things aren't always as they seem

I'm morbid

2007-10-17T23:03:00.000-07:00

I confess. I read the obituaries every day. I hate it when people who read them daily say that they do so to ensure that they are not amongst those listed, and that's not why I do it. I do it because I have to. I've done this for as long as I can remember and, sometimes, I am very covert about indulging this little perversion when I am around others. I've even been in relationships (some long-ish term) with folks who never knew that I did this. I feel so sneaky.

In fact, this is how I found out that my friend, E, died about four years ago. I was just scanning the daily obit index, just like always, and there was her name - EVC. I even recall the initial feeling of disbelief - instead of looking at her name and thinking to myself Oh fuck. E died., it was more like Oh, that's weird. Someone with the exact same name as E died. Part of the denial step in the mourning process? Hell if I know. The obit itself was brief. Nobody had paid for the inclusion of a lovingly-written ode, complete with a smiling photo and a lengthy list of survivors - all named. Nope, just brief and to the point. Although the text never said as much, I knew instantly that she'd committed suicide.

I often notice the last names of folks with whom I went to high school. Most of the time, as I can tell by seeing their first name listed as a survivor, it's one of their parents. Other times I conclude that it must be a grandparent. It feels oddly intrusive and even too personal to be in the know with something like this.

About a month ago I saw the name of a fellow from high school. I didn't really know him in high school and I'm not even certain that I ever spoke to him. I remembered that he played football, that he was pretty large, his hair was blond and he was quiet and reserved. I don't really recall seeing him hanging out with anyone - he might have even been something of a loner...don't recall for sure. He worked as a construction worker and died at age 40, of sleep apnea. His survivors included both parents and a brother. I wondered if he died alone. I mean, really alone. I felt oddly sad for him when I read this.

I began to wonder what would happen if I died. Who would write my obituary and what would it say? Would my survivors pony up the dough for a lengthier and more personalized tribute? Would they include a photo of me and, if so, at what age? And who would see it? Would anyone from my past see my name and perhaps my photo and think of me - perhaps a thought with a memory attached? What about people who knew of me, but who never spoke to me, like people from high school for example?

My fascination doesn't end with the daily obits, though. Some five years ago or so, my friend, L, turned me on to Celebrity Death Beeper. CDB sends out a mass email blast to all of its subscribers whenever someone of note has passed away. And they are FAST. Seriously, it's as if they monitor the news wires constantly and report on a death as fast as any of the more reputable news providers. I swear I found out about the death of Anna Nicole Smith mere minutes after her passing.

In fact, CDB is how I learned of Julia Child's death. I was in Seattle, just beginning Librarian Action Figure School and saw that I had an email from CDB. Seeing Julia Child's name listed put me in a melancholy place. Since I was finished with classes for the day, I walked down to the local pub and put back a few in her honor. I thought of the joy that watching her cooking show brought me - remembering her adding more butter, dropping food on the ground and (in conjunction with the 10-second rule) throwing it back into the mix, sipping off of some sort of libation while cooking. I remembered her distinct voice, which made me laugh when I was a child. I remembered when my friend, David, met her ("She was tall," he said). I remembered when my friend David dreamed about her over Thanksgiving weekend. I miss my friend, David (who is still amongst the living - he just lives far away now).

And I miss Julia Child.

Raise your hand if you love your boobs!

2007-10-05T01:35:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes you stretch your upper body skyward, especially when you're sitting on the couch leaning backward over the curved arm and rockin' a nice curved arch in your back? And then you're feeling an awesome stretch in the top part of your chest so you pull your arms back down to place your hands on your chest, just above your fabulous titties, with your back remaining arched, and you feel the muscles in your chest stretching? And then you feel the lump on your right side where once there wasn't a lump?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

At first I thought I was imagining it, how could I possibly have a lump on my breast? I felt up my right side and then my left. And then I did it again. I did the tapping/kneading thing with my fingers that the doctor always does. I placed each hand exactly symmetrical from one another, making sure that they were in the exact same spot on each side, just to make sure that I was comparing an apple with an apple and an orange with an orange - well, or something like that.

Isn't it said that the definition of insane is 'doing the same thing over and over, but expecting a different result?'

I pulled my shirt off to make sure I was covering the area thoroughly. Holy shit, I could see the lump! That wasn't there last month.

Maybe I just pulled a muscle in yoga class. Or maybe my muscles on my right side had strengthened differently than those on my left. I am right handed, after all, and I carry cases of wine up and down flights of stairs at work.

"J, come take a look at this," I beckoned my lovely wife to come and check out my titties.

"Shit. What the fuck?"

"I know! What do you think I should do?" (Okay, I know this sounds completely idiotic now, but it was just what came out of my mouth at the time).

"Um, you need to call the doctor. And you can't procrastinate this one - I know you hate doctors, but this could be serious. Will you do it today?" I told her I would.

But when I called my doctor's office, they freaked my shit out even more. After telling me that they want to see me within three days, they told me that my doctor was on vacation and I'd have to see a different doctor. Have I mentioned that I hate doctors? Since the urgency of this visit was non-negotiable, I conceded to a visit with a different doctor, provided it was a female. Then the nurse on the phone asked me to describe the lump.

"Well, it's above my breast and it's slightly elevated." Apparently this was an inadequate answer, because she seemed a little bit exasperated and asked me how big it was.

"Um, I'm not really sure. You mean you want me to measure it?" Alright, I'm really not this dumb, but somehow idiotic things kept coming out of my mouth that day. I think the nurse thought I was being an ass, because it seemed like she was losing patience with me.

"Is it the size of a marble? or a golf ball? or an orange?" Now here I was really perplexed - it was supposed to be globe-shaped? Mine was more akin to the pit of a mango.

"I guess it's about one inch wide by about two or so inches long. It doesn't really resemble any of the objects you mentioned."

"Is there any blood or pus coming from the area?"

"No." Suddenly I was feeling like I was crying wolf, but I had a lapdog on my hands. My stats just weren't measuring up to her expectations. She scheduled me an appointment for a couple of days later.

I was a nervous wreck for those two days.

In the meantime, I accompanied J to an OB/Gyn visit the following day - we needed a greenlight in our efforts to become pregnant. I was caught by surprise when I encountered a lump in my throat while J was having a breast exam. That throat-lump was in between the size of a marble and the size of a golf ball. Was I envious of her lumpless breasts? Were the possible ramifications of my pending visit just hitting me? I was scared.

I asked J to come with me to my visit with the-doctor-who-wasn't-mine.

In walked a stereotypically attractive 30-something woman who didn't smile and spoke very quietly. She seemed like she was strung out on Valium. She seemed apprehensive about touching my breasts and her hands were a little bit cold - not unlike her demeanor. She seemed unconcerned and suggested that the lump was a result of too much coffee or too much stress and that it would probably go away after I had my period. She told me to set up an appointment with my regular doc for three weeks later.

It was a long-ass three weeks before I showed up at Kaiser for my appointment with my usual doc, who isn't afraid to touch lesbian breasts.

"Oh, you didn't get the message?" the receptionist asked me.

"Message?"

"We called you yesterday and left you a message that Dr. D had an emergency and had to cancel all of her appointments for today."

"Oh. May I reschedule?"

"Sure, let's see...Dr. D can see you in February of 2008 - what time is good for you?" Okay, I'm exaggerating a little bit, but she wasn't able to get me in that week. Or the next. The receptionist was able to get me in the next morning with a nurse practitioner, Maggie Bunn. Now, I don't know why I have an issue with nurse practitioners - K sees an NP and she's awesome, better than most docs I've been to...I guess I worry that they might not catch something a doc would catch or that their medical advice might not be as thorough or accurate. This has never been my experience - I have no idea where I acquired this bias. I guess I watch too much ER or something.

Maggie Bunn turned out to be fantastic. She was gentle and comfortable with me and very forthcoming. She told me that my lump had the qualities of being benign, but she wanted to be absolutely certain and had me set up an appointment with mammography and one with a breast surgeon. As she gave me the contact info for both departments, she gave me some additional info, off the record.

"When you make an appointment with the breast surgeon, be sure to insist on the woman doctor - she's wonderful. There is also a man and, well, he's extremely arrogant and all I can really say is that I strongly urge you to see the woman, Dr. Xy - even if you have to wait longer for an appointment."

I got the picture.

When I called for my appointment with Dr. Xy, the receptionist told me that she could get me in sooner with Dr. Xx. I told her no, that I was much more comfortable with a woman doctor and that I didn't mind waiting longer to see Dr. Xy.

"Dr. Xx is a really good doctor - he'll be gentle." The receptionist was really jonesin' for me to concede. I wouldn't.

"No, I'd really prefer to see Dr. Xy." Was this chick gonna power-struggle with me?

"Well, may I ask why?" Now, obviously I wasn't going to tell her that Maggie Bunn told me to insist on Dr. Xy. But, man, this woman was relentless. I decided to go for a lighthearted angle.

"You see, it's like this: I wouldn't take my car to a mechanic who's never owned a car before..." This is my stock explanation for those who ask why I insist on a female gynecologist.

"Dr. Xx has a wife and a daughter and a mother and they all have breasts." OMG, did she really just say that? "He knows what he's doing and he's a really good doctor."

Well, shit. Then why is she trying to coerce me to schedule an appointment with him, rather than honoring my first choice?

"Look," she didn't know this, but she picked the wrong chick to intimidate, "I was sexually assaulted by a man. I do NOT want a man touching my breasts. Can you please respect that and make an appointment with Dr. Xy, as I originally requested?"

She couldn't argue with that. I couldn't believe I'd just said that out loud. And to a complete stranger. At least I got her to stop goading me.

Before my scheduled appointment with Dr. Xy, I was required to have a mammogram. The tech who was in charge of squishing the hell out of my boobs was very cool - she chatted me up and complimented me on my tattoos. The doctor who reviewed my mammography pics concluded that I should have an ultrasound. The ultrasound tech was somehow under the impression that I was a complete idiot and condescendingly informed me that, "most women don't know this, but breasts are asymmetrical."

"Yeah, thanks, I knew that." Was I supposed to, upon noticing that I had a lump, just look down and remind myself that bodies are assymmetrical and go on with my business? Again, I was made to feel as though I were making a mountain out of a molehill.

"Well, it looks like you just have a benign mass of tissue here. Nothing to worry about. I'll have the doctor come in here and talk with you."

Five minutes later, a woman in a white coat breezed into the room. "Hi, I'm Dr. Zippy. All I see here is a benign mass of tissue. Do you have any questions?"

She took my silence to mean 'no' and bid me farewell. She was in and out in less than a minute.

So it appears that I do not have breast cancer. I'll continue my monthly self-exams and throw in the occasional couch-arm stretch for good measure. I don't like that the medical media scares the bejeezus out of women, urging them to worry the second anything seems amiss with the girls. But then when we do, we're treated as though we're freaking out over nothing.

Marbles, golf balls, oranges, mango pits - they all deserve attention. And don't let anyone goad you into believing otherwise.

Divine Intervention

2007-09-14T13:35:00.000-07:00

As you may recall, J and I were able to purchase a modest townhouse in the nether regions of lovely Portland nearly two years ago. What you may or may not know is that my malignant mother was our real estate agent. Yes, 4 realz. We really didn't have a choice - mom sells real estate and if we'd gone with another agent (which we considered), we would have put the Hatfields and the McCoys to shame.

True, mom was willing to forgo her commission (THIS time, she told us...which, I guess, means that next time - when we are more able to afford a more glamorous abode - she'll make some money off of us), although that is not the only reason we went with her. The horrid horrid aftermath of going through someone else (even someone we would have had to have paid THIS time) was far too foreboding. And so it was that mother dearest became our de facto real estate agent.

And, while mother's knowledge of Portland and its environs can barely rival that of a fifth grader (despite that she has lived in the Portland Metro area HER ENTIRE LIFE, although the last 30 or so years have been in the suburbs), we did receive excellent and attentive service from her. I presume, however, that she is like that with all of her clients, being a workaholic and all, and that we were not receiving preferential treatment (well, THIS time, anyway). She even handled it pretty well whenever she showed us a place that she seemed pretty jazzed about and wanted us to get all googly-eyed and proclaim it the one and, instead, we'd shrug our shoulders and say "meh" in unison. She didn't know what 'meh' meant, but she could tell that it meant we wouldn't be signing any papers any time soon.

Flash forward two months and over a hundred houses later (oh, the stories I could tell about some of those houses!), we stumble upon the townhouse where we now live. For our dollar (and that was pretty much what we had to spend, a dollar), this place was the shit. So we placed an offer. And it was declined. We countered. It was accepted. Yay! We were nearly homo homeowners!

But, ah, the details. We had to, of course, sign the papers. Oh sure, sounds harmless. So we sit with Mom at the title company, along with maybe three other people whose functions have escaped me, around a HUGE conference table - seriously, this thing was so huge that it could probably kick Chuck Norris' ass. So blahblahblah the peoples' mouths are moving and I nod as if I'm following (yeah, I know this is a tad irresponsible, so shoot me)...blahblahblah sign this...blahblahblah sign that. Eleventy gazillion signatures later, that snoozefest is finally taking its final bow.

And not a moment too soon. I was freakin' starving. A smiling lady hands us a glossy folder with an entire tree shoved inside. This folder remains unopened and sitting in our file cabinet. Mom confers with J and I and mentions her state of hunger. She is inviting us to dinner?

"Let's celebrate!" Mom says. Woo hoo! we are thinking, despite the fact that celebrating with Mom can be sorta hit and miss. What the hell, we decide, if Mom wants to treat us to a celebratory feast, why not let her? Mom asks if there is anything around the area that is not too expensive.

"It's not like I'm rich, you know," she reminds us, as she depresses the magic button that disables the alarm on her brand new BMW.

Mom is, of course, completely unaware of anything in the immediate vicinity, despite the fact that the school where she attended her freshman year (with classmate Sally Struthers!), was fewer than ten blocks from where we stood. No matter, we suggested a reasonably priced trattoria twenty blocks away. We tell her that it's on Broadway and on the south side of the street and to meet us there. Mom acts all confused and says that she'll follow us.

We pull aside at the stop sign while we wait for Mom to do whatever it is she does with her vanity mirror, some lipstick and an extensive evaluation period before she places her luxury vehicle into drive and proceeds. A couple of turns later, we have reached Broadway and J, who is driving, has her right turn signal on so that Mom will know that we will be heading west on Broadway. J halts at the stop sign, but is unable to see the oncoming traffic on her left, due to a large truck parked on the corner. She inches slowly out and then *$#!!BAM!!#$*. We lurch forward slightly as we come to the realization that my mother just rear-ended us. J and I look at each other, neither of us quite sure what to make of the situation.

Noticing that there are other cars behind Mom who didn't gun it when J inched out, J arm-motions Mom to pull into the parking lot of Broadway Auto Body to our immediate right. J's car shows no sign of trauma, but Mom's BMW is dented on its hood. It's the shape of an inverted crescent moon - a perfect arc. The spare tire on the the back end of J's Honda CRV is the convex match to the dent on Mom's car - a perfect yin and yang separated at birth...but not.

Mom looks astonished as she notices the damage to her precious vehicle.

"Oh there's no way that little tap did that much damage to my car," Mom's denial kicked in full speed. "I mean, you could barely feel it, right?"

Mom was in rare form.

"I mean, someone must've hit my car while we were in our meeting at the title company. That had to have been it; I mean, there's just no way."

J and I let Mom continue trying to convince herself that someone done wronged her.

"See, look at your car," Mom said to J, "there's no damage at all. If I'd hit you hard enough to cause this much damage to my car, your car would at least have a dent, right? I mean, I'm not saying it was God, really, but something, something in the universe, must've made me tap you like that so that I'd get out of my car and see the damage that was done...Otherwise I probably wouldn't have noticed it for awhile."

OMFG, you've got to be kidding me. It was so so so very hard for J and I not to burst into laughter. God???? Really? I've heard of blaming car accidents on other people before, but God? Like I said, Mom was in rare form.

Well, no need to exchange infos here, although Mom did inform us that she would call her insurance company first thing in the morning. I couldn't help but wonder if she would be explaining the part about rear-ending her daughter-in-law because God wanted her to notice that someone had hit her car while she was in a meeting.

J and I got into the restaurant before Mom found a parking place - she wanted to drive around and get a spot where nobody would hit her. Why bother? I say. With God on her side, nobody will ever be able to pull a hit-and-run over her eyes.

J and I asked our server to bring a glass of Pinot Gris right away so that Mom could begin sedating immediately. Dinner was awkward as Mom continued to practice her story about the anonymous hoodlum who hit her parked car (must've been the neighborhood) and didn't even see fit to leave a note. J and I sedated and nodded, sedated and nodded.

I didn't even know my mom believed in God.

I wonder what else she blames on God?

what I did for love

2007-09-06T11:26:00.000-07:00

My lovely wife, J, went with our friends, Kirsten and Jules, to see a folk singer some months back. I had to work, so I sat that one out. No worries - I think the folk music is sometimes enjoyable, but I'm not about to take the most lucrative night off from work to indulge in such a thing.

J returned home from that concert all swoony and fangirly proclaiming "a little crush" on E*l*l*i*s (***why you do t*h*a*t, Bad Kitty?) and kindly requesting that she put E*l*l*i*s on her freebie list.

"Sure," I responded, "why the hell not? But you gotta take someone else off if you want to add her."

She never told me who she removed, but I trust that she took care of this.

So when J called me a week or so ago from her morning commute at 7am (I am so NOT a morning person) to ask me if E*l*l*i*s could play a house concert in our living room, I sleepily sorta somewhat agreed to this. Later when I woke up, I was pretty sure that I hadn't dreamt the exchange.

Here's what J said:

"Hi honey! Would it be okay for E*l*l*i*s to play a concert in our living room?"

Here's what I heard:

"Hi. Would it be okay if someone I have a huge crush on, in addition to a lot of strangers, fill up our house and spill stuff on our floor?"

I somehow agreed to this.

But now I have no regrets and think that our home should serve as an acoustic concert venue on a regular basis (Yo! David Bowie! This means you.). Truly.

Of course, the night before the concert, J calls me at work (at a time that ended up being the worst possible time she could have called) and says, "Will you cook dinner for E*l*l*i*s before the show?"

"What????" What next? Can she stay in our guest room? Will I cook her breakfast as well? Can I lend her some money?

"I don't know. And actually, this is a really bad time. Can I call you back later when I'm less pissed off?"

"Okay, but Jules already said that we'd make her dinner. Call me when you're on your way home from work."

By the time I found myself driving home from work, I'd had a chance to think about this. I figured I needed to look like a rock star in order to compete with the folk star - I wanted J to remember how fabulous I am, even with E*l*l*i*s in the house. I called her up.

"Alright, I'll do it. What am I making?" Fortunately I really do enjoy cooking, so I wasn't pissed off at Jules for volunteering me for the job. Hee hee, now she owes me! Now, if David Bowie comes to my house to play a show, I'm so making Jules cook for him.

"Mushroom risotto," J tells me. Phew. That's something I could make with my hands tied behind my back and drunk to boot.

E*l*l*i*s ended up enjoying my risotto and ventured to try a fig for the first time. (I'm a huge fan of figs and, in fact, have a tattoo of a much-larger-than-actual-size cut-open fig in between my shoulder blades.) We enjoyed her company while we enjoyed small talk on our patio. She turned out to be very genuine and kind and rather charming - very easy to be around and not even a hint of diva at all.

Then the onslaught of strangers began to fill my home. They turned out to not be so bad, either. In fact, several of them were quite appreciative of our hosting of this event and of the snacks and complementary cheap wine that was provided. Nobody threw stuff on the floor (and, if they did, someone was smart enough to pick it up before I spied it). And several folks offered to help clean up. Now, don't get me wrong - ~~I'm not neurotic~~. Okay, well just a little. I just value my space and am something of a private person. I also have trust issues and I know that there are unsavory folks out there (especially rabid fans) and you can't tell by looking at them who is batshit crazy and who isn't.

The entire space was lit only with candles - eleventy zillion of them. It looked pretty great, actually. And peeps were very respectful of the space and of the music being provided. E*l*l*i*s sounded awesome (studio quality even! I have no idea how she pulled that off) and the entire evening was a magical success. I told E*l*l*i*s that she is welcome in our home any time and I meant it.

My lovely wife was only a little bit fangirly and goofy and did not end up hooking up with E*l*l*i*s.

I think I like folk music a little more now.

***Re: above (On account of my attempts to be picking and choosing what the Googlers might be Googling and which Googles land on my blog and which ones don't. And on account of my attempts to be remaining somewhat anonymous-ish).

suddenly, we're good enough?

2007-09-04T22:28:00.000-07:00

My good 'ole neighbor, Arnie, is moonlighting. Apparently his volunteer stint at the post office was taking up an insufficient amount of his time.

As you may recall, Arnie is none too keen on the gay folk - especially when they want to obtain "special rights," such as marriage. He wears his opinion proudly on the bumper of his car, lest his lezzie neighbors forget where he stands. No matter - we don't bother him and he doesn't bother us...in theory anyway.

Our current neighborhood is a hard one to read (well, except for Arnie). Most folks don't seem to socialize with one another at all - there is the occasional nod or hello in passing, but very little conversation happening. Martha, across the street, seems to be the friendliest one and the one who cares the least about the dykes across the street. Norman, who used to live four townhouses down, seemed to like us as well. But he passed away this last winter, so now there is only Martha.

When we first moved into the area, we attended a neighborhood meeting. Most folks wanted to set a bunch of rules, mostly pertaining to noise and dog excrement (none of the local dog-owners or loud people attended this meeting). But Arnie had a different agenda - he wanted to organize a Bible study.

A what?!?!? I thought, but not aloud. He's got to be fucking kidding. He's not serious, is he?

He was very serious. For realz. He even asked for a show of hands of all of those interested. Holy shit, is he really putting people on the spot like this? I instantly felt a rush of empathy for all of the Jewish folk in the room. For this Buddhist-leaning Atheist, Arnie's pompous assumption that the entire room was Christiain AND wanting to study the Bible AND with him, was downright appalling.

I didn't attend any more neighborhood meetings.

And I haven't even crossed paths with Arnie until recently.

J and I were heading in the direction of sleeping on a recent Sunday night when we heard the rattling of glass outside. Having a little bit of a Mrs. Kravitz streak, I jumped out of bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash. Peeked through the minblinds - there was no sash. When what to my wandering eyes should appear, but my neighbor Arnie and eight of my bottles that once held beer. He sifted and sorted through finished crossword puzzles and canned cat food ick, but only the refundables he opted to pick. He saw empty wine bottles, empty gin bottles and more, surely he thought me an alcoholic - right down to my core.

I have mixed feelings about Arnie dumpster diving in my recycling bins. On the one hand, he must need the money or he wouldn't likely collect cans and bottles from his neighbors. On the other hand, I gather that he's somewhat ashamed of weekly ritual or he wouldn't be tiptoeing down the street at midnight thirty or so. And on the other hand (yep, I've got three hands going here), I don't want him seeing my empty bottles and cans or my discarded Good Vibrations catalogs. Hell, I don't even want him knowing what kind of shampoo I used or whether or not I could finish the Saturday Sudoku puzzle. We have collapsed boxes from ovulation predictor kits and the occasional telltale signs of online CD shopping binges.

This totally feels like an invasion of my privacy.

So what do I do about it? Do I facilitate his hunting and gathering by creating a separate bag, containing the refundables, and put his name on it? Should I just bring them to his doorstep (Arnie's no spring chicken, to be sure) and save him the trouble of toting them down the street? Or do I leave him a note asking him to kindly refrain from sifting through what we've discarded. And put at the curb. Out in the world. Where anyone could whisk it away?

Would I feel the same way if the person ransacking my rejects were anyone but Arnie? Do I feel a sense of resentment that J and I are not good enough for him...but our trash is?????

Things that go bump in the night...

