way. If the TV and stereo are on simultaneously (and this happened ALL OF THE TIME in college) I have to leave the room as I feel like my head will explode. It’s too much. If ever you need to extract information from me, put on heavy metal and strap me down. I’ll have no defense.
The third thing, and I’m going to borrow from my niece here, is the way I see the calendar – it’s a 3D picture of an oval. December and January have a gap between them and are at the bottom of the oval, while June, July and August are the topmost curve. It’s just how it shows up in my head.
A lot of people who have Synesthesia also have right/left confusion, which I definitely suffer from. If you’re ever in the car with me, for the LOVE OF PETE just point which way I’m supposed to go - if you say “GO LEFT!” I will go right, almost automatically.
So there you go. Ways in which I am weird, #496. But hey, I’ll bet my days are prettier than yours. Suck on THAT.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Taken from my Facebook page because this cold is sapping my creativity...
1. There were four things I wanted to be when I grew up: a spy, a stylist, a writer and a doctor. In some way, I have fulfilled three of those four things.
2. I am terrified of crowds.
3. I'm an intermittent extrovert. As a rule, I'm VERY shy - I just fake it well. But most of my close friends are totally social and therefore pull my weight for me. I delegate well.
4. Random things that turn me on in men: a well groomed beard, glasses, a strong jaw line, the ability to wear Converse without irony, great forearms, a distinctive walk, dark hair.
5. Random things that turn me off in men: complicated facial hair, earrings, saggy pants, the hipster look, those stupid skinny scarves that serve no purpose other than to say "ooooo - look at me! I'm sensitive and listen to Belle & Sebastian and am in touch with my angst." Whatever. Pull up your pants.
6. I have a tattoo on my lower back that is the Gaelic symbol for eternity. No one has EVER once asked what this tattoo means to me, which I find interesting. And no, I won't tell you now.
7. I am terrible at keeping in touch with people that do not live near me. And this is mostly because...
8. ...I hate talking on the phone.
9. I don't need a lot of human interaction (see #3) but would hang out with my siblings every day if I could. My brother and I once said that we ought to buy houses next to one another. I would totally do this.
10. I still think that my dad knows everything.
11. I did not have an idyllic childhood and in fact, parts of it were pretty wretched (my therapist thanks me for this). But, it's still the part of my life that I would live over again, if only because I find this adult thing to be totally overrated.
12. I generally like children better than adults.
13. If someone says "knock on wood," I HAVE to do so.
14. I don't do well with change. For instance, within the space of a few months my parents moved out of the house I grew up in and my oldest sister moved to San Diego. I'm still flipping out about both of these things even though they both happened over a year ago.
15. In college, I was the body model for my sculpture professor. So somewhere in a park in Michigan, there is a 10 foot tall statue of my naked self. Probably with a pigeon roosting on its head.
16. In rare instances, I don't register a persons face until I've met them about three times, I only see an aura of color. This happens with people that become dear friends or that I fall in love with. I thought this was normal until someone in college was all, "Have you met so and so? He's SO HOT!" And I was all, "Oh, he's still just green to me right now." And she was all, "WHAT?" and thought I was totally weird. I fell in love with that boy, by the way.
17. I was a complete tomboy until well after college. Then an ex boyfriend bought me a pencil skirt, which totally changed my life.
18. Being that I'm an insomniac, I'm really only awake between the hours of 4-7pm. If you ever need me to do something important for you, that's when to catch me.
19. I'm happiest when I'm at the beach.
20. I don't tell my mother a lot of things I do out of a very reasonable fear that she would never again leave the house...she would be too busy praying for my soul. But I hope to be like her in spirit, smarts and humor.
21. I'd rather have people over than go out to a club.
22. My favorite meal on the planet is two eggs over easy with a bagel. This is what I would order for my last supper if ever I were to find myself on death row.
23. I've driven the same car since college and would be perfectly happy if it were the only car I ever own. I'm unreasonably attached to it.
24. I LOVE The Hills, The City and The Real Housewives, but balance that out with my equal appreciation of independent film.
25. At the end of the day, my only real goal in life is to be happy. Most days, I'm there.
2. I am terrified of crowds.
3. I'm an intermittent extrovert. As a rule, I'm VERY shy - I just fake it well. But most of my close friends are totally social and therefore pull my weight for me. I delegate well.
4. Random things that turn me on in men: a well groomed beard, glasses, a strong jaw line, the ability to wear Converse without irony, great forearms, a distinctive walk, dark hair.
5. Random things that turn me off in men: complicated facial hair, earrings, saggy pants, the hipster look, those stupid skinny scarves that serve no purpose other than to say "ooooo - look at me! I'm sensitive and listen to Belle & Sebastian and am in touch with my angst." Whatever. Pull up your pants.
6. I have a tattoo on my lower back that is the Gaelic symbol for eternity. No one has EVER once asked what this tattoo means to me, which I find interesting. And no, I won't tell you now.
7. I am terrible at keeping in touch with people that do not live near me. And this is mostly because...
8. ...I hate talking on the phone.
9. I don't need a lot of human interaction (see #3) but would hang out with my siblings every day if I could. My brother and I once said that we ought to buy houses next to one another. I would totally do this.
10. I still think that my dad knows everything.
11. I did not have an idyllic childhood and in fact, parts of it were pretty wretched (my therapist thanks me for this). But, it's still the part of my life that I would live over again, if only because I find this adult thing to be totally overrated.
12. I generally like children better than adults.
13. If someone says "knock on wood," I HAVE to do so.
14. I don't do well with change. For instance, within the space of a few months my parents moved out of the house I grew up in and my oldest sister moved to San Diego. I'm still flipping out about both of these things even though they both happened over a year ago.
15. In college, I was the body model for my sculpture professor. So somewhere in a park in Michigan, there is a 10 foot tall statue of my naked self. Probably with a pigeon roosting on its head.
16. In rare instances, I don't register a persons face until I've met them about three times, I only see an aura of color. This happens with people that become dear friends or that I fall in love with. I thought this was normal until someone in college was all, "Have you met so and so? He's SO HOT!" And I was all, "Oh, he's still just green to me right now." And she was all, "WHAT?" and thought I was totally weird. I fell in love with that boy, by the way.