2007-08-20T10:15:00.000-07:00

J and I just returned from a camping trip with our good friends, Kara and Patrizio, up at Lost Lake in the Mt. Hood National Forest. We've all camped up there together before and even have a favorite campsite (B11) - a two-bedroom site with a cozy living room and a secluded "opium den." This site is tucked back off of the road and has an incredible amount of privacy - as far as car camping is concerned, it's teh shit. Pretty much the only time we saw other campers was when we ventured out of our campsite, with the exception of about five or so who happened to walk down the road that connects our site to the rest of the world. And, with the exception of what sounded like a rockin' party a few sites down, we never really heard any of our neighboring campers either. Keep in mind that we camp on Mon/Tues/Wed typically - no guarantees of what the population there might be like on the weekend.

Besides the feeling of being secluded in the woods, we like the lake itself at Lost Lake. There are no motorized boats, jet skis or the like allowed on the lake and so the water is pristinely clear and doesn't taste nasty. The view from the middle of the lake, due to the proximity of Mt. Hood is pretty damn stunning. One of my favorite things to do at Lost Lake is to rent a row boat and take a bottle of wine and some cheese (well, and a loved one, of course) and row to the middle and just chill.

There are a few good hikes at Lost Lake: the perimeter of the lake is about 3 1/2 miles, flat, easy and in the shade (there are sometimes a lot of bugs, though); the Old Growth Trail is the sort of one mile jaunt/nature walk that might be especially enjoyable to small children or nonhikers; the Butte trail is our favorite - a moderate two-mile climb up about 1500 feet with a very rewarding view at the top (of course, the two miles back down is a cinch). Between the hike up and the hike back down, we saw fewer than ten other hikers on the trail or at the summit. I think they have some other trails there, as well, including another moderate climb, but these are the ones we like most.

On our first day, after establishing ourselves and getting our site set up, we gathered 'round the picnic table for our 'Happy Hour' (this is a tradition whenever we camp with Kara and Patrizio - I guess you could say that we're glam campers). While enjoying our martinis and appetizers, we happened to notice a plastic sign stapled to the picnic table. It was a warning about the presence of bears and that ALL food odors attract bears and that it was essential to pack all food, coolers, cooking equipment and dishes, as well as any cosmetics/shampoos, soaps, into your car at night. We all swear that this sign was not there the last time we camped at Lost Lake. Now, being experienced campers, we've always put our non-chilled food items back in the car at night (I've learned the hard way that chipmunks love trail mix and the raccoons go batty for Jet-Puffed marshmallows). But our coolers have latches (one requires a button to be pushed in while the handle is simultaneously slid down - trust me, most forest animals would not be able to figure that out) and our campstove and clean dishes have always been left out with nary a problem.

We contemplated this sign, along with the extra effort involved in reloading the car each night with almost all of our gear. We wondered if there had been some sort of incident involving a bear that had prompted this warning. Filing that one away under 'better safe than sorry,' we loaded everything that had encountered food, along with actual food and the coolers, back into the car after our delicious dinner of penne pasta with a Caponata sauce and a couple of bottles of Montepulciano. The few cracker crumbs that fell on the ground during happy hour were intentionally left for Chip and Dale, the friendly chipmunks who seemed to be our self-appointed foster pets.

Flash forward to a still night and sound sleeping being enjoyed by all when suddenly, at 3am, a loud gunshot was heard. This sound was unmistakably the sound of a gunshot and, while it didn't sound like it was actually in our campsite per se, it didn't sound like it was too terribly far away either. J and I shot up in our tents and looked at each other.

"What the fuck was that???" we pretty much said in unison.

"It sounded like a fucking gunshot."

"No, it WAS a gunshot," J clarified.

We sat there, still, contemplating the possibilities as well as our options. Perhaps we even began to doubt that what we heard was actually a gunshot and more likely just a loud noise that woke us and we were quick to chalk it up as a gunshot. The gears were turning...what other sorts of loud banging sounds might be heard in a campground at 3am? But then we heard it again. It was definitely a gunshot. We may be cityfolk, but we ain't stooopid. J began to literally shake in her shoes (although she was not wearing any...yet). I didn't know what to do or what to say to her that might seem calming, so I just sat there thinking.

We heard the sound of the zipper on Kara and Patrizio's tent being unzipped. J wondered aloud if "it" was trying to "get" our dear friends. I told her that it was probably Patrizio trying to figure out what the sound was. J heard the zipper again and continued worrying about the welfare of our friends. I found this sound reassuring, figuring that if our friends were out and about and we weren't hearing any sounds of alarm or panic from them, everything was probably fine. J arrived at a more ominous conclusion from hearing the sounds of footsteps in our immediate vicinity.

Thoroughly convinced that a mass-murderer or a bear was lurking outside of our tent, J put on her shoes, grabbed my pocket knife in one hand and her Maglite flashlight in the other - she was determined to do a number on anyone who dared to even think about venturing into our territory. I gave her a look which, obviously, she couldn't see, but she clearly sensed.

"I want to be able to run," she rationalized, obviously referring to the shoes.

"I think I want to go to the car," she continued. Our car? The one packed with all of our gear that we were convinced not to leave out? I wasn't following her logic here. Again, she intuited my ponderings.

"I'll feel more safe in the car," she'd decided.

"Honey," I told her, "there is no room for sleeping in the car with all of that gear and it wouldn't be comfortable to sleep sitting up." She wasn't convinced. I wasn't sure what to tell her. She was clearly terrified and, as for me, well, I was a little bit scared, but more about the gunshots and what that entailed than I was about anything being in the immediate vicinity. And, even if there had been something or someone just outside of our tent, I look at it this way: whoever/whatever it is has no idea who is inside the tent, whether they are male or female, weak or strong, old or young, crazy or not crazy, armed or not armed...you get the picture. Therefore, someone would have to be either really brave or really stupid to lurk outside someone's tent in the middle of the night. It was at this point that I recalled an adage that has been circulated by my friend Michael and that is reputed to come from an old man in Brooklyn. The old man said, with regard to fear of flying, if it's my time to go, then it's my time to go...and if it's the pilot's time to go, then it's my time to go, too. This philosophy seemed apropos. However, I still had a trembling wife on my hands.

It was at that moment that we heard a loud cough, clearly Patrizio's. I assured J that it was Patrizio and the sense that there was an immediate threat began to subside. Still not knowing what the hell the gunshots were all about, we somehow managed to get right back to sleep.

We discussed the ominous gunshot sounds with Kara and Patrizio over breakfast but, natch, nobody had any leads on what had actually happened. When J and Patrizio went to the little store by the lake to get more ice before we embarked on our hike, they asked the clerk about the two gunshots heard at 3am.

"Are you two gun activists?" the clerk - exactly what you'd picture if someone said 'big Harley Davidson guy' - retorted.

"Um, no, we aren't gun activists," Patrizio responded.

"Then how do you know it was a gunshot?" HDg challenged.

"I know what gunshots sound like," said Patrizio, still somewhat confused by why HDg seemed to imply that only a 'gun activist' might be able to identify the sound of a gun shooting. Had he meant 'gun enthusiast'?

"Well, I didn't hear anything last night and this is the first I've heard of any gunshots heard, so I don't know what to tell you."

J and Patrizio left with three bags of ice, but no info on the gunshots. Before bed that next night, we all joked about hoping we didn't hear gunshots in the middle of the night again.

We were awakened about an hour into our sleep by the loud sound of a dog yelping, as if it were hurt or afraid. It was drastically different than a howling or barking sound. For some reason, the sound of someone/something hurting or frightening a dog was not the least bit alarming to us and we went instantly back to sleep.

And we're not even dog activists.

Green means go, right? Right?

2007-08-17T10:19:00.000-07:00

Well, I had a little accidente the other day...totally 100% my fault. I was stopped at a red light, behind a fella in a Volkswagon somethingoranother and when the light turned green he didn't go, so I hit him. Okay, I didn't hit him because he was refusing to follow protocol when the light turned green, I hit him as a result of his abeyancy.

Obviously, nothing catastrophic in the grand scheme of car crashes - I was probably going about 1 mile per hour and, since I started out about 5-7 feet away from him, the impact was pretty minimal. I've been the hittee before, but never the hitter - I have yet to decide which position is the more challenging one to be in...check back in with me after I pay out on the claim.

Despite the apparent triviality that was this accident, I was pretty shaken up over the whole thing - my hands were trembly and my heart rate was racing. Yet, somehow, it didn't seem like it would be a very good idea to sit there and pop an Ativan at that exact moment. I followed Mr. Volkswagon over to the Walgreen's parking lot to exchange infos.

When I got out of my car, I began to apologize - very sincerely. I asked him if he was alright. Mr. Volkswagon stood there, with a disgruntled expression, looking at his dented rubber bumper and shaking his head back and forth. I told him that I was fully insured and that we needed to exchange information.

He just continued shaking his head back and forth.

"Sir," I said to him, "I've apologized and I've told you that I'm fully insured."

He said nothing - just grunted and glared at me.

"Sir," I continued, "There's no reason to be so angry - it was an accident and those happen. I've apologized, I've told you that I'm fully insured, and the damages appear to be pretty minimal. What more do you want from me?" After a short pause, I continued, "Is it alright with you if we exchange information now?"

"No. You give me your information and I'll send you an estimate," he told me.

"No," I told him, "absolutely not. Our insurance companies will handle this." (Did I look stupid to him?)

"But I did not do any damage, so you don't need my information."

"But we were both involved in the accident, so I do need your information. I will give you my information when you give me yours."

At this point, I was beginning to think that he was pretty lucky that I wasn't some asshat chewing him out for just sitting there when the light turned green.

He proceeded to walk over to the front of my car, where we both learned that there was absolutely no damage to my vehicle. This made him irate.

"See, you don't even have a scratch on your car!" Was he envious? "You drive a nice car and you get away with no damage and you have put a dent in my car!

This really seemed to piss him off. I decided not to take this bait, as I could see no good coming out of an argument over whose car was the nicest and how unfair that was. I told him again that I'd give him my information when he gave me his.

He grunted again and produced a driver's license and a copy of his registration with his insurance information below it. He then told me to write "I hit you" and sign it on the piece of paper where he'd written my infos.

"No way," I told him, "I'm not comfortable with that. I will tell my insurance company that I hit you and it's quite clear by the damage done that I was at fault, but there's no way I'm writing that down for you."

He wasn't happy about that, but that was too bad. What the hell was he trying to do? It was a really minor accident - was he going to try and take me to small claims court or something? Clearly this guy watches way too much daytime television. After the exchange, he just stood there. He really seemed to want to prolong this. I told him that I'd be phoning my insurance company either later that day or the next morning and that they would take it from there. He stood there looking at me and I told him that if there was nothing else he needed from me, then I needed to go.

I then popped an Ativan and headed off to work.

oooh, baby, baby

2007-08-10T11:33:00.000-07:00

As I've mentioned before, J and I are trying to have a baby. J will be the bearer of said child and I will be in charge of all that pertains to the day-to-day maintenance of a pregnant lady. Having been on the pregnant lady end of things, I'm not sure which job is more difficult - I'll let you know.

Anyway, we're coming along rather nicely in this process. We've selected a donor - a tall fellow of Jamaican descent. His profile indicated that he has things in common with both J and I - he's a reader and a soccer player and J, being of Puerto Rican descent, liked the idea of a fellow islander. And not that race/ethnicity matter to us, it must be a deal-breaker for some folks, as it was amazing (creepy? weird? sad?) how rapidly the white-boy sperm gets snatched up.

So here's how the whole artificial insemination thing works: after you fill out a shitload of paperwork for the sperm bank, as well as for the doctor's office and you've selected a donor, you begin tracking your ovulation. This requires the mother-to-be to pee on a stick every morning until the telltale sign of the pending ovulation inidcates that action must be taken! Immediately!

We obtained a positive ovulation result on our third try. But ovulation is the easy part. The getting preggers part is a little bit more difficult, despite what sexually-eager teenage girls are told. Upon receiving a positive ovulation test, we needed to phone the sperm bank and alert them that we're ready to pick up a sample. We also needed to page the fertility nurse to schedule an insemination appointment with her for the following day. These both needed to happen by noon.

Upon phoning the sperm bank, J encountered a voicemail on the other end. This wasn't what she was expecting, but she left a message anyway. After hanging up, she told me that it seemed weird that she got a voicemail when she was expecting to reach a lab and give them time-sensitive information. She double checked the number we had written down versus the number she'd dialed. Sure enough, she'd just left a voicemail for someone with her name, phone number and telling the poor voicemail recipient that she was "ready for her sperm."

In the meantime, we waited for the fertility nurse to return our page. About fifteen minutes later, the phone rings. J practically trips over what appears to be air to get to the phone and check the caller ID.

"Hello?" J says, as if she has no idea who is on the other end of the line.

"Hi, this is Joanna, the fertility nurse - I was just paged?"

"I'm ovulating!!!!!" J exclaims excitedly.

"That's great!" Joanna replied, "but let's start with your name. Tell me who you are."

J became suddenly shy and embarrassed, but Joanna turned out to be a good egg and was very kind and understanding with regard to J's outburst. She must deal with this sort of thing all the time.

The next morning at the crack of dawn, we had to head to the sperm bank to pick up our sample (yes, we called again - this time with the correct phone number). After forking over a lot of money, we were handed a tank similar to the sort of thing one might use to inflate helium balloons. It was only about one third to half as tall as a helium tank and weighed around 25 pounds.

We carried our "man in a can" to the car to head over to the doctor's office for the insemination. Upon starting up the car, J and I suddenly exchanged surprised expressions. The radio was playing Bob Marley's "Lively up Yourself" - a minor coincidence that we were hoping was a good omen.

Later, however, when we were in the waiting room at the doctor's office, J nudged me and said, "are you seeing this???"

I look over just in time to see a very pregnant woman walking down the hallway.

What was so remarkable about her?

She was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a large green, black and yellow flag emblazoned across the front and the word "Jamaica" across the top.

Coincidences?

So we won't know for about another week whether or not we're knocked up (cross your fingers for us!), but if J's behaviors, sensitivities and food cravings ('let's dip these Fritos in dark chocolate!", "I wonder what peanut butter and cheese mixed together would taste like") are any indication, then it's a no-brainer. That or she's just somaticising every symptom in the book. I'll keep you posted.

Confiscation, confiscation, what's your function?

2007-08-09T10:29:00.002-07:00

Early this morning, J and I drove K to the airport so that she could fly off to attend a national conference. Always the activist, K will be presenting a workshop and then she'll be speaking as part of the closing day panel. Isn't this what all 15 year olds do during their summer break?

Although K is a frequent flier, she can be a little bit absent-minded at times. While she was gathering her belongings to load into the car, we asked her if she had anything in her carry-on bag that could potentially be confiscated at the airport security.

"I don't know. Like what?" You'd think this kid had taken a siesta with Rip van Winkle or something.

"K, you know what sorts of things...sharp objects/tweezers/corkscrews/knives, etc., water bottles, other liquid things - basically anything a terrorist might think to use to fuck things up...and then some."

"Oh." She reaches into her bag and pulls out a book of matches and hands them to J. After digging around some more, she pulls out some tweezers. And then another book of matches and then another.

"Sheesh! For a nonsmoker, that's a hella lotta matches." We weren't really concerned, but found it odd that someone who often spoke up to others about the damages of smoking would carry so many books of matches on her. We asked her why so many.

"Oh, it just seems like there's always someone who needs a light." Apparently she doesn't mind facilitating the smoking. She then continues to dig around in her bag and pulls out a switchblade knife. We both look at her.

"It's for cutting fruit," she tells us. Knowing K, there is no doubt in my mind that this is what she uses this knife for. Her braces make it very difficult for her to bite into things like apples. Luckily, she attends a school where the rules are viewed a little differently than at some high schools. The "think outside the box" approach at her school would prevent her from being suspended for carrying a weapon to school with her. In fact, she claims that when she was helping to create the design and execution of the set for her school's Winter Solstice program (no Christmas programs here, folks), the faculty advisor was delighted when K pulled her switchblade out of her bag after much time had been spent searching for an exacto knife that could not be located.

We made her hand the knife over and she gave us a lighter, as well. I began to wonder what would have happened if we hadn't prompted her to check her back for confiscatables. Natch, her switchblade, tweezers and maybe the lighter would have been seized...but then what? What exactly happens to all of the items separated from their owners at the security check point?

Someone once told me that, when an item that is not permitted on a flight is confiscated, one may mail the item to themselves from the airport rather than forfeit the item altogether. I have been extra extra careful, when I fly, to purge my carry-on baggage of my eleventy spare corkscrews that I carry on me. Way back in the day, I took a flight from Los Angeles to San Francisco about two weeks after 9/11 occurred. Ironically, security was over-the-top rigid and SLOW SLOW SLOW to process the peeps (we had to arrive 3 hours before our flight), yet it was probably the safest time to fly - ever. This was when the repertoire of what could possibly be confiscated grew exponentially to include things like tweezers, corkscrews, knitting needles, etc.

Having been a bartender/wine snob for many years, I have always carried a corkscrew on my for as long as I can remember. On numerous occasions, I've been very grateful about this quirk until Sam the Security Guy at the Burbank Airport deemed my most fabulous Dean and Deluca corkscrew a national threat.

"Oh crap. Nooooo!" I said as Sam the SG bored holes through me with his glare. Clearly, he was fed up with all the extra work he had to do and, quite likely, without additional compensation. I could see that he knew nothing about Dean and Deluca.

"It's my favorite corkscrew! I just bought it last year in New York."

Sam the SG's expression remained unchanged.

"Please don't take it," I pled. He said nothing and tossed it into this amazing and ginormous barrel containing all kinds of great stuff. I then began to wonder what happens to all of these seized treasures. Are they thrown away? (what a waste!) Do the employees in security get to choose which ones they want and take them home? (totally unfair) Are they sold on eBay for a profit? (sleazy) Are they sold on eBay and the resulting income given to charity? (a little thoughtful, still unfair) or???

"Wait! What do you do with this stuff?" Sam the SG just looked at me (he is mute?). "What if we do this: could you turn that in to lost and found and then I will pick it up when I return from San Francisco?" Brillz, I told myself, totally brillz.

"No can do." Ah, so he DOES talk.

"Well how can I get it back?" I asked as he was completing his full-body cavity search of my bag.

"Sorry, lady. You should have thought about it before you packed it."

Suffice to say, I never did see that Dean and Deluca corkscrew again. But I'll bet somebody did! But who? And under what circumstances? And did they pay for it (and, if so, how much?) or was it gratis? And so now, today, after rescuing K's switchblade at the last minute from a most certain doom, I again wonder about the fate of the seized treasures. Is Sam the SG kicking back and laughing while he opens a bottle of Chateau Margeaux with my Dean and Deluca corkscrew?

Nah, probably not.

Feast on this.

2007-08-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

Everyone who knows me, knows that I love to cook. Most have also been on the receiving end of my more successful culinary extravaganzas, as well as some of my more horrifying creations. Lucky for me (and for everyone I feed), the fabulousness far outweighs the suckage.

For my dad's 60th birthday this last weekend, I opted for an Indian Feast. His wife (my wonderful stepmom), Jen, hates to cook. She wants nothing to do with it. I've cut a deal with her - when we come to their home in central Oregon, I will do the cooking if she picks up the groceries before I arrive. She doesn't mind the grocery shopping and can afford to buy anything in the store I could possibly ask for (although I do try to stay reasonable - even on special occasions). I can even keep a fairly accurate inventory of her pantry in my memory so that I can be sure an alter my grocery store requests accordingly. Everyone wins with this plan.

After dining about an hour or so later than originally anticipated (that's the part I really suck at), the dinner was declared a success! Here's what we had:

Vambotu Curry (Sri Lankan Eggplant Curry) (I know, not Indian, but it's an amazing dish and a nice compliment to the other dishes we made)
Chukandar Dahi (Beets with Mint and Yogurt)*
Vatana Bhaji (Green Peas with Coconut and Cilantro)
Chickpea Salad with Ginger
Chicken Tikka
Basmati Rice
Paratha (Whole Wheat Flatbread)
Mint Chutney with Yogurt
Dry Peanut Chutney

And, for dessert, K made Chai Tea cupcakes with Cinnamon Cream Cheese frosting. The wine we served with dinner was Toluca Lane Pinot Noir 2003 which, admittedly, is not the ideal choice for Indian food with so many different spices and flavors, but dad likes pinot noir and it was his birthday.

Some of the dishes came from Madhur Jaffrey's World Vegetarian and others came from Mark Bittman's The Best Recipes in the World. My experience, so far, with both cookbooks is that the World Vegetarian recipes are a bit more challenging, time consuming and labor intensive, but all that I have made from that book have been tasty and worth my while. Bittman is awesome because he gives a ballpark idea of how long the dish will take to make, which is very helpful.

On the heels of this feast (i.e. last night) was a different feast in celebration of our friend Elizabeth's 50th birthday. The theme was "Itlee" (this is how Elizabeth says "Italy," being from New Orleans, er N'awlins, and all) and here is what we served:

appetizers:

Puree of Cannelini Beans with Garlic and Rosemary and Whole Wheat flatbread for dipping
Steamed Artichokes
Italian Black Truffle Cheese with Crackers and Figs
beverage: Pastis (I know, not Italian - I didn't have Campari or Limoncello on hand and didn't have time to go to the liquor store)

salads:

Caprese
Roasted Beets with Mint and a Balsamic Reduction*
Panzanella (Garlic Bread Salad with Tomatoes and Basil)

main course:

Saffron Risotto two ways:
one with Scallops, Prawns and Tomatoes
one with Asparagus, Peas and Roasted Red & Yellow Bell Peppers (K is vegan and J may or may not be pregnant and is not eating shellfish as a result)
beverage: BV Napa Cabernet 2004, sparkling water

dessert:

Lemon Tart (this is the most amazing lemon tart - perfect consistency and wonderful balance of sweet and tart with just the right amount of lemon and a flavorful crust; it's from the May 2002 issue of Bon Appetit and I highly recommend it)

Elizabeth and her boyfriend, Michael, were beyond happy with the full tummy and leftovers they had when they left our home. There are still more leftovers - anyone?

* Please note: Not sure if peeps know this or not, but I think it's valuable info for anyone who doesn't know. When you consume roasted beets, it has a very colorful impact when it exits your body (well, unless it exits via vomit, in which case I have no idea what color it would be - maybe ruby reddish). Seriously - the shits are a sort of reddish burgandy and it can be rather alarming if you aren't expecting it.

__________________________________

So, I realize that this isn't the thought provoking !kablammo! post that might come with a month + absence, but it's what was on my mind today. Worry not, there are some bonafide stories in the making and I'll do my best to do them justice.

Please excuse Bad Kitty from her tardiness...

2007-08-03T11:12:00.000-07:00

Every now and then, I take an unplanned and unanticipated vacation from blogging. It just happens. It's inevitable. And, frankly, I feel less grounded when I'm not blogging - partly because I see stories everywhere I go and I want to sit down and retell them and it clogs me up to hold all of those stories inside.

Fear not, I didn't go on some sort of bipolar depressive bender and what I'm hoping and thinking will be a barrage of stories in the near future is not a bipolar manic bender. For realz.

I've had a lot going on and it's hard to believe that I've somehow been busier since school has ended than when I was in school. Here's a sampling of some of the topics that may appear here in the near future: my in-laws visiting for ten days, my pending job search, my mother, the fabulous Indian feast that I'm preparing for my father's 60th birthday this weekend, random happenings, my travels, a medical scare that I'm hoping is just a scare, my next tattoo, a project I'm working on that is taking much longer than anticipated, the continuing saga of The IncrediblyTrue and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, books I've been reading, concerts I've been to, etc., etc. and, oh yeah: J and I are trying to have a baby.

So, without further ado, I hereby declare myself...BACK ON!!!!

well, that didn't take long...

2007-06-17T02:24:00.000-07:00

Little did I know, that a mere eight hours after I wrote this post, Skylar left my bar after enjoying one Paulaner Thomasbrau and joined up with some friends at a different bar, where he proceeded to have four drinks.

The following night (which was last night), he sat up at my bar after his shift and I asked him if he'd like a Paulaner. He looks up and says, "Actually, I'm going to throw you for a loop."

"Oh really? What kind of a loop?" (and in my head I was willing him to ask for an Italian Soda).

"I'd like to have a Terminal Gravity IPA," Skylar tells me.

"You sure about that?" I venture, hating being in this position, "You know the peeps are going to razz you for this, right?"

"Oh, I know," he confirms.

"Okay, well, as long as you know what you're getting yourself into."

I feel like such a hypocrite engaging in this discourse. I'm a drinker. I don't want anyone trying to attempt to regulate my drinking and I feel like an ass questioning him without just serving him. He's an adult and can make his own decisions; if he makes bad decisions, that's not my problem, my fault or my business. My job is to make and serve drinks, not to question people about their drinking (unless it becomes excessive - in one sitting). But my questions come from a place of concern, not a place of judgment. Still, he deserves to be treated like anyone else who sits at my bar and wants a drink.

Not long after he's enjoying what I'm assuming is his first post-sobriety cerveza (I later learn that he'd imbibed the night before), our resident alcoholic, Janelle, bellies up alongside him and starts in on her first one of what will likely be around eleventy drinks before she calls it a night. They start in chatting and sharing "wasted" stories. My back is to them, as I'm on my computer running reports and getting ready to do my end-of-the-night books. I can overhear every word they're saying (one of the pluses - and minuses - about being a bartender). Skylar is feeding Janelle some hoo-ha about how some alcoholics can go back to drinking without losing control and some can't and that in AA they tell you that the only way to find out if you can learn to drink lightly or moderately is to "experiment" and see if you lose control or not.

Janelle giggles and offers up some of her stories of lost control. Skylar proceeds to tell her "his story." His realization that he was an alcoholic came after a multitude of drunken blackouts (an almost nightly occurrence for Janelle) and his realization that he drank just to get drunk, and not for any other reason. Which is why, he rationalized, he drank crappy beer then and why he is drinking "good beer" now. It was three and a half years ago that he climbed aboard the wagon and hadn't even fallen off.

Until now.

Now, he is conducting an "experiment."

Here I am, still wanting Calgon to take me away. I so don't want to be a part of any of this. Even though I've known my fair share of people who have fallen off the wagon, I don't think I've ever knowingly served them while they eased into this transition. I'm surprised at how uncomfortable I am in this role. Overhearing Skylar and Janelle's conversation, I find myself feeing really sad for them and about them.

It's so difficult to listen to Skylar rationalize his drinking, almost as though he is performing a rehearsed speech. After having two beers last night and two tonight (before seeking adventure elsewhere - as my barback, he knows how I feel about employees overindulging at my bar and staying long past their welcome), I'm certain that this will now become a nightly habit...not THAT big of a deal, I suppose, as it's a nightly habit for many (myself included), but I know that his track record of not getting sloppy is not so great and that he is currently nursing some serious pain - it's just not a very great combo for a break in over three years sobriety. I just have a feeling that this could get really ugly.

I hope I'm wrong.

The Wobbly Wagon

2007-06-14T11:48:00.000-07:00

I've got a little dilemma on my hands at work.

There is this guy, Skylar, who started as a busser and now works as a barback and, occasionally, as a waiter. He started working there at the same time as his fiancee, Kat, shortly after the two of them moved to Portland from the bay area about six months ago. They both had a very solid work ethic, were dependable and took direction well. They both learned quickly and were able to move from bussing positions to working as lunch waiters in a matter of three months or so.

Kat was extremely likable - very friendly, warm and with a very mellow demeanor. Skylar, while very bright and hardworking, was intensely serious and a little bit cocky. You can't take yourself too seriously when you work in restaurants. You just can't.

Both Kat and Skylar are clean and sober, Kat having been "a major stoner" (her words) and Skylar says that he had a serious alcohol problem and that his drug use couldn't exactly be described as dabbling.

Skylar attends the local community college and is pursuing a degree in substance abuse counseling and even volunteers a local substance abuse clinic. He is very adamant about this pursuit, with a fervor resembling that of a religious belief, and is frequently overheard spewing "facts about alcoholism" to other employees, solicited and otherwise.

Kat and Sylar had been a couple for nearly five years, found Buddhism together and went on the wagon together. While I've heard them tell some stories of their wild lives and their antics prior to life on the wagon, I don't recall them ever mentioning when exactly they hopped aboard the wagon or how difficult is was for either one of them to stay there. Often, at the end of their shifts, they would join other employees who were sitting up at my bar enjoying their "shift drink" (it's very common in restaurants for employees to get 1-3 free or reduced-price drinks at the end of a shift). Kat and Skylar would just drink water (and tons of it) while they conversed with others. Skylar has been known to initiate conversations about substance abuse while sitting at my bar alongside an employee who is happily enjoying a cold beer. I can see that this makes people uncomfortable despite their friendly smiles and nods.

Just less than a month ago, Kat broke up with Skylar and made the decision to move back to the bay area. Suffice to say, Skylar was devastated over this loss. A few nights later, Skylar decided to try an alcohol-free beer for the first time. He deemed it not so bad - we serve Paulaner Thomasbrau. By the following week, he was having two - instead of one - post-shift Paulaner. Some of the employees called him on this and he began to spew facts about alcohol-free beer and the crazy high number of them he'd need to consume in order to get legally drunk. A few days ago, Skylar was enjoying three Paulaners before calling it a day.

Skylar is very judgmental of those who drink, particularly of those who drink excessively. Although he is a very hard worker, I don't really enjoy having him work as a barback, as his judgmental energy permeates my bar and he is too serious to be working in the bar, where customers tend to be a little bit more laid back and appreciate a sense of humor or a quick wit. Alas, my favorite barback ever, Andy, is moving up in the restaurant world and getting more wait shifts. I miss Andy whenever Skylar is working - Andy sings while he is working and I never have to give him direction...he can practically read my mind - and that is an excellent quality in a barback.

Yesterday was the day that Kat left for San Francisco and Skylar showed up at work red-eyed and on the verge of slipping back into the sobs that had clearly consumed the earlier part of his day. When asked how he was doing, he replied, "not well." Prior to the start of his shift, he sat at my bar eating some soup and drinking a gallon of water. The piped in music played the song Baby Come Back by Player could be heard overhead. I wanted Calgon to take me away and, when it didn't, I found tasks I needed to complete that could be done away from the bar. I just really didn't want to get sucked into this sad, spiralling downward of yuck. Call me unsympathetic. Call me a bitch. I just don't have the space for it right now, particularly with regard to someone I barely feel lukewarm about.

Somehow, Skylar made it through his shift last night without a complete breakdown. Strong willed, that Skylar. All night, I was fearing his eventual plunk at one of my barstools and dreading that he'd up the ante and order a real beer instead of a near beer. Despite mentally willing him not to do this, I had to ponder in my head what I would do if this situation were to arise. Should I serve him the drink as I would anyone else? Should I refuse him? Or something in between? Or would that seem cowardly and wishywashy?

I eventually decided upon this: if he asks me for a drink, I will ask him if he's sure (but not in a judging way, more in a light-hearted way) and, if he says yes, I will serve him. After all, he is an adult; I am not his parent; I'm not really even a friend of his; if he's going to drink, he's going to drink and my denying him this right is not going to stop him altogether. It still made me feel uncomfortable.

Having worked in restaurants for many years, I've known a lot of people - both on and off the wagon and some who made a habit of hopping back and forth - who struggle with their own alcohol consumption and it's hard to watch them fuck up and it's hard to watch them struggle. I've watched folks give up alcohol and replace it with a different addiction - usually coffee or cigarettes, sometimes something a little stronger. But it didn't take me long to conclude that, while I was there for them as a friend, I would neither urge them to drink or invite them to a drinking environment (if I knew that they had a hard time being in that environment...some don't), nor would I go to great lengths to talk them out of drinking if they chose to, nor would I rescue their ass every time their drinking got them into personal or financial trouble. And, sadly, I've lost some friendships over this. Generally, though, that meant that we may have had little in common besides alcohol consumption and it was just as well. Others (like LL, whose ass I'd rescued numerous times before I gave that shit up - rescuing asses, not alcohol consumption), I really miss.

Well, much to my delight, Skylar enjoyed one - and only one - Paulaner after his shift last night. However, my hunch that his days on the wagon are numbered still looms. I just don't want to be the bartender who serves him that first drink...I'm hoping he has the smarts to go elsewhere if he must.

Just wondering: Where did American citizens come from?

2007-06-13T10:48:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, in Portland, the largest immigration raid on a workplace in all of Oregon history occurred in a food processing plant in North Portland. Over one quarter of the plant's employees, 167 workers, were taken away in buses and will be detained in Tacoma where they will be interrogated and investigated and, most likely, eventually deported. These are people - many of whom are trying to raise families and are living in poverty - who were working for minimum wage in a job that had virtually no means of advancing, either in position or wage. They pose no potential harm to anyone. They work in a job that many legal US citizens would not be willing to work.

This fuckin' pisses me off.

I don't even want to think about the money and effort being spent on attempts to seize illegal immigrants, many of whom work for minimum wage and often in more than one job. In the meantime, library services in schools are being edged out and school librarians are being cut out of budgets or, if they are lucky, being reduced to part-time. I read a recent article in The Oregonian about gang activity being on the rise in Portland and the graffiti indicating turf wars on many a fence/wall in my neighborhood suggest the same. And where is the money for the programs addressing the problems of gang activity/involvement?

And building a fence along the border of Texas???? Are you fucking kidding me? What a ridiculous waste of money and resources.

The thing that bothers me the most about this is that I know (and have known) several people directly impacted by this issue. Having worked in restaurants on and off for several years, I've worked alongside many an undocumented immigrant. I see them working their asses off (while the high school students from the nearby wealthy neighborhood, who mostly work as bussers, are often total slackers and wouldn't know a work ethic if it called 'em on their freakin' Blackberry), often working overtime. Most make a concerted effort to learn English and, often, are functionally bilingual in less than a year. These are people who have families they are trying to support and care for.

I've formed friendships with illegal immigrants who have spoken rather frankly, over a few beers, about the "coyotes" and the expense and dangers of crossing the border. I've heard some horror stories and the fears involved in embarking on this journey are not to be taken lightly - starvation, getting lost, death, violence. Some time ago, I worked alongside a woman, Rosa, who had recently arrived in Portland via coyote. She looked shell-shocked and the fear and sadness in her eyes were unmistakable. I can't help but wonder what she endured while making her way here. She worked as a dishwasher and she worked hard. She didn't speak much and knew little English. And these sacrifices are made in order to work physically exhausting jobs for minimum wage. Or, in the case of the Del Monte Food Processing plant here in Portland, under allegedly abhorrent and unsafe working conditions, as well as working extraordinarily long hours (up to 18 hour shifts) with no overtime pay.

And I really hate the pundits who cry, "but they don't pay taxes!" Well, you know what, pundit? They also don't reap the benefits of legal citizenship: voting, social services, unemployment benefits, Social Security benefits, income tax refunds (which many, who work for low wages and have children, would receive), financial aid for higher education. Just sayin'.

And, yet, there are folks who want them gone. Whenever I drive back to Portland from Seattle, I encounter a privately-owned billboard in a rural area of Washington, halfway through the trip that always has conservative/very right-leaning - and often anti-immigrant - messages. On a recent trip, the billboard sported the following quip: "Welcome to America! Now speak English."

Here's what I want to know: Mr./Ms. Billboard Owner, where did your ancestors come from? Did THEY speak English upon arrival in the United States? Yeah, I didn't think so.

Do Ya Wanna Makeup?

2007-05-31T23:26:00.000-07:00

When I was living in California, J and I worked in the same establishment for a little while (not how we first met, but it was where we reconnected and got together). There was a woman, Jane, who worked there at the time (she was maybe a secretary of some sort?) who sold Mary Kay cosmetics on the side.

One day she came up to J and said, "You're a really pretty girl, but your skin could use some help - I have just the product for you."

J, being much smarter than this peddler of crappy cosmetics, did not take Jane up on her offer. And if I'm going to be perfectly catty (and I am), Jane wasn't so easy on the eyes and it would behoove her to worry more about her own skin than to make subtle jabs at others in order to increase her net income.

Flash forward a couple of years when we're newly in Portland and I'm working at the small neighborhood restaurant where I presently work. I'm working lunches and I have a regular group of 16 who comes in every Wednesday(it's a networking group - so they are all about shameless self-promotion to one another and, occasionally, me) . Most people were pretty friendly to me and appreciated when I went the extra mile for them (such as knowing who drinks the same drink every time and having it waiting for them when they arrive, amongst other nice touches). I remembered all of their names pretty rapidly and would refer to each one by name and do whatever I could to make them happy. Since it was such a large group, I was permitted to add an automatic 18% gratuity to the tab - I also printed out a separate check for each person, even though the restaurant wouldn't typically do that for such a large group. Some of the folks threw me an extra dollar or two on top of that, which I thought was really thoughtful and was much appreciated. One man, Dale, would even peer pressure everyone into throwing me a little extra at Christmas time. Nice guy, Dale.

This was more than three years ago and only one out of the 16 remains a regular customer (although, in all fairness, not all of them lived in close vicinity of the restaurant). Well, one of the women in the group, Maryanne, sold Arbonne beauty products and was very eager to make some cash off of me. Being smart enough to know that I didn't plan on waiting tables at lunch my entire life (this was, of course, before I was admitted to UW), she attempted to recruit me into selling Arbonne as a representative under her guidance. For those of you who don't know, Arbonne is a multilevel marketing structure, not unlike Amway (think pyramid, think trickledown). They claim that all of their products are "100% natural" and comprised of botanical ingredients - I've heard through the grapevine that this is not so, although I can't say for certain. Maryanne showered me with compliments about my customer service skills, how personable I was and so on. I told her I'd think about it, although I had absolutely no intention of doing such a thing. Hell, she was a regular customer and I wanted to maintain a good rapport.

One day, she gifts me with a host of Arbonne samples of skin care products, including one anti-aging serum that she claimed was practically magic. Since I was perfectly happy with what I was using at the time (Lancome or something, I think) and wasn't in the market for a change, I set the samples aside figuring I would use them when I finished off my current product. When Maryanne saw me the following week, she raved about how great my skin looked (note: I hadn't even broken the seal on any of the Arbonne products). Even though I already knew that she was just feeding me fake compliments to hook me in, this confirmed it. I told her thank you and went on with my (honest) business.

She began to pressure me into ordered product (which was expensive, but no more so that what I typically use). I figured that since she was a longtime regular customer and I'd made some dough off of her, I'd throw her an order. I think I tried to get a sunscreen and maybe a bath gel (two things I needed anyway) and she upsold me into a couple of skincare products (what is it with these people and the damn skincare products?) by promising a discount. I succumbed (no, I'm not usually this easy).

She had me fill out an order form, which included a request for my phone number. I told her that I don't usually give that out and, since she saw me weekly, did that really matter? Oh no, they needed that! She gave me some reason (what if there is a problem with the order??? or something) and I wrote it in, but reminded her that I really value my privacy and don't usually give it out.

(You see where this is going, don't you?)

Not long after I received my order, I was accepted into my current graduate program at UW and, as a result, had to stop working lunches in order to have my days free for school (and blogging!). I announced to this group on my last Wednesday that I would no longer be working days and that someone else would be taking care of them in the future. I told them why and several folks congratulated me and gave me an extra large tip that day (Maryanne stuck with the tacked-on 18%). I told them I'd be working evenings and to come in and see me. Since then, I've only seen Geoff, who has come into the bar, but mostly gets take-out.

Within a couple of weeks, I received a phone call from Maryanne. Not recognizing the name on the caller ID (and thinking it might be one of my daughter's friends), I answered the phone. It was Maryanne wanting to know how I liked my products and would I be interested in ordering more? I said thanks, but no thanks - I was good.

Not long after her phone call, I receive an Arbonne catalog in the mail with an enthusiastic note saying that she misses seeing me at the restaurant. I skim the catalog that is littered with testimonies from successful Arbonne reps and what I recall as a very tan, very blonde executive type with a message of encouragement.

A couple more weeks pass and she calls again, but I don't answer this time. So she calls the next day. And the next. And the next. Same scripted voicemail each time, with the latter containing a somewhat agitated tone. Scary. I never return any of the calls. I never order any more scary Arbonne products.

I hear from owner-man John at work that the networking group doesn't come in for lunch anymore.

A couple of years have passed since my last phone call from Maryanne and I'd relegated the experience to merely a weird story that I sometimes told others when the subject was raised.

Flash forward to today when my phone rings and I pick it up, first checking the caller ID. I see the name and know that I know that name from somewhere, but where? Not long after I decide not to answer it, I remember exactly where I know that name. I listen to Maryanne's message and here is what it says:

"Hi, not sure if you remember me, but it's Maryanne - the regional rep for Arbonne Skincare (oh, I remember you, Maryanne). I just wanted to touch bases with you since we'd lost touch and tell you about some of our new products! And, if my notes are correct (she took notes on me?!?!?!), you have a daughter who is about 16 now and I just wanted to let you know that we have some products that she'll just loooooooove! They're younger products with exactly her age group in mind and I just know that she'll love them. I remember (you don't remember - it's in your "notes") that you said you were going to school and I want to see how that is going and catch up with you, see how you're doing. So, give me a call!"

Okay, my very political, activist daughter (who is 15) is currently sporting a Mohawk and pretty much uses no product at all, except for some Burt's Bees lip balm that is tinted. I GUARANTEE that she would not be amenable to Arbonne's aggressive tactics.

I'm really hoping that Maryanne acquires a clue.

Calgon take me away (unless you are made by Arbonne or Mary Kay).

Desert Island food

2007-05-23T14:01:00.000-07:00

just in case

1. Unagi
2. Barely seared Ahi
3. Haagen Dazs Dulce de Leche
4. Mangos (already cut up for me)
5. Panang Curry
6. Rare Filet Mignon
7. Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies
8. Artichokes (steamed, with drawn butter)
9. Tarte Tatin
10. Fresh raspberries

City Hall's first mosh pit

2007-05-16T23:56:00.000-07:00

Can I just say...my daughter is largely responsible for the first ever mosh pit held in City Hall in Portland.

I am so damned proud.

As the student leader of her school's GSA (Gay Straight Alliance), she is way involved in the local gay activist community (particularly with regard to youth -a word she hates). She speaks at and leads workshops for local youth-oriented conferences and was even asked to be a guest speaker for a teachers' conference recently. She was also part of the planning committee for the Day of Silence/Night of Noise shindig in P-land. Somehow, they persuaded TPTB to allow them to hold a gathering/rally/punk rock concert in the rotunda of City Hall.

And my sweet baby girl was one of the emcees of the event and made sure everything was running smoothly and on schedule. Damn she was impressive. And I'm not just saying that because she might read this. Honestly, she has better things to do than read my blog.

Of course, I confess to a mini-Mom-moment when my girl jumped into the mosh pit. I felt an eensy bit panicky and feared for her safety. I know, that sounds lame and dorky to me now, too. But it comes free with being a Mom, so what could I do? I couldn't help myself. Yikes! What if she gets hurt?! I so wanted to go and pull her out (mostly so I could refrain from wincing when she fell down or when someone jabbed her petite frame right in the gut), but that would be so the wrong thing to do in that moment.

I took deep breaths. I watched the amoeba-like moshpit and made note of the seemingly jubilant participants. I kept telling myself that she is strong and capable and is just having fun. I even tried looking away, but found that I was better off visually monitoring the situation from afar.

I finally found the calm place and concluded that I would have the following bumper sticker made: "My honor student can hold her own in a mosh pit!"

Happy Crappy Mother's Day

2007-05-13T20:51:00.000-07:00

I called my mom this morning to wish her a happy Mother's Day.

She asks what we are doing today and I tell her homework, which is true. She tells me that she and hubby are going to brunch with Ann and her family to the local private country club. She adds that Aunt Sally and her husband are "apparently coming along." Mom's unsaid commentary is clear: Aunt Sally has no children, therefore she has no right to celebrate Mother's Day. Aside: Mom and Aunt Sally are very close, although Mom speaks lowly of Aunt Sally often. (I'd hate to hear what she says about me).

Natch, she'd like to see me. Natch, my Mother's Day gift to myself was not seeing her. Quelle dillemma. As is the case nearly every time I've spoken to her since late January, she asks when she can see me. Late January because she and her husband went on a vacation somewhere (don't remember where - they take a LOT of vacations) and she bought me a "gift -it's not much" (this is how she says it every time she brings up said gift. So this is how I say it every time I refer to said gift. In all fairness, I must confess that I sort stole this literary device from Frank McCourt's book, 'Tis, which I recently finished reading. In it he refers to a character as "Michael down the hall - what's left of him" at every mention of this character, as that's how Michael's mother refers to him. Okay, I'm a little bit of a copy cat. So what?

Anyway, since late January I've had the same response to her inquiry - well, I have Monday nights off or you can drop in and sit up at my bar and have a glass of wine (I comp her drinks every time - she leaves me a 15% tip every time)...if you come on a slow night, I'll have a chance to chat. Aside: the restaurant where I work is on her side of town. The ball was always in her court and she never returned it. Now, it's Mother's Day and the two-year anniversary of her mother's death - I'm feeling sensitive and guilty. I ask her if I can take her out to lunch tomorrow. (Confession deux: I'm having cocktails with my friend, H-Bomb, tomorrow evening, so I'll have the opportunity to numb and purge after lunch with Mom).

I know, now my mom looks all nicey-nice buying me a "gift-it's not much" from her vacation and wishing to see me. Keep reading.

She, of course, accepts and asks where shall we go. I let her know that I'll be in a nearby town running an errand and, for my return trip, I'll be within a mile of her office - perhaps somewhere in that vicinity. For some reason (because she's really nosy - that's a whole other post) she wants to know the specifics of my errand and where it's located. I tell her I don't know the location off the top of my head. It's not private, but it's none of her damn business either (sometimes her commentary is unbearable - she ALWAYS has commentary, usually negative). I'll tell y'all, though. I'm dropping off a bunch of clothes to donate to a women's shelter. Mom asks if it's work-related or school-related, because then she might know where it's located and can help me with directions. Huh? I change the subject and suggest a few restaurants. She counters by naming a few chain establishments. I ask if she'd mind going somewhere that isn't a chain. For some reason, when I name a few more non-chain places, she starts repeating the chain establishments, along with a few more of same. She suggests 12:30, but adds that she might have to switch it to noon, as Aunt Sally might want to join.

She asks how we're doing and then tells me about a lesbian couple she knows who just had a baby. Obviously, they had artificial insemination, she adds. Aside: she likes to throw in any possible anecdote of any random interaction she has with a gay peep, probably to make herself seem tolerant?

This morphs into a conversation about my sister, Ann's, newest baby, Ellie. She's cute, Mom says, but what a chunk!! She's the fattest baby I've ever seen! Mom continues, "Well, you know that Ann doesn't keep them on any sort of schedule and any time they ask for food, she just gives it to them."

Aside: one of Ann's daughters appears nearly anorexic and the rest of her children are slender and average sized for their age. But Mom has more to say about Ellie, "Seriously, she's in the 105th percentile! You should see her legs - they are SO chubby."

Mom goes on talking more about Ellie, using the words 'chunk'/'chubb'/'chubby' at least three more times.