17. I was a complete tomboy until well after college. Then an ex boyfriend bought me a pencil skirt, which totally changed my life.
18. Being that I'm an insomniac, I'm really only awake between the hours of 4-7pm. If you ever need me to do something important for you, that's when to catch me.
19. I'm happiest when I'm at the beach.
20. I don't tell my mother a lot of things I do out of a very reasonable fear that she would never again leave the house...she would be too busy praying for my soul. But I hope to be like her in spirit, smarts and humor.
21. I'd rather have people over than go out to a club.
22. My favorite meal on the planet is two eggs over easy with a bagel. This is what I would order for my last supper if ever I were to find myself on death row.
23. I've driven the same car since college and would be perfectly happy if it were the only car I ever own. I'm unreasonably attached to it.
24. I LOVE The Hills, The City and The Real Housewives, but balance that out with my equal appreciation of independent film.
25. At the end of the day, my only real goal in life is to be happy. Most days, I'm there.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Don't worry...I brushed this morning. AND used mouthwash.
I’ve never been one of those people to pepper my language with foreign phrases…the affectation drives me insane. When in America, and when you have no discernible accent, a “lift” is an elevator and you don’t “queue” up for a movie. It’s called a line. And so, while I could scatter a “mais oui!” or “ausgezeichnet!” legitimately throughout my speech, I would hope someone would whap me over the head with a baguette or force me to wear a beret as punishment for putting on airs. The beret alone scares me…the things it would do to my hair.
Language aside, however, it is a little known fact that I am a raving Francophile. I keep this to myself mostly because several people in my life are of the opinion that France would be lovely were it not FOR the French. I, however, couldn’t disagree more. I believe I was born in the wrong country and should, at this very moment, be riding along the Seine on a scooter, trailing a scarf behind me in the wind. And what of those complaints of “Oh, but THEY ARE SO RUDE!”? Clearly, these people never leave their houses or interact with the service industry in our own country. If anything, the fact that the French might berate you in such a lovely language should be reason enough to put up with some light disparaging.
Regardless, one thing I do in each city that I visit is look for their local French bistro. It’s fun to see other people’s take on such a traditional cuisine, and often chefs who attempt it are gloriously good at what they do. And so last night, our first in Portland, we went to Carafe, a restaurant I had read about first in Sunset magazine. People, I didn’t even brush my teeth last night so as to allow the Cassoulet to linger in my mouth for a while longer. It was bliss. A recommendation should you ever find yourself in this part of the world. The immediate arrival of a carafe of wine and freshly baked bread warmed us up from what was a rather brisk and long walk to the bistro. It’s my first time here...I’m allowed to get slightly lost.
So this morning I’m relaxing a bit and mapping out the rest of the day. I woke from a dead sleep to find that a cold had taken up residence in my chest. But! What HO! The hotel has a steam room which I’ll take advantage of later. Smoke out the germs, if you will. My goal today is to locate a good frozen yogurt shop, because along with scooting along the Seine, frozen yogurt is my other love. And an easy one to fulfill since it doesn’t require a passport to enjoy. Take note, should you ever need to get swiftly on my good side…
Thursday, January 22, 2009
I'm heading to Portland, bishes!
Because what better way IS there to celebrate turning 33 then to wade through the mist and dampness of the Pacific Northwest? I've packed my Uggs, mittens and fur ear-muffs...faux, of course.
(And how many of you men are giggling because this post contains the word muff? You're welcome.)
Posting will resume upon arrival...if I feel like it.
(And how many of you men are giggling because this post contains the word muff? You're welcome.)
Posting will resume upon arrival...if I feel like it.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The Charming Box: It's not what you think.
So my friend Angie, of the pretty hair and many cats, has found a mail order husband from Uzbekistan and is to pay him 250 Uzbeks and 12 goats to marry her in October! Actually, that isn’t true: her darling boyfriend, Mike, proposed to her last November on a beach in Australia. It was all very romantic and involved walks and star-gazing and many, many drinks. And Angie almost missed it because she didn’t FEEL like taking the walk and Mike practically had to drag her and she was all, “But, WAH! my FEET hurt” and he was all, “Shut up, DUDE…I’m trying to propose here” and she was all, “Wait, WHAT!?” Although when people ask me, I’m totally going to stick with the mail order story, because I find it amusing…especially the part about the goats. Whatever! Don’t scorn me! I haven’t been sleeping well.
Our friend Sabeen decided that the right thing to do would be to throw an engagement party, because, you know, WINE. And I proclaimed myself her bitch. So planning ensued, and we found a place and blah blah blah. Sabeen and I decided that we ought to make the place more wedding’y. The problem being that both of us were somewhat delinquent brides, which I mean in the nicest sense. I planned my entire nuptials in about one week and spent most of the time complaining about how HARD it was and how my HAIR HURT just thinking about things like FLOWERS. I wasn’t in school that day when they taught you to be a girl. I would have happily eloped, though I think my parents would have written me out of the will and I’m sort of planning on cashing in on those two. HA! KIDDING!
Anyway, Sabeen called me and said, “I’ve heard of this thing called a guest book…should we have one for the party?” And I said, “Nah…I think that ought to be saved for the wedding.” But a thought sprang forth. Once, when I was forced to read a Martha Stewart Weddings against my will, I saw this idea wherein the guests would write a little something on a card, be that advice, or a memory or Thoughts On Love, and stow it in a charming box. The cards would then later be given to the happy couple. You know, something they could Cherish Forever. I shared this with Sabeen who said, “BRILLIANT!” and I believe exhaled, both of us worried about not properly ushering Mike and Angie into the realm of fiancee-dom.
WELL.
As Angie said, after the party, which was hilarious, and fun and rather wine-soaked, we ought to never give our friends wide berth. You see I had written, next to the charming box, “Please write down a memory or thought for the couple! Be creative!” That mandate was FAR too broad. Observe:
“That Mike dude has a sweet ass crack!”
“I remember when I had my first three way with Angie and Mike!”
“I think boys who love and collect Transformers are hot! And most likely hung!”
“Angie, you are a f***ing GENIUS! And a slut for beating me at Boggle!”
“Mike rules!”
And these are the tame ones. There are references to donkey shows, dragging one another around by the hair and a picture of what I can only surmise to be two penis’. But this is not that kind of website, so you’ll have to go elsewhere for that kind of jolly fun.