My silence (thank goodness she can't see my face) prompts her to change the subject. She tells me that she spoke to my sister, Haley, who is flying up from San Francisco to attend my graduation (since we were only permitted four tix, which I'd already assigned to Dad and his wife, as well as J and K, I had to jump through hoops to obtain tix for Mom and Aunt Sally (who is very sweet, by the way) - Mom doesn't travel alone - and then even more challenging hoops to procure a ticket for Haley). She tells me that Haley can't decide if she is going to bring her friend, Kristin, to the event, as that is who she will be staying with in Seattle. I inform Mom that there is no way that another ticket is possible (she's already been told that it wasn't easy for me to get her a ticket and even more difficult to get one for Haley) and I re-explain why.

She's somehow content to continue talking about my graduation. She asks if we'll be going out to dinner beforehand or what. I tell her that I'll have several grad-related errands to run all day prior to the ceremony (which is mostly true). I'm having lunch with my dear school friends and our families - no way in hell I'm letting Mom ruin that. She begins complaing about what a waste of her time it'll be to drive all the way up to Seattle (have I seen the price of gas?) just to see me walk across a stage and not even be able to see me in person.

Her cell phone then rings in the background and she "has to take the call." I can overhear her end of the convo, which of course is work-related.

She returns to the phone and I remind her that there is a dessert reception prior to the ceremony. This isn't good enough because I won't have much time to spend with her on account of my need to socialize with everyone there. Aside: I have asked my mother, on numerous occasions over the years, for alone time with her - it never happens, as she always invites hubby or my aunt or my sister along. I tell her that perhaps there'll be drinks or something afterward, but that will likely involve several others. She frets, informing me that breakfast the next morning is out of the question because she needs to leave by noon and, according to her, I never wake up until after 10am. Aside: this was true on non-school days in my teen years.

I apologize to her that I'm not able to spend more time with her [over the 24-hour period that she will be in Seattle]. She adds that she has no idea where the ceremony is being held and, since she doesn't know where she'll be going, I'll need to send her an address with directions and, if possible, a map. Aside: I emailed this info to her about a month ago, albeit sans map.

Later this evening I received an email from her stating that Ann might want to come along to lunch and that she says that Stanfords has good salads, so let's go there (slender Mom is perpetually on a diet - always remarking if I've lost weight and saying nothing if I've gained...although I'm certain that she reports this to others). She only has email at work, which means she spent the post-brunch part of her Mother's Day at her office - likely alone - working. This makes me a little sad for her.

I can't wait for lunch tomorrow.

My mother is so FUBAR.

feeling like the underdog

2007-05-09T14:27:00.000-07:00

In honor of my birthday, I'm posting a rant that I wrote in early February, 2007...

Dear Lizzie B.,

You fuckin' pissed me off tonight.

When I first saw you many months ago, I thought you were amazing! So accomplished! So articulate! So well read! So beautiful! And you play on my team! Welcome aboard!

But your maneuver of the celebrity-author-handler equivalent of cock-blocking was inexcusable. You seemed so incredibly phony and unlikable when I was initiating a conversation with S-L P as I was reflecting on her previous visit to Powell's reading from her not-a-play novel, complete with guitar and accompanying songs. You whisked her away while I was in mid-sentence, completely disregarding that my conversation with her mattered a great deal to me and might have even mattered to her, as well. All the while, you smiled that fakey pasted on grin, decked out in your white wool coat, trying to look pure, pristine and untouchable. I don't really admire you anymore, for the record. I don't care if you're so young to be holding such a prestigious position in the Portland cultural scene. I don't care if you've published your writing in literary journals. I don't care if I'm the only one who doesn't think you're no longer all that great.

Signed,
bk

and, at the same time,

Dear S-L P,

I wanted to talk to you tonight. I really did. But I was feeling shy and unworthy of attending a reception in your honor in a fancy-pants post office lobby with supersized portraits of Dubya and Dick looking down on me while I consume the complimentary chocolate chip cookies not-from-a-box and wine that doesn't suck at all.

And it's not that I really had anything that compelling to say to you or any burning question about what it's like to be a writer or how did it feel to win a Pulitzer Prize or - wow - what was is like to take a writing class from James Baldwin? I just wanted you to keep talking.

And I don't even fully understand why you couldn't keep talking as long as you were on the stage and the people were listening and enjoying themselves. I mean, what was up with them flashing that blue light at you, trying to hurry you up? Hurry up for what??? It's not as though there would be a late night cabaret or anything and they needed to make way for that. You were happy talking to us and we were happy listening to you talk to us and answer random questions, even ones from young and naive writers-to-be who are seeking a panacea for writer's block.

So what would have happened if you had ignored the blue light and just kept on talking? Perhaps it could have been the literary equivalent to the old Portland story about Prince showing up at the Roseland theatre at the conclusion of some show or another and then playing until 2am. Were the blue-light blinkers telling him 'no'? Of course they weren't.

At the beginning of the lecture, when you were introduced by mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named, we learned that you entertain even your most far-out ideas and breathe life into them to see what they hold. Would it have been such a far-out idea to just keep talking?

Perhaps the reception at the funky post office had a limitation on the hours permissible for using that space? After all, it is a government facility and there were two bonafide police officers guarding the chocolate chip cookies. And I would have been perfectly content listening to you talk at the reception but, the young man in the hat (who I gather is the aspiring writer with writer's block) seemed to have a great deal to discuss with you.

And by the time we were close enough to say hello, mean-lady-who-shall-not-be-named caught the eye of my friend, Kara, who works with her. Kara had just been talking about how mean-lady is kinda icy and phoney. But I was able to squeeze in a friendly hello and you so warmly returned my greeting. What I was starting to say, before you were so rudely whisked away in the middle of my sentence, was just that I thoroughly enjoyed your lecture /songs/personable book-signing event at Powell's some time ago and your warmth and clear interest in the individuals in your captive audience were so impactful - I have such fond memories of that event.

Here is, in particular, what I wanted to say to you about that event: The way you read your characters from your book and then pulled out your guitar and sang songs from the book and then every single person in that audience obediently nabbed a copy of your novel and stood in line for a moment of your time and perhaps a signature in their new book. The fact that you spent time actually saying hello and speaking to every single person in that line was so kind and generous - I'm certain that I'm not the only one who looks back fondly on that reading for that exact same reason. I left that reading feeling really fantastic.I couldn't believe that, while signing our books, you asked us questions about ourselves - that you seemed to care who we were as individuals. I appreciated that.

And that, even though tonight's event was much larger and less intimate, your warmth, humor and approachability still emanated through your anecdotes and reflections.

That was really all. I know it wasn't important or insightful or brilliant, but I just wanted to express my appreciation. You're a wonderful artist and storyteller and a beautiful woman - inside and out. Please continue to visit Portland regularly!

With warmth and admiration,
bk

My mom = not a mom

2007-05-01T11:05:00.000-07:00

As those of you who read regularly might know, I have Bipolar Disorder and, when diagnosed last fall, was in a quandary as to whether or not to tell my (insensitive) mother and, if so, how. You might also recall that I have promised some 'mom posts' and I think it's high time I delivered on that promise and got some of this shit out of my system. Nah, my mom never beat me or anything; she never forced me to take drugs or to ~~obtain them for her~~ (actually, she did send me to the convenience store at age 7 to buy cigarettes for her - yes, they used to permit this in the early 70s); she never forced me into a prostitution ring or dropped me off on the side of the freeway (although she often told me to "go play on the freeway" when I was little when she perceived me as 'bugging her'). Her abuses were more subtle and of the emotional and the psychological variety.

I've spent many therapy hours, much $ and quite a bit of personal anguish trying to adapt to the impact of her insensitivity. I even spent about a year and a half or so not speaking to her and asking her not to contact me so that I could have some space to work out my issues with her. She did not respect these boundaries and called and emailed me with a stalker-like fervor (when, ordinarily, when I AM in contact with her, she maybe - maybe - contacts me about once a month, oftentimes to forward me some inane email of jokes that aren't funny or internet phenoms about women being attacked/raped/preyed upon and I have to send her the Snopes link debunking such hype). I've done everything in my power to mother my daughter in a drastically different way in which I was mothered.

About a week ago, and since it was weighing heavy on me and distracting me from other things, I decided to tell my mother about my diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder. I sent the following email to her on a Wednesday and then heard NOTHING from her until Sunday. The pain, paranoia and rejection I felt over those four days sent me spiralling downward.

What was she thinking? What would she say when she finally did contact me? When would she finally contact me? Does she realize that no contact whatsoever - not even a quick note or phone message to acknowledge receipt and tell me she needs a couple of days to digest - freaks me out a lil?

Following my email to her is a synopsis of her response.

Hi Mom,

There's something I've been needing to tell you for a little while now and just haven't known how to do it because I wasn't sure how you'd respond. Last fall, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder and have been on medication for this ever since. I was started on a pretty low dose and have already noticed a tremendous difference in my mood stabilization and my sleeping habits. I still am somewhat symptomatic, though, and am just now raising the level of the dose that I'm on.

Although Lithium is the most common medication prescribed for Bipolar Disorder, my doctor opted not to prescribe it to me due to my Essential Tremor (shaking of my hands - turns out Essential Tremor is the same thing that Katherine Hepburn had...many people thought she had Parkinsons, but she actually had ET). Apparently, Lithium would make my hands shake even more (which I wouldn't be able to tolerate because of the ridicule and humiliation I already endure because of it). The medication that I've been prescribed is Lamictal, which is a drug that is also used to treat seizure disorders.

I believe that the onset of the Bipolar Disorder was approximately in my mid to late teens or as late as my early 20s, maybe sooner, as it's hard to know for sure. Knowing the symptoms and thinking back, that would be my guess - maybe you remember times before that when I exhibited similar symptoms - I don't know. It's not at all uncommon, though, for Bipolar to go unrecognized, unreported or untreated by those who have it for various reasons. In my case, I was reporting (and being treated for) Depression, as the symptoms of that were noticable to me and didn't seem normal to me. However, although I've had symptoms of Mania for some time, I didn't think much of it and always perceived them as normal or "that's just how I am" and that it was no big deal. In my many years of being treated in therapy, I've had several practitioners ask me if I have manic episodes. Not fully understanding what is meant by this in psychological terminology, I replied with an adamant no. My thought process to that question went something like this: manic? mania? who has mania? maniacs do. who is a maniac? Hitler, Charles Manson, etc. I'm not a maniac, what a ridiculous question. Hence my response. I never asked what they meant by that and none of them ever pursued it any further (probably either due to my adamant response or because they perceived me as relatively intelligent and it never occurred to them that I might not know what that means in that context).

This is something that often has a genetic disposition (i.e. it runs in families and can be passed down biologically). Anyway, since I've learned that those with Bipolar often have family members with mood disorders (which are a result of a brain dysfunction) - not always Bipolar, sometimes Depression or other mood disorders, I've begun to wonder if there are other members of the family who may have had Bipolar or Depression that went undiagnosed. My suspicions are that perhaps grandma or grandpa may have had a mood disorder.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions, probably some that I can answer and some that I might not be able to answer as well. I've done a fair amount of reading on the subject in order to learn more about it. I have a friend whose sister has Bipolar and I've spoken to her about it. A friend of mine (from when I was an undergrad at PSU) who committed suicide about four years ago had Bipolar and she never told any of her friends (not sure how many in her family knew). I wish I'd known so that I (hopefully) could have been more tolerant of her behaviors that often seemed irrational to me. Largely because of this, I think it's important for me to be out in the open about it and seek support when I need it, rather than trying to deal with what I'm experiencing on my own. Also, children of those with Bipolar have around a 25% chance of having it, as well. I'm giving you a link to a website that I think explains the disorder relatively well and might answer some of your questions and in a language that isn't riddled with much medical jargon. In my opinion, this site doesn't fully address my experiences (whereas I've found that some others do), probably due the brevity of the explanations here and that it's intended as a quick and simple overview. I can give you additional sources, if you want. Anyway, here's the site:
http://psychcentral.com/disorders/bipolar/

If you're interested, and if it's reassuring to know, there are many famous people with Bipolar Disorder (many of them writers, which comes as no surprise to me - I've often had all-night-long writing binges, something I've always thought was normal) and here is a website with a pretty comprehensive list: http://www.mental-health-today.com/bp/famous_people.htm

I'm sorry that I felt compelled to do this via email. I have found that I do much better expressing my thoughts in writing and I had a lot to say and wanted to get it all out, so this felt like the best means of achieving that. I don't want you to take any of this information personally or feel like it's your fault in any way. My upbringing and the parenting I received has not impacted this condition in any way, according to what I know about the disorder. I'm telling you this because I think that, as my mother, it's important for you to know and I hope that you don't see it as any sort of attack or something I'm doing to make you feel bad. I love you and I need your support.

Thanks for listening (and for taking time out of your busy day to read this).

Love,
(insert my name here)

When she finally contacted me on Sunday, she informed me that she got my email and not to worry because she still loves me. (Um, I hadn't even considered that not loving me as a result was an option). (Yes, my mother tells me that she loves me, although it feels more like a rote thing - especially since she once told me that she"loves me, but she doesn't like me." Upon hearing this [some 20 years ago], I began to wonder how I could ever love myself if my own mother didn't love me). She then asked me if I'm taking medication for it and whether or not it's helping. (Um, yeah Mom, read the email I sent you). She tells me that she doesn't know if any of our relative had it, but that's probably because people used to have cancer a hundred years ago, but they just didn't call it that. She says that Grandma "had depression," but that is probably the only mood disorder in our family history. I asked her about Grandpa, who I thought exhibited some symptoms of Bipolar. Mom says that Grandpa didn't have it, he was just a procrastinator. I asked her to elaborate. She tells me that he always "got these grandiose ideas about doing huge projects, like painting the house, and then would start on them really enthusiastically, but then never finish them." Sounds like Bipolar to me, I tell her, especially in conjunction with his late night energy and dalliances with his many mistresses. No, my mother counters, that was just procrastination. She then tells me that SHE is not a procrastinator, that SHE always completes tasks from start to finish and hates leaving things unfinished, like her father did.

Mom continues, telling me that she doesn't know much about it, but she knows a lot of people with it and they just take medication for it. (Um, did you get the links I sent?).

She then changes the subject, asking if she will see us on Mother's Day. She reminds me (disgruntledly) that she hasn't seen my daughter, K, since last Mother's Day. I get that she misses K, she just doesn't go about expressing that in a very constructive manner. The changed subject continues and revolves completely around her and how busy she is. She never brings the discussion back around to 'it' and eventually has to go, because she is at work (she owns the company).

Interestingly, my lovely wife, J, predicted that I would hear from my mother before Mother's Day because of her need to be acknowledged on that day.

During my entire conversation with her, she never once used the word 'Bipolar,' it was always 'it.' Does she realize that her discomfort with this news was shining through her words, despite the fact that she 'still loves me'? Does she realize that her constant reference to Bipolar as 'it' and the brevity of our conversation about Bipolar in general felt marginalizing to me?

rock & roll twilight zone: the time traveler's wife and her wife

2007-04-27T10:45:00.000-07:00

Last night, my lovely wife, J, and I attended yet another concert that was less expensive than the totally-not-worth-forty-dollars-EACH Taylor Hicks show. Irish angst a la Damien Rice was on the bill for the evening and we were both looking forward to it.

After asking me eleventy gazillion times if I have the tickets, J asked me who was opening the show. "Dunno," I told her, "hopefully someone good."

Now, yesterday was something of an action-packed day for us as we were meeting the man who is now our financial advisor for, well, some financial advice on all of the money we don't have. Poor guy - I hope he makes some $ off of us someday, as it seems like we got way more out of the two-hour meeting we had yesterday than he did. After all, not only did we put some money that we didn't even know we had out into investment oblivion and hired him to babysit it, we learned a whole new language! Now I can tell peeps I'm 80% aggressive and really mean it!

Well, anyway, that meeting ran a little later than we'd anticipated and we were both starving. Concert was to start at 8pm and we were convinced that, due to a last minute venue change, they'd start it late. After getting downtown a little after 8, we drove around in circles hoping for the elusive complimentary parking spot. Didn't happen. We finally ponied up $3 for a lot close to the Roseland. I know. Makes us look like cheapskates. But $3 almost buys a beer! And after spending two hours learning that we need to spend wisely so that we'll have a cozy retirement, every little bit counts - I'm sure our financial advisor would agree.

While we half expected to walk up the stairs to encounter the opening act in mid-set, I thought to myself, "damn, that sounds an awful lot like Damien Rice."

Turns out it was. We walked in at 8:25 and he'd already started, so no opening act. Who has a show with no opening act?????? I racked my brain trying to name one other show I'd been to in which that was the case.

WTF???

What gives, Damien Rice? Why no opening act?

What's even more strange is that it seems as though everyone else attending the show was in on this bit of info (that the show would start on time and that there would be no opening act, so you need to really truly get there early). How can this be?, I thought. I hate being uninformed. To add to the peculiarity of the headlining act already underway, he was performing a particularly discordant tune from his newest release, 9. In addition to that, the sound system at the Roseland didn't seem to support this aural-assaultfest, as it didn't sound so great. J, thinking that the entire show would resemble this, dubbed the venture a waste of my money. We proceeded to the beer-drinking part of the Roseland to get our drink on and watch the show from the balcony. Once we realized that the beer acquision line was snaking down the steps and the capacity of the balcony would have made the Fire Marshall shit his pants, we headed back down to the main floor.

Fortunately, the sound issue never again reared its ugly head - the rest of the show sounded lovely. I adore his beautiful yearning ballads and appreciate that he also rocks it a lil, showing an almost punk rock side - loud, angry, and unapologetic . The accompanying strings were fantastic, really adding depth to the performance.

J and I couldn't help but notice an elderly lesbian couple about three feet away. One was dancing up a storm, really getting into the groove; the other maintained a more quiet stance, but still rapt. We kept looking over at them, amused and charmed by their presence. I looked over at J and said, "Check it out - that's us in twenty-five/thirty years."

She chuckled, and then added, "Well, it's good to see that your hips still move," referring to the more lively of the couple. I looked over at her and her calculated movements. She was wearing a black tank top...I was wearing a black tank top. She was sporting a couple of tattoos...a couple of my tattoos were visible. She was wearing a black punk rock belt, studded and ringed...I own a belt that appears to be a first cousin of her belt. She had short, messy hair and glasses...I have short, messy hair and glasses. Then it hit me. I turned to J and said,

"And clearly I go off of my medication at some point."

J, in hysterics at the overenergized, dancing granny with stamina to spare, then looks at granny's partner, staid and somber, and added,

"And, apparently, so do I."

I flashed back to the scene in The Time Traveler's Wife, in which Henry observes a younger version of himself at a Violent Femmes show in a Chicago nightclub.

The night was riddled with other oddities, as well. At one point, a duo of 70s throwback, Harley-riders walked past us, one in a Danzig T-shirt and wearing a backwards trucker hat with the bill upturned and the word 'Wasted' across the inside brim. His pal was wearing a faded denim jacket with the sleeves crudely cut off that was adorned with about three million metal studs and a bandanna holding his lengthy locks in place. Shortly after they strolled past us, toward the stage, they made a return trip past us, toward the exit this time.

"Wrong show," J concluded.

In addition to several other bizarre little moments, the show followed suit. Was there a full moon last night?

Damien Rice (it somehow doesn't feel right to refer to him as either Damien or Mr. Rice) engaged in an interesting soliloquy. He inquired as to whether any of the members of the audience had ever looked in the mirror, really looked in the mirror, gazing into your own eyes and realizing "you know me!" "you know me better than anyone else in the world!" "you're my best friend!" "I do everything with you!" "I masturbate with you!" "We're going to die together!" (he claims to verbalize these statements aloud). I have no doubt that he actually does this and appreciate his candor and vulnerability in revealing this very personal moment he shares with himself. I wondered how many folks were going to go home and attempt to replicate this moment, making it all their own.

To close the show, Damien Rice did something I've never seen done on stage before, or at least not so covertly. He starts in on a story, which involves a man and a woman and takes place late at night, in a bar. A member of the band then leaves the stage and returns with a bottle of wine and a glass. He hands Damien Rice the glass and fills it up. In one, huge gulp the vino is gone and the story continues. Story becomes a little more heart-wrenching and the glass is refilled. At an appropriate moment in the story, a mere two minutes later, the second glass is also consumed in a single bound. The story is filled with even more angst, as the woman must leave to meet up with her boyfriend, despite the hinted-at connection. Boy (yes, this man has - with an intoxicating aid - become a boy) is depressed and the glass is refilled. The would-be lovers part (perhaps forever) and the third glass is downed. At the point, our story teller is a little bit wobbly and full of what, if I recall correctly, is an incurable drunken sadness. The story continues, the boy now alone and spiralling into a deep and emo-filled despair. A band member brings him a lit cigarette and the stumbley story is slurringly rambling on, an empty glass held out for a refill. This one, too, disappears instantaneously and the maybe-maybe-not drunken Damien Rice concludes his story from a reposed position on the floor. The bottle is empty.

The show ends with the final encore, Cheers Darlin', complete with the clinking of an empty glass as a percussion instrument, concluding the show.

Bravo!

When Disco Inferno and Hollywood go head to head

2007-04-13T13:26:00.000-07:00

My lovely wife, J, plays on a recreation league women's indoor soccer team: DISCO INFERNO. They have a game once a week and, if I'm not working, I like to attend.

On my very first day of librarian action figure school, all students were gifted with a travel mug with the name of one of the larger student groups emblazoned across the cup: ALISS, The Association for Library and Information Science Students. While I was happy to receive any gift at all, I already had a gazillion travel mugs for coffee that I like very much and use all of the time. So, I decided that this particular go-cup (as coined from my friend, Beth, who is from N'awlins) would be used exclusively for cocktails!

I've made it a habit of making myself a cocktail to take to the soccer games, as they do serve beer there (good beer, too!), but they confine all beer drinkers to a small area which is not optimal for watching the game. Plus, who's gonna suspect I'm working on a gin and tonic out of a mug that proclaims itself to be for library students???? (Yes, I do this at movie theatres, too)

Oftentimes, I also bring my ipod or a book on cd to listen to while I am enjoying my cocktail and watching the game and I typically have a crossword puzzle or Sudoku for downtimes and ~~intermission~~ halftime. While I thought I was well-equipped this last Monday, I discovered that my ipod had a dead battery and I found myself relegated to the sounds of the soccer game.

How serendipitous this turned out to be!

Turned out that on my left were two kids, a girl of about six (Ashley) and a boy of about nine (Mikey), who were watching their mom, a player on the opposite team, Hollywood. On my right was Lena, whose mother is the goalie for Disco Inferno and whose daughter occasionally plays on the team, as well. Lena played some time ago and then advanced to a higher level of play. She knows all of the players' names and has that soccer lingo down pat.

Here are some highlights of my observations at Monday night's game:

Mikey (with much urgency): "behind you!! there's someone behind you!"
Me (under my gin-scented breath): file that one away under 'duh.'

When the score is tied:
Mikey: (with much feeling) "Ashley, this is inTENSE!"
Rec league, folks; we're talking rec league. Fun to watch, fun to play, not World Cup.

Mikey spies an abandoned black T-shirt on floor in between where he is sitting and where I am sitting. He picks it up. Mikey smells it, then says, "this smells like Mom."

Mikey continues to cheer on his mother's team, as if it were the World Cup final. In addition to being extraordinarily amusing, it's actually somewhat endearing.

Sister Ashley is clearly embarrassed by Mikey.
Ashley: "Mikey, you're being too loud. You're making a fool of yourself. Mom's never going to bring you to a game again."
Mikey (with a tone of authority): "I'm doing it at the appropriate times."

I must've made a double, maybe a triple, 'cause I feel great! I clap extra loudly when J's team scores a goal or prevents the other team from scoring - Mikey gives me a look.

Lena, on my right, is the soccer mom with a skilled 15 year-old in the game. She may as well be the coach understudy. "Man on!" "Way to ________ (it's amazing how many words go here)!" "Come to the corner!" "See ____________(fill in unguarded player name here)!" Chick knows her game and isn't afraid to call it. She heaps praise on her team and her players. Loudly.