So while these were not the kind of Tender Thoughts that I was hoping for, I can’t wait to somehow put them together so that Angie and Mike have something to remember just how ridiculously happy we all were to celebratethe open bar their upcoming wedding. Y’all might want to consider a dry reception.
Our friend Sabeen decided that the right thing to do would be to throw an engagement party, because, you know, WINE. And I proclaimed myself her bitch. So planning ensued, and we found a place and blah blah blah. Sabeen and I decided that we ought to make the place more wedding’y. The problem being that both of us were somewhat delinquent brides, which I mean in the nicest sense. I planned my entire nuptials in about one week and spent most of the time complaining about how HARD it was and how my HAIR HURT just thinking about things like FLOWERS. I wasn’t in school that day when they taught you to be a girl. I would have happily eloped, though I think my parents would have written me out of the will and I’m sort of planning on cashing in on those two. HA! KIDDING!
Anyway, Sabeen called me and said, “I’ve heard of this thing called a guest book…should we have one for the party?” And I said, “Nah…I think that ought to be saved for the wedding.” But a thought sprang forth. Once, when I was forced to read a Martha Stewart Weddings against my will, I saw this idea wherein the guests would write a little something on a card, be that advice, or a memory or Thoughts On Love, and stow it in a charming box. The cards would then later be given to the happy couple. You know, something they could Cherish Forever. I shared this with Sabeen who said, “BRILLIANT!” and I believe exhaled, both of us worried about not properly ushering Mike and Angie into the realm of fiancee-dom.
WELL.
As Angie said, after the party, which was hilarious, and fun and rather wine-soaked, we ought to never give our friends wide berth. You see I had written, next to the charming box, “Please write down a memory or thought for the couple! Be creative!” That mandate was FAR too broad. Observe:
“That Mike dude has a sweet ass crack!”
“I remember when I had my first three way with Angie and Mike!”
“I think boys who love and collect Transformers are hot! And most likely hung!”
“Angie, you are a f***ing GENIUS! And a slut for beating me at Boggle!”
“Mike rules!”
And these are the tame ones. There are references to donkey shows, dragging one another around by the hair and a picture of what I can only surmise to be two penis’. But this is not that kind of website, so you’ll have to go elsewhere for that kind of jolly fun.
So while these were not the kind of Tender Thoughts that I was hoping for, I can’t wait to somehow put them together so that Angie and Mike have something to remember just how ridiculously happy we all were to celebrate
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Ruminations:
Why, though I despise their music, do I know all of the words to Nickelbacks songs?
Is Lindsay just faking it with Samantha? And is anyone else sort of skeeved out by the length of her extensions?
Who thought jumpsuits ought to make a revival? Can we castrate him? Because I’m sure it was a man. No woman would ever think to bring back something that makes a bathroom break such a monumental task. And SWEET GOD! The danger of camel toe! Just, no.
Why do I continue to watch the Real Housewives even though I'm sure my IQ has dropped dramatically as a result?
I never get sick of listening to Eddie Vedder. He could sing the telephone book and, if Hugh Jackman were to call me up for dinner, I would shriek, “EDDIE IS SINGING A-through-N TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE BOTHERED!” Though I would first lick his bicep...we can't have Hugh upset, after all.
I’ve decided that I need to use the colon more in my writing. Unfortunately, it didn’t work for this sentence.
Is there anything better than the section of US magazine called “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” followed by pictures of them with zits and picking up their dogs’ poop? Plus, there is a colon in that headline!
I had the world’s WORST manicure on Saturday (first world problem, I KNOW). But I only realized the extent of my OCD after this event as I could do nothing but focus on the hideousness of my fingernails for the rest of the day and, in fact, almost needed a paper bag to breathe into until I could finally take the polish off on Sunday.
My toes looked great, though.
I must look like a person with loose boundaries, as people say the most inappropriate things to me all of the time. For instance, a new client came in the other day and said “Please don’t work me out in a way that will make my butt look like yours…you know…round.” GOD. Let’s hope my brain doesn’t become like hers via osmosis…you know…stupid. Whore.
Yesterday, I bought dark chocolate chipotle covered almonds. Verdict: awesome. Jeans: now tight from ingestion of many almonds. (Did you know that Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize the word chipotle?) (How can that be? It’s a west coast company, which means that almost everyone who works there probably eats Mexican food at least twice a week.) (Perhaps Bill Gates has an aversion to spicy food?)
I’m in danger of SCRATCHING OUT MY EYEBALLS if I have to see Spencer and Heidi doing one of those damned “Oh! You caught us grocery shopping! How convenient that Heidi is wearing a slutty dress and Spencer has some elaborate, douche-like facial hair!” photo ops. It makes me re-think my stance on plastic surgery as I’m often compared to her, looks-wise. In face. Not boobs.
I really, REALLY hate the word gourd. I hate the sound of it, the way it looks. I even just shuddered typing it. It's my Thing. You know...the one Thing we all have that is weird. Of course, mine is more of a list, but who's counting?
Let’s see…dum de do…nothing else really to report today, so carry on, internet. I’ve been slowly catching up on my sleep and returning to a normal state of being, which means I’m not wandering around with my underwear on top of my pants or anything humiliating like that. I did go to work in my bedroom slippers the other day, though. Thankfully, I work barefoot, so the strange stares were minimal. But, you know, suck it. My feet were happy.
P.S. Happy birthday Anna! I hope my brother takes you out properly tonight and buys you many shiny things. Or just lots of drinks. Sometimes that MAKES things look shiny, which is just as good.
Is Lindsay just faking it with Samantha? And is anyone else sort of skeeved out by the length of her extensions?
Who thought jumpsuits ought to make a revival? Can we castrate him? Because I’m sure it was a man. No woman would ever think to bring back something that makes a bathroom break such a monumental task. And SWEET GOD! The danger of camel toe! Just, no.
Why do I continue to watch the Real Housewives even though I'm sure my IQ has dropped dramatically as a result?
I never get sick of listening to Eddie Vedder. He could sing the telephone book and, if Hugh Jackman were to call me up for dinner, I would shriek, “EDDIE IS SINGING A-through-N TONIGHT. I CANNOT BE BOTHERED!” Though I would first lick his bicep...we can't have Hugh upset, after all.