Flash forward to soccer mama's baby dribbling the ball toward the goal. Chick in the red shorts on the other team shouts out: "Go Becky! You can outrun her. She's NOTHING."

Wow, vicious, I'm thinking.

Chickadee in the red shorts should check out roller derby. Natch, soccer mama hears this, looks over to the bench and glares roller-derby-bound girl's way. I join her in the glarefest just because. I'm good at glaring and that comment was rude and uncalled for.

Teammate nudges roller-derby-bound girl in the arm and glares, as well. R-D-B girl gestures over and shows her teammate, "that's her mom."

Lena, the soccer mama makes snarky comment about how some people get whiny when their team is losing.

This is one of the best games ever.

I need to pee and I want to be where I can see the goal better, now that the teams have switched sides, but I just can't bring myself to leave this spot. This is pure comedy.

Ipod shmypod.

If we're gonna play house, I get to be the mom, ok?

2007-04-06T00:48:00.000-07:00

So, apparently, at work I am the mother/nurturer figure. Who'da thunk it? After all, in the restaurant biz, 40 is actually pretty old. So, being the oldest one there pretty much sets me up for such a role.

Tonight I came into work, then started bitching about things not being in their proper places in my bar. A couple of hours later, a 20-something waiter(ess - a term I hate, but perhaps the sex of the waiter matters here) came up to me all proud of herself for being assertive with a customer on a power trip. I validated her ability to stand up for herself.

Later in the evening, the owner's son, who is trying to grow his hair long and is a line cook, came to me for assistance with his bandanna/'do rag - he just couldn't get it situated or tied right. I tied the back nice and tight and tucked in the sticky-outy parts. I know how to rock a bandanna.

Then much later, one of our other line cooks, who recently split up with his baby momma and is now dating Ginny, our pasty chef, was having an epic telephone conversation with his ex while I was cleaning up the bar. We were the last ones in the restaurant and, since I still had plenty of work to do, I didn't mind that he was having a lengthy, emotional and very Spanish conversation on the kitchen telephone. He knows that I don't know enough Spanish to decipher what was being said, but I didn't need to - I know enough about his situation to get the gist of his conversation.

I kept working and, as I was in the wine room unloading a new shipment of wine, I saw him heading over toward me. He didn't look so good. I asked him if he was okay and he said no. Then he just hugged me and started sobbing. I held him and told him that it was going to be okay. I told him that he had many friends here at the restaurant and that we cared about him and were there for him. Poor thing - my heart ached for him, as he was clearly ripped apart by the events of his life at the moment. Yet, at the same time, I was so impressed that he wasn't too macho to cry in front of me. I already knew that he was a good guy, but this confirmed it even more.

I offered him a drink and put my work aside in order to sit down with him. Pretty common scenario: Ex loves him and wants him back and is sorry for treating him like shit and vows to change; he wanted out of his relationship with her for a long time, but stuck around because they had a daughter together, who is now five, and because Ex had an older daughter (now 16) and he got on well with her; Ex pulls every guilt trip out of her bag of tricks, including putting each of the kids on the phone to tell him to come home; he feels like he must return to her because she says she'll change, but he started a new life with a new apartment a few months ago and is really happy - he and Ginny are great together and it's not too serious or anything, they're just having fun. He was so distraught. I listened to him and told him that I thought he should think about it for awhile before he makes any decisions about anything. I reminded him that he has many friends who care about him. I don't want to see him hurt by Ex and I don't believe that she'll change.

After he finished his beer and left, I went around the building turning off lights and turning the heat down. I notice that the closing waiter took a few shortcuts and left a stash of dirty dishes in the waiter area. I'll have a talk with him tomorrow.

Next time he does that, he's grounded.

what a tangled web we weave

2007-04-03T09:12:00.000-07:00

Right now I'm really, really hoping that my mother is not having a rendez-vous with my bio-dad. Oh sure, it doesn't look so bad on paper, but it would be pretty mortifying.

I know I haven't spoken of my mother much here (and it's not for lack of subject matter) and maybe now is the time to start.

Every time I speak to bio-dad and he mentions having spoken to my mother or having lunched with her, I cringe. Funny thing is, mom NEVER mentions him. This makes me very suspicious. There have been other tidbits of potential 'evidence,' which I won't delve into right now.

There are so many reasons why mom and bio-dad need to stay away from each other. Sure bio-dad is almost single, but he still has some issues to work out over losing his wife of 20-something years to cancer four years ago; plus, he needs to lose that 'almost.' I mean, I get it. Dude just wants to be loved and likes having a chickadee around - can't blame him for that. But he's soooooo sniffing the wrong bitch butt. And, granted, I didn't so much care for his most recent girlfriend/fiancee/not-fiancee any more/roommate/not-roommate any more. She was the mother of a friend of mine from high school and that was weird enough for me.

My mother, on the other hand, is not so free to roam and should be home tending the fire instead of lunching with bio-dad. I mean, I get that her ailing (advanced stages of Parkinson's) husband of 21 years is not easy to take care of right now and demands a lot of her time and energy. And I know for a fact that my mother does not do well with being in the position of being needed or depended upon. I also know for a fact that when my mother is unhappy in a relationship, she tends not to opt for the healthiest means of addressing that unhappiness.

For those of you who are regular readers, you may recall my mentioning that my dad is a regular reader of my blog. My bio-dad and my dad are not the same person. Essentially, my bio-dad may as well have been a sperm donor and he may or may not have helped tend to me when I was an infant. He then left my mother (and likely for good reason) when I was a toddler, continued to see me on the occasional weekend, and then ceased contact with me. My dad, on the other hand, started dating my mother when I was approximately late four/early five and, upon marrying my mother a few months before my sixth birthday, adopted me. He continued to raise me as if I were his own biological child. I have fond memories of him reading to me and of him bringing home a doll to me when I was sick once. I've always felt close and connected to my dad and I enjoy the time we spend together now (and I'm not just saying that because he might read this). He has been a true father to me: loving, non-judgmental, encouraging, open minded, engaging and just the right amount of rigidity. I see him as a father and as a person. Bio-dad and I were just reunited about three and a half years ago (we'd been in contact a couple of times over the years, both at my initiation). I'd sent him a sympathy card when I heard that his wife had passed away. He responded and wanted to get together for lunch. Since then, we've seen one another on and off and have had several phone conversations (this is the most contact we've ever had, to my knowledge), but they always feel forced, empty and full of anxiety for me.
I guess I'm coming to terms with my anger at him. When we were first in touch with one another, shortly after I returned to Portland, I wanted to 'meet' him and learn more about him, figure out where/what I came from. I also wanted to learn medical history and family lore. Bio-dad seemed genuinely remorseful for the lost time between us and offered many an apology for his absence. At the time, I told him not to worry about it and that what was important was that we had time now. I can't really say if I believed that when I said it - I thought I did - and now I'm finally feeling the anger and resentment that should have kicked in years ago.

Did I respond to him without anger initially because I was fearful that he would abandon me again? Was I under the impression that if I was super friendly and accepting of him and not at all judging him as an absent father, he'd stick around and get to know me? And the thing is, he was initially on 'really good behavior' when we first were hanging out. He expressed an interest in me and in my life. He paid attention to my likes and dislikes and purchased gifts for me that reflected that. He was timely with his holiday and birthday wishes. Now, not so much. But it's not like he owes me or anything - it's just the lack of consistency that I have a hard time with.

So, am I hoping that he and my mother are not seeing one another (despite my suspicions of the contrary) because I fear that he'll abandon/hurt my mother? Absolutely not. In fact, aside from the fact that it would just be too weird and uncomfortable, I am certain that my mother would grow intolerant of bio-dad and his common ways and then dump his ass. You see, Mom prides herself on 'having class' and has choice words for anything/anyone she deems as lacking class or, worse yet, being 'tacky.' Yep, she's a joy to be around. She likes her 'status' and all of the symbols that go along with it. She likes to boast about the vacations she's been on and has been known to name-drop the designers whose clothing she wears. Bio-dad is nothing like that. He's very blue collar, loves music (especially 70s rock and the blues - Mom doesn't listen to music), likes old cars (Mom likes BMWs) and is not flashy in any way, shape or form.

I'm going to be paying very careful attention to this situation.

'Twas a dark and stormy night...

2007-03-27T12:50:00.000-07:00

While I have no idea if, in other lines of work, one has nightmares in which exaggerated versions of the worst possible things that can go wrong all happen on the same day, I can definitely say that this is common in the restaurant industry. It has been my experience that these nightfrights most frequently haunt waiters, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the back-of-the-house is familiar with these terrifying and seemingly real occurrences - they're just too machismo to talk about them.

Interestingly, in all of my years in this business (21, on and off), I have only had "waiter nightmares" and never any of the other varieties corresponding to any of the other positions I've held (host, barback, bartender, oyster bar/appetizer "chef," supervisor, caterer, barista, etc.).

Last night, I had my first "bartender nightmare."

It went something like this: I arrived to work late (something I almost never do anymore) to find that everything in my bar had been rearranged and all of my glassware was mixed up, as opposed to being neatly arranged by type of glass. None of my liquor bottles were in the correct spot and my garnish trays looked forlorn and haphazard. My bar tools (muddler, bar spoon, Guinness spoon, shaker tins, strainer, zester/twist maker, salt/sugar tray for my rims, spindle, cutting board and knife, champagne stopper) were all gone...nowhere to be found.

My bar had filled with people prior to my arrival, but none of them had been helped yet and I had no idea how long they'd been sitting there waiting. The printer that spits out drink orders for the wait staff was loudly regurgitating tickets one after another with no pauses in between. Furthermore, the tickets all had drinks listed on them that I've never heard of. This I found odd because, as a veteran bartender, I know my drinks pretty well and I'm always getting on the case of our novice bartender, Evan, to stop relying on Mr. Boston to save his ass when someone orders a freakin' Rob Roy.

However, when I go to "cheat" and look up the unfamiliar drinks, I notice that our cocktail menu looks different. Initially I am thinking this is good, since I wrote our new cocktail menu about three weeks ago (honestly. regardless of the weather, it's embarrassing to have a hot buttered rum on the menu of specialty cocktails in late March). So I open up the "new menu" which, rather than being a one sheet, is a tri-fold or quad- or quint-fold (I didn't have time to count the panels) that opens into this epic list of made-up cocktails that came from I-don't-know-where and, while the cocktails I'd assembled were on the list recipe-wise, they'd all been given different names and I have no idea how or why this happened.

I'm trying to make the drinks for the waiters and for my customers and, natch, nobody is ordering a draft beer or wine by the glass (and, if they did, there is no doubt that my keg would blow or that I'd pour a fraction of a glass of wine only to discover that there is no more of that wine in the house), yet I'm unable to find the correct glass for the drink and I feel like I'm moving at the pace of, well, super slowly.

I card a customer in the bar and she gives me a driver's license from Illinois in which there is a small inset pic of her as a 7 year-old child and then a larger pic of her as an infant with her dad holding her on his lap. Damn driver's licenses keep changing and hell if I can keep up with the changes, but I've never seen anything quite like this before. Luckily, Sasha, who owns the bar next door had recently brought us an identification manual showing the 2006 versions of the driver's license for each state (this part is true), but of course I can't find the damn thing.

My customers are getting angry because they've waited so long for their drinks and I'm getting more and more frustrated at my own incompetence. As I'm wallowing in my misery and lamenting my sorry-ass lack of skillz, the power goes out - but only in the bar. This, actually, is not such an outlandish thing as, in real life, about once a month, our power goes out in the dishroom only (and always at the most inopportune moments). When this happens, the dishwashers go and get some candles off of vacant tables and continue to wash the dishes by hand, by candlelight. Anywhere else in the restaurant and power outage = freakout. The restaurant is still buzzing with lively activity and the waiters are cruising by my pass-bar looking for their drinks and telling me I need to do comps because the drinks are taking too long. I don't have time to investigate the power outage so I try to keep making the drinks in the dark.

Owner-man John comes in to the bar and I show him the Illinois driver's license and ask him if he thinks I should serve the girl. He pulls out the manual that Sasha gave us and, for him, it was in the spot where it was supposed to be.

People were ordering weird shit like champagne with a shot of whiskey in it and blended concoctions - but not the usual suspects.

I'm looking around my bar and I notice half-made cocktails in glasses full of ice. I don't know who half-made them or how they got there or what is in each. I start sniffing them and sticking a straw in, blocking the top end with my finger, so I can taste the contents and attempt to figure out what partial drink each might be.

I can't identify any of them.

I look over to my tables in the bar and notice that some of my customers have drinks before them, yet I didn't make them or serve them. Where did they come from? I have no idea. One couple who had waited patiently for their drinks, for what may have been an hour or longer, finally gets up to leave. I beg them not to and promise that their drinks will arrive shortly.

I then notice that all of the customers from the restaurant have left and the lights have been dimmed. My customers in the bar are still waiting for their drinks. They're all pissed and I know that none of them will leave me a tip and all will complain to owner-man John about what a shitty bartender I am.

I wake up in a cold sweat with the certain feeling that it was all very real. I suddenly feel very blue. I reach over to my nightstand and put on my glasses; then I open up the book I'm presently reading (Anthony Bourdain's The Nasty Bits) and dive in. J comes upstairs and asks if I'm alright. She brings me coffee and I relive the nightmare aloud. She's laughing hysterically and I join in. Although, somehow, there is a part of this terrifying dream that still haunts me and I fear my subconscious is trying to tell me something.

J knows this, too, but neither of us mention it.

Exes and Whys

2007-03-19T09:52:00.000-07:00

It's common knowledge in the lesbian community that lesbians often stay connected to their exes - some even remain best friends after splitting up. Apparently this happens less frequently in the hetero community but, alas, it still happens.

Writing this epic tale of the rise and fall of one of my former relationships has gotten me thinking about exes and my connections to them (or lack of, in some cases) and the corresponding whys. Now, for those exes who are regular readers of my blog (methinks there are three, maybe four...), worry not, as there will not be any bean spillage about you (pseudonym or no). Unless there becomes a delightful and non-incriminatory tale to spin, in which case I would only do so with your expressed permission.

I can sort my exes into three distinct categories:

the friends (this has something of a wide range, as not all of whom I have regular contact with, but our most recent [and potentially future] interactions could definitely be construed as friendly)
the foes (I think there are only two in this category - obviously Amaris is one; maybe someday I'll tell you about the other one - 'tis not a pretty story)
the estranged/disappeared (one of whom I'm sad to have lost touch with [my fault for having a nervous breakdown, then losing stuff, then moving to another state, then having an unlisted phone number] - he's a wonderful person and I adored his family...perhaps someday I'll put my mad librarian skillz to work and see what turns up in a search for BP)

Funny thing is, I do have more exes as friends now than when I was masquerading as a straight girl (or a reasonable facsimile). Why is this?? Is it because I am older and I have more exes from which to choose? mebbe. Is it because, as a lesbian, I feel mega-pressure to be nicey nice with the exes? nah.

'Tis weird, though, eh?

I just gotta know...who was Steve?

2007-03-15T03:43:00.000-07:00

So I'm driving in weird funky (and not in the hipster way) deep SE Portland, where there are predominantly convenience stores, pawn shops, strip clubs (but none of the swanky ones), dive bars, gun shops and drive-thru cigarette stores. You heard me.

As I cruise down SE Foster Rd. I notice a taxidermist establishment on my left. Underneath the Taxidermy sign is a marquee, which reads:

Goodbye Steve
We'll Miss You

Please let Steve not be a former animal of some sort.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 8

2007-03-14T03:58:00.000-07:00

Part A: Validation Collection

A-J takes me for a ride on his Tom Kramer scooter (see a Tom Kramer mural here photo courtesy of Red Bat, used with permission) and we ride around the Warner Hollywood lot, hoping to see Johnny Depp, but to no avail. I ask A-J about Hester. He can't stand her and is happy to gossip with me about her. A-J assures me I have absolutely nothing to worry about; that his perception is that Amaris is getting a thrill at being idolized in her profession and, since that is a new thing for her, really, it's pretty novel and feels good. Ever the sweetheart, A-J proclaims me 'hot' and 'smart' (as if that's all that matters, which I'm gradually learning is not so) and tells me to fuhgeddaboutit.

A quick check-in with some of Amaris' closer friends coincides wtih A-J's assertion and some even call me crazy, assuring me that Amaris adores me and to stop my worrying already. I return to Portland with these reassuring voices and the image of a homely Hester in my head, something of a mantra to keep me stable and grounded and prevent me from teh crazy for realz.

I follow up with Amaris' insistance that I consult with a therapist about my fears and instability. I select a compassionate lesbian therapist with a PhD (I later come to learn that her girlfriend is in my [previous, not current] grad program) and begin weekly visits to her cozy office downtown. She tells me everything I want to hear, confirming that -of course- I would feel threatened and betrayed and fear losing my girlfriend to Hester. I let Amaris pay for this, as per her initial request.

I feel better already.

Part B: Editrix seeks room for let

With still months to go on post-production, Amaris decides to seek a room to let, having tired of couch surfing and tracking myriad keys to the homes of her various friends. She can afford it, but it'll mean fewer trips home to Portland. I'm not sure how I feel about this, as I have a month to go in my first year of my grad program and, while thriving in therapy and handling the whole Hester situation with greater aplomb, it just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, regardless.

A few days later, Amaris tells me she has been offered an alternative to letting a vacant place: she could stay in Hester's guest room! for free! which would mean they could carpool! which would mean she would save money! which would mean more trips home to see me!

I am thrilled. Not.

I think I'm gonna puke.

Dyke drama. Ensues!!! Amaris moves in with Hester and immediately books several trips home for all of the weekends until my schoolyear is over. This is supposed to pacify me. It does not.

Part C: Lies, lies, lies, yeah

Amaris flies home, as per her regularly scheduled program. Things are tense. I tell her that I'm just not comfortable with the whole living arrangement thing. She returns with the don't-you-trust-me card and I see her and raise her.

"It's just, I dunno, what if you guys are just hanging out talking and she goes on one of her crying sprees and is seeking comfort from you and then you're all holding her and trying to comfort her and make her feel better and then, before you know it, you guys are kissing?"

"Well, that's kinda what did happen." Okay, this is so not what I was expecting Amaris to say. Seriously. In the script in my head, her line was, "That would NEVER happen. If it seemed like something that COULD happen, I wouldn't have taken the room in the first place."

"What the hell?" To say that I was irate here would be akin to saying that Mick Jagger is skinny. I continue, "You have got to be fucking kidding me. What the hell does this mean?"

Amaris is telling me to calm down, saying that it's not what I think. When I sorta kinda calm down, she tells me that she pushed Hester away when she went in for a big sloppy one. While I was secretly delighted to hear about Hester being rejected, I am still pretty freaked out.

After a couple of weekend visits home, I'd grown accustomed to finishing my waiter shift on Friday night and then driving to the airport to greet Amaris from her flight into Portland. Things seemed to be going alright. Then she calls me one Friday morning and tells me that she can't get her regular flight that evening and that she'll be arriving the next morning instead.

Huge red flags, frantically waving the fuck all over the place.

I ask her what's going on on Friday night that she wants to stay in LA for. She tells me I'm not listening and that the evening flights on Alaska Airlines were booked to Portland that night. She also tells me that she'll be spending the night at her friend Lori's house and Lori will be driving her to the airport in the morning.

I'm so not buying this. I call Alaska Airlines and inquire about booking a flight from LA to Portland later that evening. There are PLENTY of seats available.

What comes around, goes around...

2007-03-09T02:30:00.000-08:00

If you've already read this post, you know that I played hooky from my dreadful internship and throwing caution to the wind as to how to explain my truancy.

Am I always this irresponsible? Hell no.

Have I ever done anything like this before? Probably, I don't know.

Was I worried about the ramifications of my disappearing act? Oddly, no.

As you might recall, I opted for a frenzied house cleaning spree over an afternoon feebly attempting to catalog items under the tutelage of a chastising, belittling *martyr (Patricia).

I did not call in. I did not inform them in advance that I wouldn't be coming that day. I just never showed.

How did I later explain my absence?

Easy. I decided to turn the tables on Patricia and give her a taste of her own medicine. I decided that, when asked about my absence, I would simply tell Patricia that I told her a week ago that I'd be gone that day.

Cruel? yes.

Unusual? Not so much.

Keep in mind that we're dealing with a woman who frequently berated me for not doing things she hadn't even taught me yet, then insisting that she had told me before. (A quick check-in with the other intern, Steven, revealed that he'd been taught things that I had not). Perhaps it was immature to pull a stunt like that, but I did what I needed to do, for my own sanity. Nobody was harmed by my irresponsible behavior and the additional day away from the library was good for my soul.

*A good friend of mine suggested the making of T-shirts, replicating the font from the '70s era "I'm a Pepper!" shirts, that say "I'm a Martyr!" We could then give one to Patricia and one to my mother.

Above the Law

2007-03-08T11:20:00.000-08:00

I was at the height of maximum busy-ness when a 40/50-something couple with a child of about seven sat up at my bar. Now, I don't claim to know what the law is everywhere else, but in Oregon, folks must be age 21 or over to sit at a bar. Sometimes bars that are attached to restaurants have a seating area with tables where minors may sit and for the sole purpose of food consumption (the law's words, not mine) and our restaurant is one of those places. However, all of my tables were full and I had three bar stools available, so they just bellied on up.

I'm sure the look on my face was priceless when I turned around to see a second-grader seated at the bar, but then I nicely told dad that I was sorry, but the young man was not permitted to sit at the bar, as per Oregon law. Dude then gestures back to the kitchen and said, "well, he said we could."

This should have been the first red flag that something was not quite right. I asked him who told him that and he said the chef had. (Insert red flag number two) Okay, this just keeps getting weirder because I know for certain that the chef knows the rules. So I nicely tell the man that
I'm sorry that he was told that and the chef must be misinformed. I let him know that I'd be happy to pour them a couple of drinks that they may carry to the lobby and consume there. Seeming to completely ignore the fact that I need that kid off the barstool -STAT- dude tells me that they just want to get a quick dinner, as they are on their way somewhere.

Okay, this hits something of a nerve***, as I have a HUGE prob with folks who come into busy restaurants at 7:30pm and want to have a QUICK dinner. That said, I told these persistant (red flag numero 3) folks that, again, I was really sorry, but I could not serve them dinner at the bar as long as the child was with them. Then, dude tells me that the servers are backed up in the restaurant, but the kitchen isn't too busy so he doesn't see why they can't get a fast dinner. Alright, despite the fact that this is red flag #4, where is he getting this information and why does he know something like this???

Clearly, this was the part of the night in which my brain was malfunctioning, as customers just don't say that sort of thing and I should have realized right then and there that something needed to click. Dude's wife then pointed to an empty table in between the bar and the restaurant and asked if they could sit there. I informed them that there was no server for that table. They asked if I could wait on them at that table and I told them that there would be no way I'd be able to give them the sort of service they deserved (which, at this point, when I say "they deserved," I'm meaning something completely different than what they are presuming I'm meaning). Plus, they clearly wanted preferential treatment (yoohoo! Bad Kitty! it's me, red flag number five!) and I didn't have much confidence that they could be taken care of as quickly as they wanted without the needs of others going unmet.

Dude looks at me and, in a disgruntled voice, says "fine, we'll just go somewhere else then."

Okay by me. One less thing for me to worry about. Or so I thought. I go to chef and try to confirm that he does, indeed, understand the law regarding minors at the bar. He snaps at me and tells me he knows. Clearly, he's fucking busy, despite the kitchen forecast I'd received from rude-dad-at-bar.

Is there a full moon tonight?

Jump forward three hours to owner-man John returning from a catering gig and me asking him a favor. Owner-man John says yes to the favor, but under one condition: that from this point forward I recognize the Butts (not their real name. really, this time) and make sure they get taken care of when they come into the restaurant.

huhhhhhhh?