I’ve decided that I need to use the colon more in my writing. Unfortunately, it didn’t work for this sentence.
Is there anything better than the section of US magazine called “Stars: They’re Just Like Us!” followed by pictures of them with zits and picking up their dogs’ poop? Plus, there is a colon in that headline!
I had the world’s WORST manicure on Saturday (first world problem, I KNOW). But I only realized the extent of my OCD after this event as I could do nothing but focus on the hideousness of my fingernails for the rest of the day and, in fact, almost needed a paper bag to breathe into until I could finally take the polish off on Sunday.
My toes looked great, though.
I must look like a person with loose boundaries, as people say the most inappropriate things to me all of the time. For instance, a new client came in the other day and said “Please don’t work me out in a way that will make my butt look like yours…you know…round.” GOD. Let’s hope my brain doesn’t become like hers via osmosis…you know…stupid. Whore.
Yesterday, I bought dark chocolate chipotle covered almonds. Verdict: awesome. Jeans: now tight from ingestion of many almonds. (Did you know that Microsoft Word doesn’t recognize the word chipotle?) (How can that be? It’s a west coast company, which means that almost everyone who works there probably eats Mexican food at least twice a week.) (Perhaps Bill Gates has an aversion to spicy food?)
I’m in danger of SCRATCHING OUT MY EYEBALLS if I have to see Spencer and Heidi doing one of those damned “Oh! You caught us grocery shopping! How convenient that Heidi is wearing a slutty dress and Spencer has some elaborate, douche-like facial hair!” photo ops. It makes me re-think my stance on plastic surgery as I’m often compared to her, looks-wise. In face. Not boobs.
I really, REALLY hate the word gourd. I hate the sound of it, the way it looks. I even just shuddered typing it. It's my Thing. You know...the one Thing we all have that is weird. Of course, mine is more of a list, but who's counting?
Let’s see…dum de do…nothing else really to report today, so carry on, internet. I’ve been slowly catching up on my sleep and returning to a normal state of being, which means I’m not wandering around with my underwear on top of my pants or anything humiliating like that. I did go to work in my bedroom slippers the other day, though. Thankfully, I work barefoot, so the strange stares were minimal. But, you know, suck it. My feet were happy.
P.S. Happy birthday Anna! I hope my brother takes you out properly tonight and buys you many shiny things. Or just lots of drinks. Sometimes that MAKES things look shiny, which is just as good.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Fences
I used to sit on the fence between our houses, waiting for him to come home from school. The sight of my childish frame perched on the top rail used to be an invitation to play; then later as we grew and became aware of sex, I would dangle my long legs over onto his side as we talked, hoping to achieve the right angle so that he would have wicked thoughts and forget that I was the girl he used to climb trees with.
One summer night, when we were both on break from our separate colleges, he came home and saw me sitting on my front porch, talking to a friend on the phone. He leaned up against the fence, watching, signaling me over after I had hung up. I walked slowly across the lawn, holding my breath, and without a word he pulled me towards him, into a kiss that would have been perfect had I not had a thick piece of lumber pressing into my chest. He climbed over onto my side and, turning me around, pressed me back roughly into the thing that had acted as a natural separation between us for most of our lives.
“Why did that take us so long?” he asked later, our clothes co-mingling on my bedroom floor. I had no answer and instead buried my face into his neck, content. For days, I wore a bruise across the top of my back where he had pushed me into the fence and, years later, he still reminds me of that night when he was finally brave enough to cross over to the other side.
One summer night, when we were both on break from our separate colleges, he came home and saw me sitting on my front porch, talking to a friend on the phone. He leaned up against the fence, watching, signaling me over after I had hung up. I walked slowly across the lawn, holding my breath, and without a word he pulled me towards him, into a kiss that would have been perfect had I not had a thick piece of lumber pressing into my chest. He climbed over onto my side and, turning me around, pressed me back roughly into the thing that had acted as a natural separation between us for most of our lives.
“Why did that take us so long?” he asked later, our clothes co-mingling on my bedroom floor. I had no answer and instead buried my face into his neck, content. For days, I wore a bruise across the top of my back where he had pushed me into the fence and, years later, he still reminds me of that night when he was finally brave enough to cross over to the other side.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Regular programming will commence after the weekend
You know, I did the math the other day and I’ve been awake for more of 2009 than I think anyone else has with this damned bout of insomnia. I was happy to leave 2008 behind, but it would appear that 2009 is just as determined to kick my ass. So, I’ve decided to become Chinese and celebrate the New Year when they do. It’s my version of a do-over. Who’s with me? Plus, I REALLY like pork buns, so, you know, it sort of works out.
I’ve been doing better for the past three days. I believe my body reached a state of such profound exhaustion that it had no other alternative than to just finally give in to sleep. I was starting to have small panic attacks as the sun went down, knowing that my hateful, HATEFUL bed was waiting upstairs to taunt me. Then the other part of my brain, the one that is full of logic and intellect (ergo, the smaller portion) would go “SUCK IT. YOU ARE GOING TO SLEEP TONIGHT. STOP PANICKING.” But because there is less real estate between my ears for that voice, I found myself awake, once again, reciting poetry in German because that’s how I roll.
Suffering through insomnia, I’ve discovered, is a lot like going through the five stages of grief:
1. Denial: Wherein I say a lot of things like “Oh, I’m FINE! These under-eye circles? I’m just bringing back heroin chic!”
2. Anger: Wherein I wonder what universal deity I pissed off to have such heaping coals of torture shoveled onto my head. Also might bitch slap anyone…for anything.
3. Bargaining: Wherein I plead with God – PLEASE let me sleep six consecutive hours. I will totally TRY to stop swearing if you grant me that. It's all I ask - SIX MEASLY HOURS. I'll do anything if you stretch it out to eight. I will even stop using my mother for content on this website for eight. But let’s not get crazy…six will do.
4. Depression: Wherein my life mimics a Cymbalta commercial. Depression DOES hurt everyone, especially my clients who have to look at my pale visage and unwashed hair.
5. Acceptance: Wherein I consider becoming a vampire and start sharpening my teeth in preparation. Though, problem – I really like garlic.