Owner-man John asks me if I know what they look like. Yeah, I tell him, with the Angelina Jolie lips on the wife, I'm pretty sure I'd recognize them even though I haven't seen them in a really long time. Owner-man John then informs me that it hasn't been that long, as they were sitting at my bar earlier this evening. WTF??? They called owner-man John on his mother-fucking cell phone and ratted me out for not kissing their rude MoFo asses. I now officially hate them even more.

Oh shit.

"Crap," I tell him, "I totally didn't recognize them. They didn't have their daughter with them and I didn't make the connection at all."

"Not even the lips?" owner-man John asks.

"You know, I wasn't even really looking at her. He was the one talking to me and I was looking back at him when I was talking to him. And, besides, okay it was the Butts, but they still can't sit at the bar with the kid, right?"

"Of course, I didn't expect you to let them stay at the bar, but you should have recognized them and told him that you'd try and find a table in the dining room for him."

"But John, he just came from the host stand where they were unable to accommodate him! Am I supposed to override the host and overload one of our servers?"

"In the future, I just want you to find a way to take care of them, even if it means that it takes several people doing different things for them. If I'd been here tonight, they would have been taken care of."

"Yeah, and YOU would have been the one waiting on them," I reminded owner-man John. "You know he's a total asshole," I added.

"Oh, he's a rude fuck, but he's also one of my best catering clients."

"I know. Sorry. I just treated them like I would anyone else in that situation and I should have recognized them. I'm sorry."

At this point, Ginny, who is our pastry chef, chimed in, "I can't believe he doesn't know that he can't sit at the bar with a 7 year-old kid!"

"He doesn't care," owner-man John told her.

This is true. This MoFo, Dr. Butt, is some sort of surgeon and, several years ago, he was at the airport and parked his Mercedes in the zone that is for the immediate loading and unloading of passengers only. Well, he returns to his car to find a parking enforcement officer writing him a ticket, which he refused to accept. Parking enforcement officer tries to get into power struggle with Dr. Butt, who, even then, was under the impression that the law does not apply to him. Long story short, Dr. Butt tells parking enforcement lady that he can "Bye & selll peeple likke ewe." Dr. Butt gets into his car, while parking enforcment lady stands in front of the car trying to bar his escape and force him to accept his citation, and Dr. Butt freakin' runs over parking enforcement lady. Parking enforcement lady sues for a million bucks, wins, and is no longer a parking enforcement lady. Meanwhile, million dollar lost lawsuit doesn't even put a dent in Dr. Butt's holdings and, clearly, he learns nothing from the experience.

Parking enforcement lady should have sued for eleventy gazillion million dollars.

***

Food can only cook so fast.
What about all the orders who have been put in ahead of yours? Should those folks be expected to wait even longer because you can't manage your time well? And, if so, why do you deserve to have your order bumped up ahead of everyone else's? (trust me, folks in restaurants look around and they know who got there first and they get disgruntled if someone who came in after them gets their food first)
Perhaps you do actually manage your time well and this was a fluke...there was an accident on the freeway or whatever. Still, if you only have time for fast food or a deli sandwich, then GET THAT. Or go somewhere that isn't busy. When you go into a busy restaurant needing to get served quickly and get out of there in a less-than-reasonable amount of time (30 minutes or less), it's not fair to the server or the kitchen, but -most of all- it's not fair to the other customers. Furthermore, you might just be screwing yourself over if you're forcing the restaurant into a situation where they will need to take shortcuts in order to adequately accommodate you.
If you do, despite all of the above, go into a busy restaurant with only a minimal time to be out of there well-fed and you were accommodated, frakkin' hook that server up with a good tip, because they probably bumped your needs ahead of others and they don't have to do that, but they wanted to please you. A good tip is a lovely way to say thank you.

Something visible but without substance

2007-03-03T18:39:00.000-08:00

So, it's no secret that one of my guilty pleasures (along with In and Out Burger and lots of music from the 80s) is American Idol.

Anyway, I'll cut to the chase here.

Last season's winner, Taylor Hicks, is slated to come to Portland soon to play a show at the Crystal Ballroom. And do you know what they are charging for tickets?????

Forty (40) fucking dollars!!!!! Each!!!!

Now, I'm neither here nor there about Taylor - he wasn't my fave of last season, but I don't think he sucks either. Just not my style is all. Still, FORTY DOLLARS??

Here is a list of people/events I have seen (mostly at the Crystal Ballroom) in which tickets have been less than $40 (most of which have been less than $30):

Sleater-Kinney (with Eddie freakin Vedder doing an opening set) $13
The Shins $20
PJ Harvey $25
Liz Phair $17
Belle and Sebastian $30
The Indigo Girls (don't tease me, I did that for my woman) - I have no idea what we paid for those, probably $25 - $30
Patti Smith - yes, THAT Patti Smith - $30-ish
We've even seen Death Cab for Cutie (after everyone knew about them) for less than $30
I think both Dido and Ani diFranco were both right at $40 - at the Schnitzer, though
I've paid less than $40 for orchestra-level seats at the opera!
Alvin Ailey, less than $40
Upcoming Decemberists show $31 (for some reason, they cost more to see in Portland than almost anywhere else)

So tell me how this makes sense??? In fact, it's quite likely that the only person I've paid much over $40 to see is David Bowie. And anyone who knows me knows that there is no ceiling on what I will pay to see David Bowie in concert. But that's David fucking Bowie!!!

Seeing as how Taylor's CD is not selling all that well, I can't imagine that folks are going to be banging down the door to pay forty clams to see him sing bluesy songs and whip his upper body into a seizured frenzy. Seriously, am I completely delusional in thinking that $40 is a hella chunka change for Taylor Hicks tickets?

Perhaps Ruben Studdard is opening for him.

I'm not ignoring you. I just hate you.

2007-02-27T14:21:00.000-08:00

The other morning I woke up, after hitting the snooze on my alarm eleventy gazillion times, and proceeded to go about my morning routine to prepare for a day at the Internship from Hell (which, by the way, has gotten much worse than what has been described here). I'm drinking my delicious French Roast coffee, reading the newspaper and checking my email. Same as always.

When I was taking my breakfast dishes to the sink, I noticed that the dishwasher was full of clean dishes, so I emptied it and then put the few dirty dishes from the sink into the dishwasher. I then proceeded to wipe down the counter, which morphed into pulling out the spray cleanser, moving each and every counter-top appliance, then vigorously cleaning the entire counter.

A thorough cleansing of the counter led to the microwave getting the star treatment makeover and each and every cupboard being wiped down until I noticed that the floor was in need of sweeping and mopping. After cleaning the kitchen floor to a state beyond pristine, I noticed the clock. A fair amount of time had passed since I'd finished my breakfast and I should've walked into the library over an hour ago.

Oh crap.

I stood there and fretted for a bit and then sampled various excuses in my head to explain my tardiness/absence. I was sick/had an appointment/had a family emergency/got into a car accident/etc. I feared using any of these excuses lest I jinx myself and have the inevitable karma-kickback occur. As I was pondering my escape, I noticed that the living room was in need of dusting.

My newly-dust-free living room also needed to be vacuumed and not just in a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am way, but really thoroughly and by moving every single item of furniture to clear away the underneath debris. I then proceeded to painstakingly vacuum every speck of dust from each and every stair leading to the upstairs portion of our townhouse. I windexed every glass surface, making every mirror sparkle and rendering nary a smudge on the tv, coffee table, china cabinet or on any of our hanging art. I wiped the dust off of the tops of the molding throughout the house and wiped down each and every faceplate of each and every lightswitch.

What the hell was happening here?

I looked at the clock and, noticed that it was in the middle of the afternoon. I felt a panic attack coming on and tried to consider my options. What should I say to them? I knew that if I emailed them, it would look cowardly and as if I were lying. I could call but, at this late in the afternoon, what on earth would I say? And would they really believe me? I hadn't planned on bailing for the day...I. Just. Didn't. Go.

I called my lovely wife, who suggested I call - and the sooner, the better. I told her I didn't think I could do it and that I had to leave for work soon and I still didn't know how I was going to handle the situation.

Despite feeling anxious and freaked out about my options and the ramifications of no-showing at my dreaded internship, I felt oddly calm and content at the same time. I couldn't really identify if what I'd experienced earlier in the day had been a full-blown anxiety attack or some sort of manic episode or something different altogether. What I did know was that I just couldn't leave the house and kept feeling compelled to clean (and to do so with a Martha Stewart-like standard). It was as if I was not able to leave the house at my own free will and a magnetic force was keeping me rooted.

I went to work later that afternoon feeling great and wishing I could blow off the remaining week of the internship. I'd figure out later how I would weasle out of my unexplained absence.

not an alter ego, mind you

2007-02-21T21:52:00.000-08:00

Hey peeps!

I doth have me a doppelganger!!!

And she is a former Portlander!

I still don't know how she found me, though. My guess is that she did a search for 'bad kitty' to see what folks were saying about her/her cool art and then my shit popped up and she was all, "hey, wait a minute, that's MY name." Luckily, she didn't go all cease and desist on my ass and want to armwrestle me for the name or anything. Nah, she's a friendly bad kitty, so it's all good.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 7

2007-02-20T10:34:00.000-08:00

Part A : Look! A Pirate!

Since Amaris was in the film biz and working on a film lot, it was inevitable that she would see celebrities on occasion. It was not at all unusual for her to mention seeing Drew Barrymore at the ATM (Drew Barrymore uses an ATM?) or that Heather Graham was at the Poquito Mas (Heather Graham eats?). She would sometimes tell me about celeb sightings in and around the (what was then called) Warner Hollywood Lot, including the commissary, and she absolutely had my attention when she spoke of an I-spy of Johnny Depp!

Now I was really jealous. I love Johnny Depp! Amaris only saw him once, but felt compelled to inform me each and every time Hester saw him, which seemed to be often.

Part B: Can't I just take two aspirin and call you in the morning?

Amaris continues to spend what appears to be every waking moment with Hester and I continue to be perturbed by it. Amaris arrives home for the weekend with a gift for me - it's a sexy swimsuit and she wants me to try it on. It looks great and I find myself distracted by this, along with the attention I'm receiving because it looks great.

The weekend was going very well, in fact, until Amaris' cell phone rang at a most inopportune moment. Of course it was Hester and she was having a difficult and emotional time over some thing or another and needed to talk to Amaris in order to feel better. Amaris took the call. I laid there feeling resentful and wondering why Amaris couldn't see that she was being played. After what seemed an eternity, the phone call finally ended and it was inevitable that Amaris and I had angry words with one another, as opposed to the loving intimacy that was pending.

Somehow, the angry words turned into Amaris ~~suggesting~~ insisting that I find myself a good therapist and work this out in therapy. She even said that she would pay for it, provided that I stay within a $100/hour ceiling. Initially, I was really offended by this. How dare she think that this is all about me being screwy in the head and not even remotely about her and her shady behavior with someone who is clearly smitten with her? It seemed she was accepting no responsibility whatsoever for her actions and apparent loyalty to this Hester chick.

On the other hand, maybe it would be a good idea for me to work it out in therapy. Perhaps I'd find some validation because, of course, the therapist would agree that I am right in being concerned and freaked out by this situation.

Part C: GWF seeks confirmation that her gf isn't fucking around

I visit L.A.

OMG, Hester's homely! Yay! She's also really friendly to me and I don't get any weird vibes from her like there is anything going on at all. She even lends me her umbrella (which was also homely) so I can shop on Melrose in the rain (real Oregonians don't carry umbrellas on them) and, later, she is on Johnny Depp alert for me.

It's like she's trying to be my friend or something. I'm not sure if I'm in the market for new friends and I am then a little bit skeptical of her outward kindness toward me. I still plan to keep my eye on her (as painful as that may be, as she really isn't easy on the eyes).

Part D: Look, it's the Coppertone Baby all grown up! But her ass is covered this time...(damn, where's that dog when you need it?)

Life becomes momentarily grand again when I return from shopping and walk onto the lot toward the editing suite, just in time for a Jodie Foster sighting! Being the dork that I am, I look at the lovely woman emerging from the black BMW stationwagon and think to myself, "whoa, that chick looks like Jodie Foster." And, since I had not yet lived in Los Angeles, my world had mostly consisted of seeing people who resembled celebrities on occasion but, upon further inspection, would turn out NOT to be the presumed celebrity. Then it occurred to me that Ms. "even hotter in really true life" Foster was in the process of editing up Home for the Holidays on that very lot and so, of course, it was really her.

I tried to act normal and not seem like a gawker star-fucker, lest I be 86'd from the lot for good. She smiled at me while she grabbed some bags from her car and went into the building. I never saw her again. Well, until the trailers for Contact started to show up. But she didn't smile at me from those.

Part E: Donning the martini goggles at Musso & Frank

Amaris tells me that we will be going out for martinis with Hester at the famous old-timey restaurant on Hollywood Blvd., Musso & Frank. I wondered what it was that Hester drank and whether or not she was good at it. Amaris and I ordered Bombay Sapphire martinis and Hester copied us. I couldn't quite tell if that was really what she wanted to drink or if she was dying to feel as though she fit in. Our conversation was a little awkward and forced (what on earth did Amaris expect?) and Hester only seemed even remotely comfortable when she and Amaris were talking shop.

I return to the hotel with Amaris actually feeling A-OK about this situation. Not only is Hester homely, but she's super insecure to boot. What could there possibly be to worry about, right? Ah, what a load off my shoulders that is!

The New York Times thinks I'm a nutcase.

2007-02-15T22:40:00.000-08:00

In the New York Times crossword puzzle of Monday, October 23, 2006, the clue for 5 down reads "Nutcase." Turns out the correct 6-letter response is: "maniac."

This is a problem.

Je Suis le mental case, Part 3

2007-02-12T15:57:00.000-08:00

The Lack of Order within my Extremes

This last fall, I was diagnosed with Bipolar I Disorder. I've shared this information with some friends and only a handful of people in my family. Mostly, I chose to share only with people who might respond in an understanding and gentle manner. This is one of the ways I take care of myself.

As a result, my mother does not have any idea that I have (have had) Bipolar Disorder. I'm not sure if I will tell her and, if so, how I will tell her. Since Bipolar is often present in more than one family member, I'd like to learn if there might be someone in my family history who had Bipolar Disorder (even if it went undiagnosed) - I suspect this may have been the case with one of my grandparents.

I've struggled with telling people and worry that it makes some folks uncomfortable. People respond differently, though. It's interesting. Some get that "aha moment" look (sorry to quote Oprah) and I can tell that much of my mood swingage and behavior unpredictability suddenly all makes perfect sense to them. People who already know someone with Bipolar Disorder have been the greatest - they know how to respond in a very gentle and respectful way that doesn't make me feel defective. I get a little bit annoyed when I reveal this information to someone and their response is: "yeah, I think I might be Bipolar, too." I mean, I don't want to rain on anyone's parade or anything, but that just seems really insensitive and when I'm struggling to tell something that is difficult for me, "me too" is not the first thing I want to hear in response. Maybe that makes me a hypersensitive wuss, but I don't care.

There are a couple of reasons why I feel compelled to have this information out in the open.

First of all, I have been symptomatic for many years and have not been correctly diagnosed until recently. The new medication that I am on has completely changed my world and I wish I could have been diagnosed and medicated sooner (plus, if my words -here, or in my daily life- help even one person who is struggling the way I was, it's worth it). Why couldn't I get to this point any sooner? Let me explain.

Here are some of the red flags of my diagnosis: depressive episodes (both major and minor, recurring, sometimes without explanation or not pertaining to current upsetting situations), chronic and debilitating insomnia (during which time I would often experience bouts of creativity - writing all night long, or go on cleaning binges, or rearrange the furniture in the house, or cook gourmet dishes all night, etc.), extreme variances in energy levels and irritability levels and degree to which I would participate in things socially, then there were the sex and shopping binges.

Seems pretty cut and dry, huh? However, much of what a medical/psychiatric professional is able to conclude depends on how the information is reported. Without having any idea that I was skewing an analysis of my problems, I have always placed an emphasis on depression and insomnia when I sought treatment. And then I would be treated for depression and insomnia. Why wasn't I reporting manic episodes? Because I had no fucking clue that I was experiencing manic episodes. I even had a therapist, many years ago, ask if I ever experienced manic episodes. Not really knowing what this meant in psychological terms, only what I thought it meant socially/pop-culturally, I looked at him indignantly and gave him an adamant "no." Since he had no reason to believe that I didn't know what the hell he was really asking me, he accepted my response and moved on.

Herein lies the problem: when asked if I had manic episodes, my thought process went like this ---> manic episodes? ---> mania? ---> maniac? ---> who is a maniac? ---> Charles Manson, Hitler, Aileen Wuornos ---> have I gone on crazy-ass killing sprees? no, I have not ---> I'm not a maniac, what a dumb question. Hence, my response to him.

As a result, did I ever tell this therapist about some of the things I do in the middle of the night when I had insomnia and all of the energy I had that enabled me to do these things? Of course not! They just didn't seem important to me because I'd spent so many years experiencing these things on-again and off-again that I just thought it was no big deal - I'm just a little weird and that's just me.

So, I've been taking medication (Lamictal, no Lithium for me because it would make my Essential Tremor worse) since last fall and, not only have I not experienced any polar mood swings (or anything remotely resembling them), but my insomnia is virtually GONE. In the past few months, I've had insomnia about twice and, both times, it has been situationally related. This is a major improvement over having horrible insomnia 4-7 nights a week, every week. Sure, I got a lot of writing and schoolwork done then, but at some expense to my health. While I don't miss my depressive episodes and how they felt and all of the crappy thoughts and self-talk that come along with it, I have to admit that I miss my middle-of-the-night writing binges a little. I fear that I am less creative now (on medication) and less interesting, as a result. I worry that it will make me less successful, probably because I would often measure my self-worth by what I was able to accomplish in the middle of the night when the rest of the world is sleeping. Ultimately, though, I believe the medicated route is more beneficial to me in the long run, even though I hate the idea of having one more pill in the til-death-do-us-part pillbox. But now I know what normal feels like and what it's like to sleep seven hours a night every night and there's something really likable about those things.

There was another reason that I wanted to bring this issue up. Three years ago, an old friend of mine, E, shot herself. Sadly, she was struggling enormously and had been diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, amongst other things. Even more sadly, she chose not to share this information with anyone she knew, including her closest of friends. As a result, when she would seemingly disappear and not return phone calls and barely acknowledge her disappearance when she would return, we all just thought she was a flake. And a liar. Consequently, E would frequently find herself losing friends and attempting to acquire new ones. After one too many times of dealing with her lying, betraying, and disappearing, I told her that I couldn't be friends with her any more. She responded to my lengthy letter of explanation as to why I could no longer be her friend with an email. It said, "Great to hear from you. Let me know when you're in Portland again [I lived in LA at the time] and we'll do lunch."

I didn't know what to make of her apparent denial and I had no clue about her mental diagnosis, nor had I really thought beyond the fact that she could be a flake and would get on my nerves. I never did rekindle the friendship or run into her when I moved back to Portland. It was about a year or so after I sent her that letter that she killed herself. I attended her memorial service with a dear friend of mine who was also close to E at one time and then later took some distance from her. It was then that we both learned that she had struggled with Bipolar, and all of its symptoms, and that she wasn't so good about staying on medication.

It breaks my heart that she was unable to reach out to anyone and perhaps, if she had, she might have had more empathy in her life and fewer people abandoning her. I was saddened when I once did a Google search for her after she had passed away. E had taught English Comp. at a couple of the local community colleges and I stumbled upon a site that posted student reviews of professors. E had two reviews, both of which were graded 'F.' One student even went so far as to explain her review by referring to E as 'Miss Flaky Pants.'

So this is the part where I get to my point. And it is this: if some of the symptoms I've described sound like you or someone you know, you might want to further investigate. Talk to your doctor, your therapist, or someone you know with a PhD (okay, kidding...or maybe not). Don't take my word for anything, I'm not a doctor - I'm just a kitty. But just remember that if you have a Miss Flaky Pants in your life, there might be more than meets the eye. If I knew then what I know now about E, I would have responded to her irrational behavior much differently, or so I like to think.

Also be kind to yourself and to others.

Ode to Avion

2007-02-08T01:30:00.000-08:00

Since I've started a tradition of bidding farewell to the lives around me that cease to exist, it would only be fair for me to bid a farewell to Avion, even though I never really was able to see the fabulous and caring side of her that I am told does exist.

Above all else, my heart goes out to Whitney, Avion's on-again/off-again partner who nurtured her and took care of her for more than a year, while Avion's health posed unique challenges and Avion stubbornly refused a bone marrow transplant, claiming that her doctors didn't know what they were doing and that she was no closer to dying than she was to winning the lottery.

Sadly, she never did win the lottery. Instead, she passed away a week and a half ago, quietly at home, with loved ones by her side. She was 29 years old.

The tights mishap

2007-02-05T23:20:00.000-08:00

So, here I am attending my first ever professional librarian conference in Seattle, Washington (my home away from home) and am doing my best to get it right. When packing for the trip, I selected mostly clothing on the casual/comfortable side of professional on account of you never know who you might bump into and what opportunities may be available to you (as it turned out, there was nobody and nothing, respectively, but, again, you never know). And, knowing that I'd be walking all over hilly downtown Seattle, I selected stylish, yet comfortable, boots to navigate the terrain.

The first discussion that my traveling companion, *Heather, and I chose to attend was, of course, on the other side of the urban landscape. No matter, the weather was ideal for a city trek and it felt good to be out and moving.

Because I would be co-hosting a reception for my graduate program later that evening and didn't know if I'd have an opportunity to return to the hotel to change my clothes, I selected an outfit that could be construed as "business casual," as that had been what I was instructed to wear for the reception. And, again, you never know who will be there. As it turned out, nobody with a job offer was following me around like a lost puppy - and if they had, I'd likely be wary of said offer. But Internet Celebrity blogger, iAsshole, was attending! She was surrounded by, presumably, a hoard of fans trying to acquire some tongue scrapings when iAsshole wasn't looking.

Here's what I selected for the day: a black cashmere sweater (ribbed for my pleasure), a black skirt that fell a good three inches above the knee, kicky chartreuse tights by DKNY, and black mid-calf boots. To accessorize, I added a lovely long scarf that was a sheer black with green stitching in a fancy way and, of course, my green-framed specs. Even Heather told me that my outfit was adorable (thanks Heather!), so I felt confident that I could blend in with the cosmopolitan Seattleites without a hitch.

Unfortunately, there was a hitch.

My elastic in my lovely kicky tights had, unbeknowst to me while I was dressing, decided to go suicidal on me and, about halfway into the walk to the Westin Hotel on the other side of town, slowly started to creep downward.

Uh oh. I saw where this was going.

I asked Heather to stop and pose as a barrier for me so that I could stand near a building and pull up my Southbound tights. So not very cosmopolitan. I couldn't tell how far South those tights were willing to go, but it seemed prudent to stop and hike them up as they were loitering at the fullest part of my ass.

Another two blocks later, the top of my non-elasticized tights were hovering at the equator of my ass again and I just couldn't foresee stopping every block to hoist them up. So I decided to grin and bear it. Or, to bear it anyway.

By the time we walked in through the grand entry of the swanky Westin Hotel, my tights had fallen down the slope of my ass and were pausing at the tops of my legs and I wondered what could possibly hold them in place at that point. An image flashed in my head of my attempt to look dignified while the tights were bunched around my ankles, preventing me to take a stride any longer than four inches. As we took the escalator to the fourth floor, I tried to calculate how much wiggle room I had from the tops of my legs to the hem of my skirt.

The overcrowded discussion meant that we had to sit on the floor. Somehow I was able to manage this sans incident. When the discussion ended, Heather asked what I wanted to do. I told her that I needed to get to the Nordstrom we'd passed stat and purchase a control garment to hold my tights in place for the remainder of the day. Sure, there were probably some other places where a desperate woman could purchase a control garment, but the Nordstrom was closest. She was fine with that and relegated herself to the shoe department while I sought freedom in the form of constraint.