The bargaining seemed to work as I've had three good nights now. I haven't dropped an F bomb since Tuesday, though I believe I've transgressed several times in this post alone. Poo.
I’ve been doing better for the past three days. I believe my body reached a state of such profound exhaustion that it had no other alternative than to just finally give in to sleep. I was starting to have small panic attacks as the sun went down, knowing that my hateful, HATEFUL bed was waiting upstairs to taunt me. Then the other part of my brain, the one that is full of logic and intellect (ergo, the smaller portion) would go “SUCK IT. YOU ARE GOING TO SLEEP TONIGHT. STOP PANICKING.” But because there is less real estate between my ears for that voice, I found myself awake, once again, reciting poetry in German because that’s how I roll.
Suffering through insomnia, I’ve discovered, is a lot like going through the five stages of grief:
1. Denial: Wherein I say a lot of things like “Oh, I’m FINE! These under-eye circles? I’m just bringing back heroin chic!”
2. Anger: Wherein I wonder what universal deity I pissed off to have such heaping coals of torture shoveled onto my head. Also might bitch slap anyone…for anything.
3. Bargaining: Wherein I plead with God – PLEASE let me sleep six consecutive hours. I will totally TRY to stop swearing if you grant me that. It's all I ask - SIX MEASLY HOURS. I'll do anything if you stretch it out to eight. I will even stop using my mother for content on this website for eight. But let’s not get crazy…six will do.
4. Depression: Wherein my life mimics a Cymbalta commercial. Depression DOES hurt everyone, especially my clients who have to look at my pale visage and unwashed hair.
5. Acceptance: Wherein I consider becoming a vampire and start sharpening my teeth in preparation. Though, problem – I really like garlic.
The bargaining seemed to work as I've had three good nights now. I haven't dropped an F bomb since Tuesday, though I believe I've transgressed several times in this post alone. Poo.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
No really, I'm still here
I know, I know, I KNOW. I have not been updating this week. It's criminal. I have to tell you, though, that it's for your own good. I've been shedding pieces of my sanity, wandering around in the sweet hell that is insomnia driven fatigue and didn't think you'd enjoy a bunch of posts that say "SWEET GOD I AM SO TIRED". HOWEVER, the good news is that I've slept for two nights now and should be back to my regular, updating schedule as of next week. To tide you over, here is an email that I received from Rod, for your enjoyment. And Rod, I will indeed bring my quarters for the strippers this weekend...we decided on a Village People theme, yes?
i know that you're a busy person and all, but have abandoned your blog and your adoring fans? those of us who look at the time on our pc and think, "Oh, yes, it's 8:05am! I'll just pop over for a quick update on who is making indecent proposal to Jen and be back in a few."
have you been kidnapped and are now working the sex trade in a Lithuanian brothel?
have you quit your day job and are now out there peddling your Germanic electrolyte soup line?!
have you made a new year's resolution to only blog for the first 1.5 weeks of 2009?
does Kylie drag you on 10 mile hikes every day which leaves you too exhausted to type on your keyboard?
has insomnia driven you criminally insane?
are you ghost writing Ann Coulter (i know another "c" word that would be more fitting) next book?
are you too busy drinking thru the wine cabinet? well, you could call a friend to join you if it's this last one!!
i know, i know...before you tell me something like, "sweet freaking moses! it's a voluntary job so you can just suck it if you continue to demand daily updates." (as an homage to angie) just wanted to let you know that you're daily revelations and musings are missed.
i'm feeling very out of the Jen loop, and as one of your self-appointed main gays, that's not boding well. no sirree bob. we'll have to catch up significantly on all the recent comings and goings at the big soiree this saturday. you're bringing a wad of $1 bills for the 5 male strippers, right? maybe it should be a roll of quarters considering the recession? hmmmm.....
i know that you're a busy person and all, but have abandoned your blog and your adoring fans? those of us who look at the time on our pc and think, "Oh, yes, it's 8:05am! I'll just pop over for a quick update on who is making indecent proposal to Jen and be back in a few."
have you been kidnapped and are now working the sex trade in a Lithuanian brothel?
have you quit your day job and are now out there peddling your Germanic electrolyte soup line?!
have you made a new year's resolution to only blog for the first 1.5 weeks of 2009?
does Kylie drag you on 10 mile hikes every day which leaves you too exhausted to type on your keyboard?
has insomnia driven you criminally insane?
are you ghost writing Ann Coulter (i know another "c" word that would be more fitting) next book?
are you too busy drinking thru the wine cabinet? well, you could call a friend to join you if it's this last one!!
i know, i know...before you tell me something like, "sweet freaking moses! it's a voluntary job so you can just suck it if you continue to demand daily updates." (as an homage to angie) just wanted to let you know that you're daily revelations and musings are missed.
i'm feeling very out of the Jen loop, and as one of your self-appointed main gays, that's not boding well. no sirree bob. we'll have to catch up significantly on all the recent comings and goings at the big soiree this saturday. you're bringing a wad of $1 bills for the 5 male strippers, right? maybe it should be a roll of quarters considering the recession? hmmmm.....
Sunday, January 11, 2009
To my sister, on her birthday
So today is my sisters birthday. Steph and I are separated by nine years, which might seem like a yawning gap but was actually a lovely number growing up. She was old enough to have sufficient perspective on what I was going through, yet close enough in time to understand why I might be weeping over, say, my mother not allowing me to go to prom. "Jen," she would say as I howled into the phone about the unfairness of it all, "it might seem catastrophic now, but at least you're not going to be pressured into putting out for some loser with pimples and have pictures of you in what I'm going to assume is a hideous dress." She had a point. It was the early 90's, after all, and grunge was at its peak. Thanks, mom!
Regardless, she was my voice of reason through childhood, and I like to think that I prepared her to be a mom, since she had me constantly tugging at her sleeve going "Where are you going NOW? Can I come TOO?" And often, she WOULD let me and my brother Steve tag along. When she was dating her now husband, Tim, I can't count the number of nights that they took us out to dinner first, I think allowing us to escape the difficulties that our parents were going through. She shielded us through a lot of that while trying to navigate the tricky waters of high school and then life during her college years. She was an excellent older sister - I highly recommend getting one yourself.
She continues to be a great sister and an amazing friend. I stand in awe of her, watching her raise her three children with so much grace and order. I know "order" seems like a weird thing to throw in there, but anyone who can work, run a household, home school, and run after her two year old, and get her two daughters to and from all of their social engagements and always have a house in PRISTINE condition is worth hating just a teeny tiny bit. I get overwhelmed by having to go grocery shopping. She's clearly more German than I am.
So, I love you Steph. I hope this year is filled with a myriad of blessings and joy and a lot of time together. And margaritas! Remember the ones I made at that birthday party years ago? Where we couldn't remember much the next day? Here's to many of those in 2009!
Regardless, she was my voice of reason through childhood, and I like to think that I prepared her to be a mom, since she had me constantly tugging at her sleeve going "Where are you going NOW? Can I come TOO?" And often, she WOULD let me and my brother Steve tag along. When she was dating her now husband, Tim, I can't count the number of nights that they took us out to dinner first, I think allowing us to escape the difficulties that our parents were going through. She shielded us through a lot of that while trying to navigate the tricky waters of high school and then life during her college years. She was an excellent older sister - I highly recommend getting one yourself.
She continues to be a great sister and an amazing friend. I stand in awe of her, watching her raise her three children with so much grace and order. I know "order" seems like a weird thing to throw in there, but anyone who can work, run a household, home school, and run after her two year old, and get her two daughters to and from all of their social engagements and always have a house in PRISTINE condition is worth hating just a teeny tiny bit. I get overwhelmed by having to go grocery shopping. She's clearly more German than I am.
So, I love you Steph. I hope this year is filled with a myriad of blessings and joy and a lot of time together. And margaritas! Remember the ones I made at that birthday party years ago? Where we couldn't remember much the next day? Here's to many of those in 2009!
Friday, January 9, 2009
This deters me from breeding
It’s not been a good week, people. I added up all of the hours of sleep that I have had since last Friday night and that sum total is 13. Hours. In a week. Without the aid of meth. The fact that I am not swimming in a pool of my own drool at the moment is astounding…an act of God.
I knew things were bad today when a client, who I had put on the reformer with the command of “Do ye leg presses!” looked up at me after what was presumably a very long while and said “Um…how much longer do you want me to do these?” her quad muscles bulging under the strain. I looked at her, snapped out of my stupor and was all “Oh HI! When did you get here?” Clearly, I need a nap.
Ambien has failed me. Deep breathing has failed me. I am so tired that I burst into tears today when I couldn’t unscrew the cap off of a particularly tight bottle of water. The shadows beneath my eyes have taken on a bruise like purple. I should not be operating large machinery as I went whipping by my exit on the freeway this morning and only realized it four miles later when I was provided with the option of heading to Santa Cruz on 17W. What, HO!
So this weekend I am dedicating to rest. Which is really very boring, but necessary, otherwise I believe I’m going to end up wandering the streets of Mountain View, rending my garments and clutching at people’s ankles going “WHY CAN’T I SLEEP?! SWEET GOD WHY?” But first, I’m going to pen a letter to my mother, thanking her for this particular genetic trait. I called her earlier this week to wail into the phone about my fatigue. From the other line, I heard her take a long sip of her tea, pause and then say “Well, child, just think, this is doing wonders to prepare you for motherhood!”
In which case, I’m totally getting my tubes tied.
I knew things were bad today when a client, who I had put on the reformer with the command of “Do ye leg presses!” looked up at me after what was presumably a very long while and said “Um…how much longer do you want me to do these?” her quad muscles bulging under the strain. I looked at her, snapped out of my stupor and was all “Oh HI! When did you get here?” Clearly, I need a nap.
Ambien has failed me. Deep breathing has failed me. I am so tired that I burst into tears today when I couldn’t unscrew the cap off of a particularly tight bottle of water. The shadows beneath my eyes have taken on a bruise like purple. I should not be operating large machinery as I went whipping by my exit on the freeway this morning and only realized it four miles later when I was provided with the option of heading to Santa Cruz on 17W. What, HO!
So this weekend I am dedicating to rest. Which is really very boring, but necessary, otherwise I believe I’m going to end up wandering the streets of Mountain View, rending my garments and clutching at people’s ankles going “WHY CAN’T I SLEEP?! SWEET GOD WHY?” But first, I’m going to pen a letter to my mother, thanking her for this particular genetic trait. I called her earlier this week to wail into the phone about my fatigue. From the other line, I heard her take a long sip of her tea, pause and then say “Well, child, just think, this is doing wonders to prepare you for motherhood!”
In which case, I’m totally getting my tubes tied.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Gimme some MALT LIQUOR!
I sometimes wonder if, perhaps, I do not fall into Interventions target demographic. I've been using scenes from the show to boost myself up, an intention I'm sure the producers were not going for.
I'll hear, "Honey, did you forget to pay the AMEX bill?" to which I'll bark back, "Well AT LEAST I'm not following up my methamphetamine injections with a chaser of heroin and malt liquor!!! Can you GET some perspective here? GOD."
Intervention may have hoped to give their viewers understanding and compassion. My take away has been a pretty righteous superiority complex. And who DOESN'T want to work "Malt Liquor!" into conversation at least once a day?
I'll hear, "Honey, did you forget to pay the AMEX bill?" to which I'll bark back, "Well AT LEAST I'm not following up my methamphetamine injections with a chaser of heroin and malt liquor!!! Can you GET some perspective here? GOD."
Intervention may have hoped to give their viewers understanding and compassion. My take away has been a pretty righteous superiority complex. And who DOESN'T want to work "Malt Liquor!" into conversation at least once a day?
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
What happens when it's dark? I know! I know!
I did not go to work yesterday. I had a good reason, despite the fact that some people would point at me and yell “SLOTH!” No…it’s because I haven’t fallen asleep until 6am for the past three nights. Unfortunately, it's not due to some drug-fueled bender. It’s just insomnia…though I have felt like I’ve been having a bad acid flashback for the past few days, walking around as though underwater, my movements slow and peoples words floating towards me through a thick, muddy morass.
So yesterday, instead of joining the teeming masses of people who were coming off of holiday break, I napped, fitfully, until 12:30pm. I then crawled, gingerly, out of bed, hair in almost cartoon like disarray and crept downstairs, joined by Kylie who was about to issue a fatwa upon my head for serving her breakfast so late. “Tired all of the time and a negligent parent,” she’ll have scrawled on my tombstone. "Also, not enough walks."