Now, I have mixed feelings about control garments in general and have, for the most part, opted out of partaking in what is so clearly a man-made accoutrement. Worse yet, the damn things come in sizes small and extra small! What on earth would someone so tiny need with such a thing? And just to rub it in, the photos on the tags of these garments revealed a very slender woman - perhaps a size 2 - donning such an item, apparently to show that it is, indeed, slenderizing. I growled at these tags and pulled a couple of different styles in my size. As I pulled on these torture devices, I wondered how they were supposed to create a slenderizing effect - unless I were to cover every inch of my body with them. Sure, everything inside of the garment was contained, but then the distinction between the inside and outside of the garment was drastic and looked freakish. Ironically, I purchased the girdle (these were girdles, weren't they?) that was the LEAST tight so that - should my clothing hug my body at any time throughout the day - I would not resemble a sausage attempting to escape its casing.

Now, more so than ever, I remain of the opinion that control garments seem most suitable for those wishing to trans gender.

*not her real name

The Inept Intern

2007-02-03T13:43:00.000-08:00

My introduction to the professional world of information organization began with watching Patricia pull up an unfamiliar computer screen from who-knows-where and proceed to rapidly click in various parts of a template, changing some things, adding others and then calling it good.

"See," she said, " that's all you need to do."

On my second day, it was revealed that I was conducting searches with the incorrect criteria and, since my method would often return the same results as the desired criteria, it didn't occur to me that I might be doing it incorrectly. Well, until it was pointed out to me:

"What are you doing? Why are you searching that way?"

Um, because I'm a total idiot and wasn't paying attention when you whipped through an instruction session that I wasn't able to follow, but thought that I had. That's what I wanted to say. Instead, I sat there somewhat paralyzed willing the ground to open up and swallow me whole and then wake up in my bed to discover that it was only a bad dream.

Nevermind that I'd never used this particular software and that I'd had no experience at all doing any hands-on cataloging. I started asking questions at the rate of one per millisecond. I wanted to know exactly what she was doing, how she was doing it and why.

I've taken on an internship in a local-ish suburban/rural public library where it seems many of the library employees don't really care so much about reading, aren't very friendly and know pretty much diddly-squat about pop culture. On top of that, none of them seemed to have any clue as to who Nancy Pearl was. This, it seemed, was a mere job to them. Employment and nothing more. What kind of Librarian Twilight Zone have I stumbled into?

I continued asking a lot of questions. I wanted to know what I was doing and not just learn the factory imprint of the task, but to capture a true understanding of the philosophy behind the required actions. This seemed to perturb Patricia. I suspect that when she signed on to obtain an intern, she saw this as an opportunity to keep costs down and productivity up and not so much as an opportunity to nurture a curious mind and mentor a student in her chosen field.

My suspicions of her irritation with my continued queries were confirmed when, several times throughout the day, others would say hello to her and ask her how she is doing and she would reply by bemoaning her lack of productivity due to "all of the interruptions" and then I would feel terrible about being the cause of 99.9% of those interruptions.

So I stopped interrupting her.

I would then save all of my items with questions in a pile so that I only had to interrupt her once. This didn't go over so well, either. She simply couldn't understand why on earth I would let it all pile up like that. Frankly, it made perfect sense to me, particularly since the same question would often apply to multiple items and so one answer to one question would knock out about four or five items. She reprimanded me with her words, telling me to ask her when I had a question. Of course, then she would don her headphones and privately listen to music while she worked.

I then seemed to be on the right track for a couple of weeks. Well, seemed anyway.

I came in one day to a stern Patricia face and when the lips moved, the words "We need to talk" emerged, piercing me and causing me to contemplate turning on my heels and walking out to my car, never to return again. What would happen if I did that? Would I still have enough credits to graduate in June? What about the $$$ I'd plunked down for this opportunity?

Turns out, there were some steps I was overlooking in my cataloging. Why was I overlooking these steps, you may ask? Because I had not been taught them - that is why.

Problem is, Patricia was convinced that she HAD taught me these things. How can this be, you ask?

Well, there is another intern, also in my grad program, who is there to learn the same things as I. Turns out Patricia (perhaps not realizing that there are two of us) sometimes teaches him things on days that I'm not there and is under the impression that she has taught me these things. So I am then held accountable for things I haven't even been taught.

Very frustrating, particularly when I try to tell Patricia that I haven't been shown how to do something yet and she is convinced that I have and tells me that she must not have made herself clear. Ayayayayay.

And if that weren't bad enough, I watched in horror as Patricia tormented a high-schooler (let's call him 'Tim') who is volunteering at the library and was under Patricia's charge. Tim was working on putting some labels on some new cd cases and was listening to his iPod and working quietly. He gets up to use the restroom and, after about 7 minutes, Patricia begins to wonder aloud what is keeping him. She exclaims, "I seem to have a student who is more interested in hiding in the bathroom than in working."

A pit began to form in my stomach and my heart ached for Tim, who was in for some sort of degradation that will likely be the cause of a lifetime of gastrointestinal issues. I began an attempt to telekinetically lure Tim from the bathroom to save him from what looked to be complete and utter humiliation.

But I have no telekinesis, I only pretend that I do.

A good three more minutes passed and Patricia was at the bathroom door, knocking loudly and saying, "Are you going to come out soon?"

It was then that I made a mental note to myself to only visit the restroom when Patricia was on her lunch break.

Librarian Funland, Part 1 --- Two, two, two posts in one!!

2007-01-27T15:55:00.000-08:00

I just attended my first librarian conference evah. I gotta say, I arrived clueless and am still pretty much the same. Oh sure, I found a shortcut from our hotel to the conference sight on the (*actual) last day of the conference, but I still am completely baffled as to how I fit into the larger picture of this thing.

Are they unwelcoming to newbies? To students? To both?

Don’t get me wrong – I had a great time, but that was mostly due to the social aspect of it all. I could have done that without the Ay-El-Ay. It’s my understanding that they held a newbie meeting on the second day, first thing in the morning, but it’s also my understanding that it was lame and that the speaker neglected to show. Thankfully, I chose not to get up at the crack of dawn to attend this unhelpful meeting – I would have wanted my precious sleep back.

I’m left wondering, are the tips of the trade offered in this newbie gathering something that could be offered online or sent by snail mail or email to conference participants who are first time attendees? Or what about having seasoned attendees volunteer a couple of hours of their time to meet with a newbie and give them a hands-on introduction to navigating the conference and determining which meetings and discussions are right for them? Now THAT’S a user-centered approach!

I have to say, I was enormously intimidated by the whole thing. Here I was, among approximately 11, 999 other librarians (and presumably some other librarians-to-be) and every single other person seemed to know what to do, where to go – they all had a PURPOSE! Now, granted, they were all librarians and we’re a pretty resourceful bunch. And, in all fairness, I was perfectly fine navigating the city of Seattle and sniffing out places to imbibe and to dine. I never got us lost, but some of my restaurant choices were beyond filled to capacity or they were rockin’ the $$$$$$. I blame *Giada, in part.

So what went wrong, you ask? Oh, plenty. First of all, the conference website (which was posted who-knows-when and I seemed to find sometime in October-ish) showed the dates of the conference as Jan. 19-24, which led me to believe that the dates of the conference were Jan. 19-24. Silly me. The *actual (see above) days of the conference seemed to be Jan. 19-21 (or 22 at 1pm, if you wanna get technical). When peeps were asking me how long I was staying and I said, “until the 24^th,” they would shoot me weird looks and ask why. What gives? some would ask. I’m still asking myself that same question.

Now perhaps part of the problem lies with my film festival background. When a film festival says that it runs from xx-xxx, it means exactly that – and all of the days are important, with the last two being almost as important as the first (Closing night!! Awards ceremony!!). How the hell did I know that the last 2 ½ days of this conference were mostly board of directors meetings and such? After all, they didn’t post the discussion schedule on the website, so I had no clue! Not that I’m complaining about extra days in Seattle…I just think the librarianfolk should know how to better organize their information! So there I was doomed before I even arrived, the laughing stock of all of my librarian friends, and wondering what else would reveal itself to me as a byproduct of my newbie cluelessness (and you call yourself a budding librarian, Bad Kitty?).

Librarian Funland, Part 2

2007-01-27T15:40:00.000-08:00

The first discussion I got up the nerve to attend turned out okay (well, aside from the tights mishap, but that is another story altogether). It was packed – the Fire Marshall would have had a tizz – it was about digital reference and I learned a thing or two.

The next discussion I went to (determining after the first that they were not so scary, after all) was scary. It was a discussion about reading suggestions for a particular population of YA (that’s Young Adult in librarianese) readers, but that is beside the point. I walked into a conference room that was sparsely populated, with a conference table at the front and nametags at each seat. The table held five shiny pitchers of cold water for the thirsty committee members assigned to the seats. The remaining 30-40 chairs, in two groups of four in each row, functioned as 'the audience.' It appeared that we would be observing their committee meeting in progress!

Wow.

Well, sometimes, things are, indeed, as they seem and this was one of those times. Yet, upon watching their committee meeting, I felt horribly out of place. What was the role of the audience? Were we permitted to ask questions? Could we have some of their precious water (for which they appeared to have at least 30 or so paper cups)? I decided to stay and watch (discussion sessions, in general, appeared to be 'come and go as you please') in hopes of learning more about the conference protocol.

And learn I did. What did I learn, you ask? Well, I learned that I know nothing about attending professional conferences for my chosen profession. As the participants (at the table, not in the audience) were talking, suddenly one of the committee members would ding a bell! The speaker would apologize and continue…why were they dinged?? Was their time up? Did they say something they shouldn’t have and, if so, what? If I were given the opportunity to speak, would I also be dinged? Were there other faux pas for which one might be dinged?

This was getting scary. I did not want to get dinged for my missteps, but how would I learn what the missteps entailed? I then realized that I was the only one who’d brought coffee along with me into the meeting…would I be dinged for that? I just really wanted to know the rules and I found myself tuning out the valuable information and worrying about the rules.

And then the bespecled man at the end of the conference table was reading aloud the comments he’d received from his teen patrons regarding the book they were discussing. He went to great lengths to point out the spelling and grammatical errors of said teen and acted befuddled at the teen’s use of slang. Please. Does this guy realize what an ass he is?

Now, I was REALLY perplexed by the rules.

When it was time to take a break, halfway through the discussion, I found that I was ogling the water pitchers. I was dying of thirst and really wanted some water. Yet, it appeared to be for the purpose of committee consumption only. Perhaps if I asked very nicely and humbly if I could just have one cup...and would they ding me if such a request were out of line? I was just shy of salivating when I considered approaching the conference table. I'd assessed each committee member's potential response for my request to partake in their icy cold beverage, based solely on the personality I'd assigned them in my head as they were conducting their discussion. The woman I'd determined to be the gentlest and the friendliest was at the back of the room, already engaged in conversation. My second choice was a 30-something man rockin' a cute fauxhawk and who had suggested recommending Fuck This Book to teens. He was nowhere in sight and I contemplated standing near his seat, eagerly awaiting his return. He was the committee member I'd decided that I'd most like to have a beer with.

Finally, I could stand it no longer and, as the break was nearly up, I approached the less-desirable left side of the table, where the asshat man sat, and I addressed the uptight middle-school librarian on his right. "Pardon me," I said to solicit her attention, "I hope this doesn't seem rude, but I notice that you have several water pitchers up here and more than enough cups for your committee...would it be possible for me to have some of your water?"

I was nervous as I waited for her to respond. She was looking at me as if I were a little bit crazy. Yikes, I suddenly worried, perhaps it was somewhere written or taught (in the newbie meeting with the no-show speaker) that participants may not approach committee members and ask to have things that are on their meeting table.

After what seemed an eternity, she shot me a "yeah, sure, go ahead," and resumed her conversation with a quiet woman who hadn't spoken during the entire meeting. She seemed more perturbed that I'd interrupted her than that I'd wanted some water.

I can't wait to attend my next conference!

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 6

2007-01-24T16:47:00.000-08:00

Part A: Home, Sweet Home

When Amaris came home to Portland on the weekends, it almost felt as if there was no film at all taking over her life - she just wanted to enjoy her weekend at home and had grown a little weary of many of the dynamics involved in creating this particular film. She didn't want to talk about the film much at all (a major contrast from when she was working on an exciting project that earned accolades from several notable film festivals).

No matter - while I found the initial premise of this particular film to be somewhat intriguing, my enthusiasm waned with each additional bit of exposure I had to the inside scoop of this particular film.

Part B: Hey, can you help me out here? I can't tell from here if that is a red flag..or is it pink...or orange?

But then Amaris would return to L.A. and fell back into a life of this particular film and little else. I heard additional tales of the lack of camaraderie between Hester and A-J; I heard about Hester coming into work sporting a big 'ole pout and whining about some boy she'd attempted to date the night before. Amaris would, of course, listen and render feedback, when it was solicited.

Was she just choosing the wrong boys, Hester inquired of Amaris. Why were her dates always disastrous?, she wondered aloud. Of course, Amaris wanted to suggest to Hester that perhaps she might be barking up the wrong gendertree, but Amaris knew tact like no other. Thus, the power-imbalanced mentorship of editing and of life began. Hester had come to call Amaris a friend and found that she could tell her anything.

Suddenly, the post-production schedule on the film became less daunting and, rather than spending the wee hours making editing alteration and cataloging footage, Amaris and Hester were hanging out, going to movies, dining and imbibing.

Part C: Everyone needs a bosom for a pillow

When I confessed to Amaris my skepticism of Hester's intentions in becoming so palsy-walsy with her, she dismissed it, calling Hester young and naive and in need of someone to talk to. She reiterated her suspicion that Hester was on the verge of coming out and, thus, needed someone to turn to in the lesbian community. Very likely with a jealous and condescending tone to my voice, I said to Amaris, "yeah, I managed just fine without that."

But then Amaris came home for the, by now, routine and perhaps obligatory weekend lovefest, all along assuring me that I have absolutely nothing to worry about. Venturing into potentially dangerous territory, I pelted Amaris with questions regarding HER intentions with Hester:

Was she at all attracted to her?
Did anything about Hester turn her on?
Did she fantasize about her?
Would she ever make a move on her?

I had some initial regrets after the last syllable of the last question emerged from me. Did I really want the answers to these questions? But Amaris' responses were genuinely reassuring:

Was she attracted to her? "Ew, no."
Did Hester turn her on? "Not even remotely. Well, maybe the idea of mentoring her and helping her realize 'who she is' gives me a little bit of a woody, but it's not anything sexual at all."
Did she ever fantasize about her? "Not in a sexual way. Fantasize seems like kind of a loaded word. I mean, I've thought about a future in which we're friends - I have plenty of friends in the film world, but I could use more editor friends."
Would she ever make a move on her? "Never."

When I drove Amaris to the airport for her return to L.A., I felt a little bit better (funny what a passionate weekend can do to one's perception). I tried convincing myself that I was making a mountain out of a molehill and I was foolish to be worried over this situation.

But when Amaris returned to L.A. and the now established routine of spending every evening after work with Hester, I began to smell a rat. Amaris had a zillion friends - why wasn't she spending any time with them? When I asked this, I was instructed to 'stop being so jealous' - that it's not a very attractive trait.

Before long, the surface-level aquaintanceship had morphed into a deep ocean of Hester's every problem being spilled out for Amaris' consideration. On multiple occasions, in which their evenings out (dates?) culminated in a return to Hester's small cottage in Venice Beach, deep conversations resulted in Hester crying on Amaris' shoulder and being held until the sobs subsided.

What the hell was going on here? Was I stupid? Or was I the loving and trusting partner struggling to accept what I was assured was the truth from the girl I loved?

Poof!

2007-01-16T10:06:00.000-08:00

Breaking News!!!

Disappearing blogger found buried up to shoulders in articles detailing the minutae of indexing and abstracting, after barely emerging alive from the planning of Mother's 60th Birthday Surprise Party...cites 60-hour workweeks, holidays, lack of Internet access and family drama

PORTLAND - Alive, but somewhat disoriented, relatively unknown blogger, Bad Kitty, emerged this week from an avalanche of homework, family dysfunction (good and bad, past and present), and internship-rude-awakening to find that she does, indeed, still have a life. Time was wasted watching the somewhat sucky Golden Globes, with the hope that something exciting would happen.

A summary of events and potential topics for the near future include:

* Mother - one of these days she'll get around to that dish
* The anniversary of her first brush with death
* restaurant tales, including the latest updates on Manager-dude
* the internship of enlightenment - now she thinks she know where she DOESN'T want to work
* the continuing saga of the incredibly true and heartbreaking tale of her first Hollywood break-up
* the onset of American Idol, Season 6

and so much more. She thanks readers for being patient and understanding and looks forward to her return to the blogosphere.

too legit to quit

2006-12-13T13:12:00.000-08:00

ARgh.

I had a dream last night that Amaris found my blog and ordered me to cease and desist telling the sordid tale of the incredibly true and heartbreaking story of the demise of our relationship. I was delighted when I woke up to find that it was only a dream. So worry not, dear readers, as the tale will indeed continue in due time.

Even though I've been found out before, and it was much to my surprise, I'm not too worried about it y'all. Besides, it's all true, so it's not like I'm making shit up (I don't need to!!). I guess it's still slanderous but, like I originally said: nobody is innocent and I can't afford to get all litigous.

Because I like to "torcher" my peeps: Putting the "fun" back in dysfunctional...

2006-12-11T13:00:00.000-08:00

In honor of the pending Christmas holiday and the fact that I will be spending it NOT with my mom (where icky nasty bad disfunction abounds), and because I am thoroughly convinced that there is good dysfunction and bad dysfunction (the good being the ones with my chosen family - aka my friends - and my work family), I present to you some fond memories from Thanksgiving last.

I annually spend Thanksgiving with my "chosen family" instead of my biological family. This is a little bit selfish, since I have biological family in town and I'd rather be with my friends and where the food is better than going to my mom's or aunt's house for the holiday.

My chosen family pretty much consists of one of my dearest friends, Kara, her partner Patrizio, her mother Ellen, three of her four siblings (Audrey, Liz and the youngest, Mateo, who comes with his wife, Liz ), some Thanksgiving orphans who are also friends, "honorary" members of the family (such as myself, my partner and my daughter) and random other friends who either have nowhere else to go or don't want to go anywhere else. The total guest count is always somewhere in the twenties and everyone contributes to the meal (all are good cooks and none cut corners or buy pre-fab or store-made items), the fixins are predominantly vegetarian (about a third or so of the crowd doesn't eat meat), but with the requisite organically fed and conscientiously raised turkey as the star of the show.

This year, we brought: homemade bloody mary mix (with extra garlic) & the pepper vodka & garnish for said cocktail (garnish consisted of five inch wooden skewers speared with olive, hearts of palm, grape tomato and a spear of celery for stirring), carrot ginger soup (vegetarian, but not vegan), roasted beet salad with goat cheese and toasted pecans and topped with a balsamic reduction, and a dessert that disappears rapidly every year: a chocolate bourbon pecan pie. We also brought two bottles of Beaujolais Nouveau and plenty of games.

While I thoroughly enjoy the genre of family dysfunction, particularly in literature and film, I must admit to feeling partial to a certain flavor of dysfunction in my presence (let's just call it "good dysfunction") and avoiding the sort of dysfunction often found at the functions at my mother's house (we'll call this one "bad dysfunction"). Now, it could just be that these two types of dysfunction are actually one in the same and I have more teflon when I am in the company of someone else's family, as opposed to immersed in the dysfunction of my own family, in which it all feels so personal and harmful.

Regardless, allow me to share with you some of the dysfunctional highlights from this year's event:

Botox - Outed at Last! Kara's sister, Liz, had previously confessed to her sisters and mother that she is regularly submitting to Botox injections (Liz is the middle child of the five, yet appears to be the oldest) as an attempt to curb her visible aging. Needless to say, the family is somewhat appalled and consider Liz vain. However, neither Mateo nor Liz's friend, Nathaniel, was aware of this indulgence until a somewhat lit Kara cattily outed Liz at the dinner table, just after Liz called her "ugly." Mateo stood, aghast, begging his sister to say it isn't so. After the initial shock from Mateo and Nathaniel subsided, Liz blew it all off in a "so what" sort of manner and poured herself another glass of wine.

Liz (the sister-in-law, as opposed to Liz the sister) brought her mother, Marge, who was visiting from Alaska. Both Liz and Marge are deathly allergic to cats and Kara sequestered her new kitten, LuLu, and cleaned especially well for their benefit (this was, of course, something of a big deal as it was requested to Kara that the kitten be relocated to another house entirely in order for them to avoid an allergic outbreak). As we were going around the table proclaiming what we were thankful for, mother Ellen, a very political and left-leaning woman, lauds the "takeover of the Democrats" and stands and cheers. The rest of the room erupts in cheers and a raised glass. Except for Marge, who looks mortified at the taboo subject of politics being raised at the Thanksgiving table. She does not applaud. She does not raise her glass. Her sour expression speaks volumes and you can feel her discomfort.

But that's not all! At some point during the giving of thanks, it is mentioned that there is gratitude that Ellen never married any of her less-than-desirable boyfriends of yore. Kara mentions her shock and awe when Ellen's boyfriend at the time bestowed upon her as a gift for her 21st birthday a "1/4 lb. bag of weed." Laughter erupts from the table and, again, poor Marge is horrified. One can practically read the thought bubble over her head proclaiming, "what kind of family have I allowed my precious daughter to marry into?" Shortly after this incident, Marge pulls the oh-look-at-the-time card and exits the festivities without even tasting the dessert. No doubt, she was thoroughly convinced that the frosted brownies were laced with hashish.

After dinner, the remaining guests engaged in a lively game of Celebrity Password. Now, one of the problems of playing games with Kara and her family is that they can get really competetive. It's almost as if they are under the impression that there might be a giant cash prize awaiting the winner - things can get a little intense. And since Celebrity Password is played in teams, we typically do not allow family members or significant others (unless they are newly dating) to be on the same team. Audrey had brought her new beau, Alphonse, who was blending in well so far with this group. However, since Alphonse was not born in the U.S., his knowledge of American pop culture was not quite up to par for playing Celebrity Password. We explained the rules to him and he was in - a good sport, indeed. However, when it was his turn to give clues, he found that he didn't always know the people he was supposed to describe. This was driving the Botoxed Liz, who was on his team, batty and she wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it. Although Alphonse tried to describe several different names ranging from polititians to pop stars to historical figures to sports figures to local celebs, he was only able to get his team to guess one correctly. When his turn to give clues came around again, Liz, clearly in an attempt to offer support, says to Alphonse: "C'Mon, you can get more than one right this time!"

And there was also the moment during the drumroll part, just before dinner was served, when Patrizio was moving all swiftly and shit all about the kitchen like a whirling dervish or something and he opens up the oven and somehow the shelf was not secure and he goes to pull out Audrey's root vegetable hoo-ha and the shelf got all diagonally topsy turvey and the roasted potatoes that someone else made (maybe Liz?) did a little flippity flip and landed in the root vegetable hoo-ha (hey! you got your root veggies in my potatoes! well you got your potatoes in my root veggies! let's make a candy bar! ok.). Suffice to say, the original chefs of the dishes getting all comboed up were not the least bit pleased about this fusion. Dudes, have another bloody mary, it coulda been SO much worse!

Lastly, there was the tipsy Ellen walking around with her dry vermouth on the rocks while the rest of us were having vodka martinis (the logical follow-up to bloody marys) and talking about how she loooooooooooves dry vermouth and it's been so long since she's enjoyed just a simple dry vermouth on the rocks. Ah the memories, she tells us. In fact, she continues, she used to drink vermouth when she was preggers with Mateo, then she'd go and throw up so it wouldn't hurt him. Mateo's facial response to this was priceless.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 5

2006-12-02T16:12:00.000-08:00

Part A: Ta-Ta exotica

While the film budget for interesting, yet predictable, mainstream film is in the black due to housing the cast and crew in a quasi-luxury hotel and filming overseas, it is time to move the operation to the city of Lost Angels and start dropping some serious cash. Amaris is now the master of her domain in her editing suite situated on a well-known Hollywood production lot. Only she no longer has the aide of local islanders working for the illusion of a salary and a boost to their resume.