I envy people who can sleep. I’ve never had the talent, though I practice each night, turning my light out, looking forward to those things people talk about…what are they? Dreams? Instead, I’m well acquainted with what my room looks like in the dark, how the shadows shift as the thin light of dawn starts to filter in. I can tell you how the traffic patterns change between 2-6am and used to have a detailed schedule mapped out of my neighbors’ sexual proclivities, heard through the thin walls of various San Francisco apartments.
In college, I became a champion napper. I discovered a whole population of people who COULD sleep but who opted to stay up until 4am because there were more fun things to do than slumber. The gaps between classes offered them enough time to nap and make it through the day without consequence. This was genius and a tactic I immediately adopted. People have always marveled at my ability to fall asleep anywhere. It’s true: I nap to survive. I remember a friend shaking me awake in the middle of a nightclub in London screaming over the bass, “You’ve been sleeping for the past twenty minutes!” I was remarkably refreshed and spent the rest of the night dancing.
I have tried everything over the counter without success. So when Ambien came along, I was dubious at best. Eight full hours of sleep? Impossible. But the first time I took it, I couldn’t believe the world I woke up to. I had slept. Blissfully. Without interruption. Was the sky always that blue? Were babies that cute? BUSH was president? I went on a sleep bender for months, looking forward to bedtime like a heroin addict would to the needle. But I don’t like to depend on anything, even eschewing caffeine, and so tapered nervously off wondering, since I had given my body a taste of the well-rested life, if it would take the hint and get with the program.
It did, for months. I would fall onto my pillow and within moments be asleep. I almost forgot how I spent the first 30 years of my life. I had crossed over to the other side.
Then slowly, the old patterns slipped back and the past year has been a mixed bag. So I admitted defeat and regretfully called my doctor yesterday, renewing my prescription. I’d like to think that I have more control over my body, that I could meditate or talk my mind into a state of relaxation that would make pills dispensable. Or if the world were nocturnal, running on my schedule, for instance. That would be nice.
Instead, I need help, and that’s ok. At some point, you have to come to terms with what you've been given. And for me, well, my circadian rhythms are extraordinarily out of tune. I remember being five years old and lying awake, listening to my sister breathe in her bed, knowing that with each passing moment it would be harder to stay awake during school the next day. I suppose one gift out of all of this is that I’ve never been afraid of the dark. I know it better than I do the day.
So yesterday, instead of joining the teeming masses of people who were coming off of holiday break, I napped, fitfully, until 12:30pm. I then crawled, gingerly, out of bed, hair in almost cartoon like disarray and crept downstairs, joined by Kylie who was about to issue a fatwa upon my head for serving her breakfast so late. “Tired all of the time and a negligent parent,” she’ll have scrawled on my tombstone. "Also, not enough walks."
I envy people who can sleep. I’ve never had the talent, though I practice each night, turning my light out, looking forward to those things people talk about…what are they? Dreams? Instead, I’m well acquainted with what my room looks like in the dark, how the shadows shift as the thin light of dawn starts to filter in. I can tell you how the traffic patterns change between 2-6am and used to have a detailed schedule mapped out of my neighbors’ sexual proclivities, heard through the thin walls of various San Francisco apartments.
In college, I became a champion napper. I discovered a whole population of people who COULD sleep but who opted to stay up until 4am because there were more fun things to do than slumber. The gaps between classes offered them enough time to nap and make it through the day without consequence. This was genius and a tactic I immediately adopted. People have always marveled at my ability to fall asleep anywhere. It’s true: I nap to survive. I remember a friend shaking me awake in the middle of a nightclub in London screaming over the bass, “You’ve been sleeping for the past twenty minutes!” I was remarkably refreshed and spent the rest of the night dancing.
I have tried everything over the counter without success. So when Ambien came along, I was dubious at best. Eight full hours of sleep? Impossible. But the first time I took it, I couldn’t believe the world I woke up to. I had slept. Blissfully. Without interruption. Was the sky always that blue? Were babies that cute? BUSH was president? I went on a sleep bender for months, looking forward to bedtime like a heroin addict would to the needle. But I don’t like to depend on anything, even eschewing caffeine, and so tapered nervously off wondering, since I had given my body a taste of the well-rested life, if it would take the hint and get with the program.
It did, for months. I would fall onto my pillow and within moments be asleep. I almost forgot how I spent the first 30 years of my life. I had crossed over to the other side.
Then slowly, the old patterns slipped back and the past year has been a mixed bag. So I admitted defeat and regretfully called my doctor yesterday, renewing my prescription. I’d like to think that I have more control over my body, that I could meditate or talk my mind into a state of relaxation that would make pills dispensable. Or if the world were nocturnal, running on my schedule, for instance. That would be nice.
Instead, I need help, and that’s ok. At some point, you have to come to terms with what you've been given. And for me, well, my circadian rhythms are extraordinarily out of tune. I remember being five years old and lying awake, listening to my sister breathe in her bed, knowing that with each passing moment it would be harder to stay awake during school the next day. I suppose one gift out of all of this is that I’ve never been afraid of the dark. I know it better than I do the day.
Monday, January 5, 2009
It WAS, however, the one movie in which David Caruso wasn't entirely annoying
I'm limping into the new year. Dribbling, rather. It would appear that I'm carrying on my families tradition of falling sick over the holidays as this is the second year running that somewhere, between Christmas and New Years, I've contracted some sort of virus that has had me wallowing around in feverish disarray wondering what it is that I did to deserve Chills and Nausea as bedmates. They aren't good cuddlers.
But! I've caught up on movies! Did you know that I was the last person standing to have not seen Rambo: First Blood? And LET ME TELL YOU, I've love to have that two hours of my life back. I know, I KNOW, it's one of the cinematic greats, but SERIOUSLY? A guy gets pushed around by some douchebag cops who are obviously on a donut induced power trip and so he decides to light up the entire town? Not to mention the stunning dialogue. I don't know...perhaps I'm too old, now, to appreciate what it once was. I will acknowledge that HOLY CRAP Sly was RIPPED. And nice headband. That will come in handy for the calisthenics you'll have time to do while in prison.
Regardless of the General Malaise, I'm happy to have left 2008 behind. That year bitch slapped me so many times across the face it's shocking I can still see. Which is not to say there were not some good moments - there were. But I feel like I spent most of it gripping onto 2008's ankles, wiping my tears on its sweaty gym socks crying "PLEASE BE NICE TO ME!" Someone needed to teach it some manners. It's satisfying to be able to shut the door in its face and welcome 2009 into the house. Here's to an abundance of blessings and joy on all of you. I'm going to go and do my three laps around the block now, per my mothers orders.
But! I've caught up on movies! Did you know that I was the last person standing to have not seen Rambo: First Blood? And LET ME TELL YOU, I've love to have that two hours of my life back. I know, I KNOW, it's one of the cinematic greats, but SERIOUSLY? A guy gets pushed around by some douchebag cops who are obviously on a donut induced power trip and so he decides to light up the entire town? Not to mention the stunning dialogue. I don't know...perhaps I'm too old, now, to appreciate what it once was. I will acknowledge that HOLY CRAP Sly was RIPPED. And nice headband. That will come in handy for the calisthenics you'll have time to do while in prison.
Regardless of the General Malaise, I'm happy to have left 2008 behind. That year bitch slapped me so many times across the face it's shocking I can still see. Which is not to say there were not some good moments - there were. But I feel like I spent most of it gripping onto 2008's ankles, wiping my tears on its sweaty gym socks crying "PLEASE BE NICE TO ME!" Someone needed to teach it some manners. It's satisfying to be able to shut the door in its face and welcome 2009 into the house. Here's to an abundance of blessings and joy on all of you. I'm going to go and do my three laps around the block now, per my mothers orders.
Friday, January 2, 2009
How I rang in the New Year: A tale of woe, rejoicing and sore feet
It started off innocently enough. There was a chicken salad for dinner. And some wine. Civilized amounts.
And then I drove us to San Francisco.
And there was no traffic!
We rejoiced!
And parked easily at our friends!
Things were going our way.
But then the cabs. OH THE CABS.
The one we called said he was downstairs…outside of someone else’s apartment, might I add, since the driveway was vacant.
“NONONO…I be RIGHT THERE,” he screamed into the phone when I called back to tell him that he had the wrong address.
He was not, right there.
So we pondered standing on a street corner and hailing one. Especially since I was wearing tall boots. Tall boots get things done.
Although, apparently that is only true when one is wearing, also, a short skirt.
Which I was not.
We were frustrated.
But! What HO! A bus! And it’s FREE!
So we boarded, and rode for many blocks, squished in with people who were ready to PARTY. There were many short skirts. I could see up some of them from where I sat. They could have procured a cab, I’m sure.
We de-boarded and decided to walk to a promising corner and, again, try our luck.
We had none.
And we walked and walked and walked. The boots turned out to be a poor choice. Also, we were afraid of getting shivved.
And then our friends called and said “Fear NOT! We will come and get you!”
And the angels sang! We rejoiced once more!
And then! Like manna from heaven! A cab appeared! And our friends were spared the trip out into the perilous, raging sea of New Years Eve.
We arrived.
There was wine that needed to be consumed. Because of all of the walking. And the fear of the shiv.
And we all laughed and ate.
And then I put on my stretchy pants, because, after all, if you cannot put on your stretchy pants with your friends, you need new friends.
The Wii was broken out. We thought “Should we move the red wine out of the way? Because the Wii can get fierce and you have white carpet!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! We are all over the age of 30! We have skillz!”
Though apparently, we don’t. There were some spills. But we also found out the awesomeness of Resolve, which apparently CAN remove all stains.
The clock struck 12midnight. There was some kissing. We bid 2008 adieu.
And then we brought out Rock Star.
And apparently I can rock the SHIT out of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
It was very impressive.
And then we were very, very tired. It was 4am.
Some people wanted pancakes, the others wanted sleep.
Sleep won. I rejoiced.
Some of us woke up feeling better than others. Some of us, dare I say, spent most of January 1st in a prone position, but those names shall remain concealed to protect the guilty.
And then I drove us to San Francisco.
And there was no traffic!
We rejoiced!
And parked easily at our friends!
Things were going our way.
But then the cabs. OH THE CABS.
The one we called said he was downstairs…outside of someone else’s apartment, might I add, since the driveway was vacant.
“NONONO…I be RIGHT THERE,” he screamed into the phone when I called back to tell him that he had the wrong address.
He was not, right there.
So we pondered standing on a street corner and hailing one. Especially since I was wearing tall boots. Tall boots get things done.
Although, apparently that is only true when one is wearing, also, a short skirt.
Which I was not.
We were frustrated.
But! What HO! A bus! And it’s FREE!
So we boarded, and rode for many blocks, squished in with people who were ready to PARTY. There were many short skirts. I could see up some of them from where I sat. They could have procured a cab, I’m sure.
We de-boarded and decided to walk to a promising corner and, again, try our luck.
We had none.
And we walked and walked and walked. The boots turned out to be a poor choice. Also, we were afraid of getting shivved.
And then our friends called and said “Fear NOT! We will come and get you!”
And the angels sang! We rejoiced once more!
And then! Like manna from heaven! A cab appeared! And our friends were spared the trip out into the perilous, raging sea of New Years Eve.
We arrived.
There was wine that needed to be consumed. Because of all of the walking. And the fear of the shiv.
And we all laughed and ate.
And then I put on my stretchy pants, because, after all, if you cannot put on your stretchy pants with your friends, you need new friends.
The Wii was broken out. We thought “Should we move the red wine out of the way? Because the Wii can get fierce and you have white carpet!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! We are all over the age of 30! We have skillz!”
Though apparently, we don’t. There were some spills. But we also found out the awesomeness of Resolve, which apparently CAN remove all stains.
The clock struck 12midnight. There was some kissing. We bid 2008 adieu.
And then we brought out Rock Star.
And apparently I can rock the SHIT out of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
It was very impressive.
And then we were very, very tired. It was 4am.
Some people wanted pancakes, the others wanted sleep.
Sleep won. I rejoiced.
Some of us woke up feeling better than others. Some of us, dare I say, spent most of January 1st in a prone position, but those names shall remain concealed to protect the guilty.
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