Part B: Welcome to Los Angeles, Population: 3 gazillion people and 6 gazillion cars

Amaris must hire two assistants and find a place to live temporarily, until post-production is complete. Moving the production to L.A. means no hotel and no per diem. But, no biggie. Amaris lived in L.A. prior to moving to Portland to be with me and had many connections there - she arranges to live in the guest rooms of several of her friends for one-week intervals and has a three-week span in which she is house-sitting for a friend who is out of town working on a film. Housing arrangements in place, she sets out to hire assistant editors to aide her in keeping her editing room in tip-top shape and all editing operations running smoothly and on schedule. After interviewing several candidates, she is frustrated that none of them meet her expectations. She needs to hire two assistants - stat - and has no prospective candidates.

Quelle horreur!

Part C: Blame Canada

After frenzied efforts and much networking, she is nearer a solution. She learns that her dear friend, A-J, who lives in Portland, is in L.A. on holiday. A-J was, at the time, a working artist/photographer and freelance events promoter. A-J also had experience as an assistant editor. Boom! He was hired. A-J began work immediately and Amaris continued to pursue some leads to obtain an additional assistant. Another editor friend of hers, Kurt, recommended an assistant he'd worked with recently on a film that had shown at the Sundance Film Festival. Her name was Hester and she was, in addition to highly recommended, available and experienced. She aspired to be an editor someday and was eager for this opportunity. Because Amaris was on the verge of falling behind schedule, Hester was hired immediately to help Amaris and A-J on this interesting, yet predictable, mainstream film.

Amaris was flying home to Portland on the weekends, but was spending long hours each weekday to stay on schedule preparing a preliminary cut for the director. Due to the extreme work load and long hours (totally common in the film industry), she and A-J and Hester took all three meals together. Suffice to say, tempers would occasionally flare - usually between A-J and Hester, who quickly grew to dislike one another.

Amaris would typically phone me in the evenings to catch up and ask about life in Portland. She seldom had much to report beyond the status of the film and its proximity to completion. She didn't really have time to go places and do fun things... it was pretty much all work, all the time. When she told me that A-J and Hester weren't getting along, I had to wonder about this Hester chick. EVERYONE gets along with A-J! He's charming, witty, fun to be around and brilliant. What's not to love? Besides, his Dutch accent was somehow simultaneously amusing and dreamy. I liked A-J and liked hanging out with him when he was in Portland. I asked Amaris about Hester.

Part D: Type-3 Cryabetes

"She's alright. She seems, on a personal level, a little emotionally immature and conflicted, but, professionally, I have no complaints - she knows her job and does it well."

"Conflicted?" I ask.

"Well, you know. She just doesn't seem to know what she wants and is sometimes mopey and sometimes really chipper. I'm not sure what to make of it. You're going to laugh at this, but I think she might be a dyke and not know it yet."

I laughed. It seemed like Amaris arrived at this conclusion frequently. "And what makes you think that? Is it the googly-eyed way she looks at you when she comes to you with a question?"

"No, it's nothing concrete that I've observed, just something I sense," she explained.

"Is she cute? Is she smart?" (I knew what Amaris was attracted to).

"She's okay, I guess." To me, this meant that she wasn't cute at all and that Amaris was probably being polite, most likely because she felt sorry for her for whatever reason. Amaris went on, "she's pretty smart, though, and knows a lot about music, which is kinda cool." Amaris worked in an indie record store when she was in high school. She knew a lot about all kinds of music and I learned a ton from her as a result.

"I don't have anything to worry about, do I?" I asked her, teasingly, having no idea whether or not this faceless emo gal might pose a threat.

"Not even," Amaris assured. "I'm totally happy with you and you know that. Besides, she's not even remotely my type."

We hung up the phone and I suddenly found myself very worried.

Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dumber

2006-11-27T15:34:00.000-08:00

So, manager-dude has reached new heights in stupidity as of late.

First of all, we recently had a wine rep visiting and trying to sell us some of his latest acquisitions, including a dessert wine. Manager-dude felt compelled to stand behind my bar and imbibe in the offerings of the gentle and kind wine rep, who also offered me tastes and solicited my opinion.

Prior to pouring an Oregon-made (evidenced by the name of vineyard and that it said "Willamette Valley" on the label) ice wine, the kindly rep informs us (in case we didn't already know, which we should and which I did) that ice wine is made from a process involving the freezing of wine grapes before fermentation, which renders a very sweet product. After manager-dude and I both taste, he asserts to the rep, "now, all ice wines are from Iceland, right?"

I am barely able to stifle my laughter. Now, admittedly, I don't expect everyone to know that ice wine is typically a German manifestation, but Iceland???? What grows in Iceland? Certainly not wine grapes!!!

I was very embarrassed for him, particularly since the rep had just explained why it is called ice wine, and did my best to nicely point out the label (which was facing us) where it said "Willamette Valley" (and anyone who knows anything about Pacific Northwest wines knows exactly what that means!). He seemed, sadly, unfazed by this, completely oblivious to his faux pas.

Now, if he hadn't previously boasted about his wine expertise, I *may* not have thought much of this...

Furthermore, upon returning to work the Saturday after Thanksgiving, I was mortified to hear Christmas music blaring from our sound system. I felt compelled to approach manager-dude about this. I immediately learned that other employees had complained, but simply because they did not want to spend 4-14 hours a day, every day from now until Christmas, listening to Christmas music. Yet I approached him with a different, less selfish, bent. I asked him: "Do you have any idea as to the demographics of our neighborhood?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, completely perplexed.

"Um, you do realize that we are located near one of the largest synagogues in Portland and that much of our regular clientele is Jewish?"

"So," he quips back.

"So it seems it might be insulting to them or, at the very least, completely disregarding their loyal patronage and disrespectful as a result."

"I don't care."

"Well, you should - why would you want to disrespect our customers?" I ask.

"Okay, fine," his defensiveness is starting to kick in, "find me the Hanukkah station on our music service and we'll play that for awhile."

"I don't think you get it," I tell him.

"Well, how are they going to feel about the thousands of dollars worth of Christmas decorations that we are about to put up?" he quips.

"Probably slighted and marginalized."

"Fine. We'll just be all PC and put up one of those candle things, a Buddha and Kwanzaa decorations as well," he proposed, thinking himself so clever.

He continued, "If you want to be so inclusive and considerate of the diversity of our customers, why don't we just do that, huh?"

Holy cow. There is no reasoning with this clown. I re-explain to him that I wasn't aiming for political correctness or the diversity of our customers, per se, but merely considering the demographics of our existing regulars, a large amount of whom are Jewish. And that, in layman's terms, it just isn't very nice of us to shove Christmas down their throats. I inform him that I have known people, Jewish and otherwise, complain about being told "Merry Christmas" throughout the month of December every time they make grocery purchases, put gas in the car, buy a latte and whatnot.

For what it's worth, he also tried to convince me that, unless the song is about Jesus, it's not a Christmas song, it's a holiday song. Um, hello, I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas, We Wish You a Merry Christmas, It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas, Let it Snow, The Christmas Song (aka Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire), Winter Wonderland, Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Frosty the Snowman and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Raindeer are not Christmas songs??? Sure, whatever you say, manager-dude.

He gets all huffy and then says, "Well, that's why I don't like gay pride parades."

Whoa?!?!?!? What the hell just happened? How on earth are we now discussing gay pride parades?

"And how does that relate to what we are discussing?" I inquire.

"Well, I think that's just shoving it down people's throats and I don't want to be represented by men in leather and drag queens."

Oh boy. Well I disagree with him entirely on this count, as well, but I really don't want to go there. As I'm looking at him in complete and utter disbelief, he continues.

"Why can't we just have parades with nicely dressed gay men and lesbians in pants and t-shirts holding signs (he raises his arms as if he is holding a sign) that don't offend anyone? And why do we need a parade, anyway? I just want more rights and I don't see what parades have to do with anything."

"You know, our (yes, our, he is a gay man) community owes a hell of a lot to drag queens. Do you have any idea how much we have benefited from the courage of the drag queens at Stonewall, who likely had no qualms about representing the likes of you and me?"

"I'm not talking about Stonewall, I'm talking about now."

Oh my, he really is that stupid. I shake my head and tell him that we are just going to have to agree to disagree. I just can't do this anymore. Calgon, take me away...

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 4

2006-11-21T23:58:00.000-08:00

Part A: Dabbling in another tax bracket

I make a fine trophy wife and rock my glamorous duds with style! I get to shop in SoHo and pay full price! I dine extravagantly! I become the proud owner of a fancy schmancy Mont Blanc pen! I score the previous season's hand-me-downs from a successful production designer!

Part B: Billions and Billions and Billions of Stars

I am meeting up with a famous director to watch a quirky mockumentary at a nearby film center; I swim in the backyard pool of a handsome young actor; I meet an Academy Award winning director and screenwriter at a baby shower; I am attending film premieres and going to dinner parties with famous directors and Hollywood stars (A-list & B-list). Some of them are even speaking to me and I am quick to compose a list in my head of which famous folks are utterly charming.

Part C: Avec Le Charmante et Avec Accomplissez L'Abruti

I'm not sure if it's wise to name names, but let's just say that one was a spot-on for a Johnny Cash impersonation, one was an Indie actress from a very famous mother who drowned many years ago, and another has nudged Parker Posey from the Indie It-Girl mountain of fame. Some others, well, not so charming. Again, I won't name names (see Chapter 1 in which I assert that I can not afford to be sued), but I'll just say that one of the least charming celebrities I ever met through Amaris has appeared on the covers of several celebrity-focused mags and tabloids recently.

I'm happy and having a fun life...Amaris is wonderful and intelligent and we enjoy our myriad adventures. Despite that our life revolves around her work, I find that I don't seem to mind much, since I find her work intriguing.

Part D: Like the Shell Game, but not

Amaris is torn between staying true to the Independent film model and remaining dedicated to the art of filmmaking versus accepting more lucrative positions on more mainstream films. Shortly after she turned down a large sum of money to edit a film starring the current governator of Cauleefawrnya, she accepted a post on a different mainstream film with a much more fascinating, albeit predictable, premise.

As much as I loved so much of my fabulous stuff, I loved art and happiness more.

I was proud of her for opting not to work with the former Mr. Olympia, and I supported her decision to take the road less moneyed. Her decision led her to a two-month stay in a somewhat exotic and very tropical southeastern locale. She saved her per diem for airline tickets for my then 6 year-old daughter, K, and I to visit for two weeks over the Christmas holiday. Hooray for world travel!!

Part E: Dusting off the passports & learning how to say thank-you in another language

Determining how to spend my time in this tropical venue was never a problem. K and I went shopping in the major metropolis nearby and also at the local open-air markets. We were subjected to death-defying taxi jaunts (and K immediately learned what was meant by the words "AirCon" on the side door of the taxi). We lounged poolside and consumed beverages decorated with umbrellas and tropical fruits (except for the hotel's "monthly special," which came with a stuffed monkey...I know, I don't get it either). K determined that her new favorite genre of food is "room service." We have Christmas dinner with a Hollywood director who bears a striking resemblance to Santa Claus.

As I return home from this luxurious vacation, I am so optimistic and feeling fantastic about my life with Amaris. Neither she nor I have absolutely any clue that our world is about to be shaken and our relationship will be put to a test like never before...

Empathic Teen - Not for Sale

2006-11-16T13:16:00.000-08:00

So, the other morning, whilst preparing for their days of school and work respectively, my teen daughter, K, says to my lovely wife, J, "did my mom have a rough night last night?"

J looks up, bewildered. "I don't think so. Why?"

K gestures to the small dry-erase board that is held by an uber-strong magnet to our refrigerator and says, "last night when I went to bed, the board was blank and now it has three booze items listed."

J looks at the board, where we all typically will jot down which grocery items we have just consumed the last of, thus simplifying the shopping for whoever eventually takes on this task. In my handwriting is the following list and nothing more:

Grand Marnier
Absolut Peppar
Bushmills

J laughs and tells K that she's pretty sure that I'm simply preparing for the holidays.

I beam with pride when this tale is later retold to me - my daughter knows what Bushmills is! She is so smart!

A Pig by Any Other Name

2006-11-14T13:36:00.000-08:00

As a waiter with a conscience, I am frequently confronted with attending to the various and sundry diet requirements and peculiarities of others and am expected to ensure that narry a tidbit nor a morsel passes into their digestive system.

Most folks with said peculiarities are quite adamant about making their dietetic/allergic/religious restrictions known and expect that they will be honored. I've encountered people who have rattled off lengthy lists of ingredients that they will not eat and those who have handed me typed lists of forbidden ingredients.

Nevermind that I am expected to have a complete understanding of : vegetarianism, veganism, macrobiotics, Atkins, South Beach Diet, gluten-free diets, lactose intolerance, and so on. This includes, but is not limited to, knowing that the pasta bolognese contains the ever so slightest bit of milk in the recipe and that I ought not serve a Hefeweizen to one with a wheat allergy. When our catering director, Anna, began working with us, I had to suggest that she may want to stop suggesting chicken saltimbocca as a potential menu item for those planning bar mitzvahs and bat mitzvahs, as the dish contains proscuitto and many Jewish folks do not eat pork. Anna had wondered why such an otherwise popular dish was always declined for these particular occasions.

But, as Anna learned, pork is not always called pork. It might be bacon or ham or pancetta or proscuitto. And, while I'll help someone avoid this ingredient if I'm aware that it is not permitted within their belief system, when I'm not informed that they would be endangering the potential for the ultimate afterlife, there's not a whole lot I can do.

I don't personally have any food issues (I make up for it in mental/emotional issues!), but I do my best to be pretty sensitive to those who do. At the same time, I am a firm believer of advocating for oneself, particularly in situations such as this.

Enter blond 30-something man, a customer of mine from last week, who was having dinner with what I presumed to be his wife. They both ordered drinks before dining and, when I asked if they had any questions about anything on the menu, they did not and informed me that they were ready to order. The blond 30-something man ordered the mac & cheese (listed as macaroni and cheese with pancetta on the menu - a winter comfort-food favorite) and his companion ordered one of our signature pasta dishes, also containing pancetta. Either of these items could easily be made without the pancetta and neither the man nor the woman chose to ask any questions prior to ordering.

After serving their piping hot entrees, I stopped by the table once they'd had an opportunity to taste their food. Generally, this is one of the easier parts of my job, as our food is pretty good and we seldom experience food-related mishaps. I noticed that the man's mac & cheese had been pushed away from him, toward the center of the table. Sometimes this is merely an indication that folks are sharing their dishes. When I asked how their dinners were, he picked up his fork and and gently pried away a small piece of pancetta onto the tine. Holding it up so that I could get a closer look, he said, "what's this?"

"Oh, that's pancetta." Answering this question is a little bit nerve wracking because there is always a distinct possibility that I will have a problem on my hands that will require a quick fix. And that will usually entail dealing with someone who would rather have not swallowed an oinker.

"What's pancetta?" Uh oh. I see exactly where this is going.

"Pancetta is an Italian bacon." I've found this to be the most user-friendly reply to this query.

"So, it's...pork?" This guy looks really uncomfortable. I inform him that it is, indeed, pork. He tells me that it is against his religion to consume pork and he can't eat it. I ask him if I may bring him something else instead, but he declines my gesture to remedy the situation. I apologize to him for the inconvenience and he assures me that it was his own fault. While this is true, I opt not to acknowledge that, as I deem it irrelevant at the moment. It wouldn't be that difficult to take the mac & cheese off the bill and bring him a different item (even mac & cheese) that does not contain pork. And I was totally willing to do this. Sure, the guy fucked up, but he doesn't deserve to starve for it.

He insists on going without and continues to reiterate that it was his fault. Finally, I tell him that it doesn't really matter whose fault it is and that I'm happy to bring him something else. Dude continues to play martyr and I let it go. Really, what can I do at this point?

I feel bad for the man, as I see him watching his companion eat. When it comes time for the check, I choose to remove the item from the bill and, even though he's still pulling the it's-all-my-fault card, I tell him that he shouldn't have to pay for something that he isn't able to eat and it was the least I could do. He looks at me sheepishly and I then smile and tell him that if he is not happy with that option, he may wish to take it up with the manager on duty and that would be me. He smiles back at me. He then presents me with a moral dilemma.

"It's just that we don't eat pork at all. It's against our religion. I didn't know that pancetta meant pork."

We? Our? I swear he didn't include his companion in his earlier proclamation of no pork. I would have spoken up if he had and reminded her that her dish also contained pancetta. Oh crap. I'd only five minutes prior cleared away her very empty plate. She ate every bit, probably assuming it was something else. Do I speak up and say something at this point? Do I bring her some syrup of ipecac?

I'm torn and I choose not to say anything. I feel a little awful about this, but he seemed so traumatized earlier and I really didn't want to ruin their night. I don't know if they were Jewish or Hindu or Buddhist or some other sect that does not consume pork and, not being fully versed in the minutae of religions of the world, I have no idea what the ramifications are for such consumption. Is the penalty less stern when the pork is consumed unknowingly?

I was an enabler of sin.

I didn't sleep so well that night.

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 3

2006-11-08T00:53:00.000-08:00

Part A: You've got mail!

In no time at all, Amaris and I become flirty pen pals of sorts. I find that I can't wait to get home from work and check my email for a charming and witty missive from her asking me random questions about myself and telling me interesting factoids about her life. Turns out she is a film editor and has worked on some pretty cool projects. I play it cool and try to keep the star-struckedness to something of a minimum.

I do my best to ask her intelligent and thought provoking questions about the film industry so that she'll find me worthy of discussing such things. I ask her what is the difference between a movie and a film. I still remember the answer: Speed is a movie and The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant is a film. More of an example than an explanation, but I didn't care. I was having online flirtiness and I knew for certain that it wasn't someone's grandfather with whom I was carrying on such a fun banter.

This went on for months, during which she made another visit to Portland (to make good on that raincheck for a blind date with me) and, later, I flew down to L.A. to check out her world. We had a great time together and I liked her friends and her taste in music and restaurants.

Part B: Enter the U-Haul

We learn that we have a great deal in common (movies/films! music! Volvos!) and that we both love Portland. We each rack up some more frequent flier miles over the summer and then decide to move in together into a fabulous turn-of-the century home in the artsy and cultured Irvington neighborhood of NE Portland in the fall.

Part C: In Which Life Seems Grand

Life seems grand.

Even Jackie seems happy for us - or at least happy that Amaris is living in Portland. We decorate our home, take walks in our neighborhood, and listen to NPR in the morning before I go to school.

Eventually, though, as a freelance film editor, Amaris needs to work and the liklihood of landing such a job in Portland was relatively slim. So she'd have to take off to wherever the filming/editing took her: New York, Los Angeles, Miami, Seattle, etc. She even edited a film in Portland! Sometimes she'd be gone less than a month and, other times, she'd be gone for three or four months or so. No matter, though. I was a student at the time and relished the quiet that her absences left behind. We stayed in touch via email whenever she was away, so as not to rack up costly phone bills, and we'd occasionally send one another little "care packages" to help bridge the gap of the miles between us.

I honestly thought it couldn't get any better.

Until...

Deal or No Deal

2006-11-07T12:55:00.000-08:00

Okay, I've gotten suckered into watching this show and I actually enjoy it, although I have no idea why - it's essentially roulette with pretty girls and suitcases. The contestants don't need to be clever or well-schooled, just lucky. It's not as easy to "play along" as, say, Jeopardy! or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? But, not unlike some of the other cheesy programs I have come to enjoy, Deal or No Deal is just that much more enjoyable accompanied by the following drinking game:

take a drink whenever Howie Mandel says "hello" when he answers the phone
take a drink whenever Howie Mandel uses the name of the "model" when requesting that she open a suitcase
take a drink whenever a contestant insists that the million dollars is inside the suitcase they have selected at the start of their game
take a drink whenever any of the "models" say something
take a drink whenever the contestant has an especially animated outburst (defining this can be left to your own discretion, but you may wish to consider fainting, falling down, jumping, funny catchphrases, tears, etc.)
take a drink whenever the contestant's onstage support network of three begs the contestant to take the deal and the contestant does the opposite

Feel free to add your own additional accompaniments to this game in the comments section!

Whamma Damma Mammogramma

2006-11-03T01:55:00.000-08:00

One of the delights of turning 40, I recently learned, is that is the magical age when those in the medical profession become interested in your boobs. VERY interested in your boobs.

I'd been dreading today since I made my appointment for my first ever mammogram (or just "mam" as the x-ray tech affectionally called it) sometime last August. I'd been putting it off since the first time my doctor brought it up earlier this year. Succumbing to a boob-squishing machine just didn't sound all that appealing. Yet, I knew it needed to be done.

Upon making the appointment, I was instructed to arrive free of perfume, powder or deoderant. I didn't ask why, though, as I figured they had good reasons for such requests. A thought occurred to me and I paused a moment before venturing to ask the woman at the appointment counter about it.

"This might seem like an odd question," I started in, "but I have a pierced nipple and would like to know if I'll need to remove my jewelry for the mammogram" (I wasn't yet aquainted with its nickname).

The woman making my appointment, thankfully, did not seem the least bit fazed by this question and informed me that she was pretty sure I could leave it in. I hoped that she was correct, as I'd much prefer to conduct such a maneuver in the privacy of my own home, rather than in a freezing cold examining room with an impatient x-ray tech standing by tapping her fingers on the x-ray machine while I fumble with the captive bead in the middle of the ring with my trembly hands and hoping it doesn't snap out and fly across the room. I really wanted to know for certain that this would not be an issue.

I received a phone call the day before my appointment reminding me not to wear perfume, powder or deoderant. I thanked the gentleman who called and opted not to follow up with him regarding my nipple piercing.

But after I hung up the phone with him, I began to feel panicky. Not about the nipple piercing, but about the fact that my soaps and hair products are all scented. Suddenly, I found that I did care why they insisted that I avoid perfume, powder or deoderant. I tried to call back, but the line was busy.

I stopped at the Kaiser clinic on my way to work and swung by the radiology department to ask them about scented bath and hair products. The woman sitting on the other side of the window was on a telephone call and her tone of voice and facial expression told me that she was well-acquainted with the caller on the other end. Without putting the caller on hold or covering the receiver with her hand, she asks if she can help me. I tell her that I can wait for her to finish with her caller, but she tells me to go ahead. Now, supposedly, Kaiser is concerned with patient confidentiality and this woman has no idea what I'm about to ask her, yet she deems it acceptable for her acquaintance on the other line to be privvy to my question. I debated leaving or insisting she put the caller on hold, simply out of principle, but opted against since my question wasn't that private.

When I asked her about the soap and such, she looked at me as though I'd asked a stupid question and informed me that, of course it's no problem to bathe with scented bath products prior to my appointment. Duh.

Guess I didn't have to worry about that anymore.

No way in hell I was going to ask Ms. Confidentiality-be-damned about the ole nipple piercing, so I left her to her phone call and continued on my way to work.

When I showed up for my appointment earlier today, free of perfume/powder/deoderant, it's safe to say that I was a tad bit nervous and anxious. I'd heard from other, already mammogrammed, women that one's breast is placed in a machine and then flattened like a pancake. Suddenly I hated pancakes and wished for my breasts to resemble grapefruits if they were going to resemble a breakfast item. I was given a sticker to place on the back of my Kaiser cared and shown to the waiting area.

When my name was called, another, elderly, woman was called at the same time. Who knew that mammograms were done as cattle calls? The other woman and I were both shown to separate dressing rooms, side-by-side, that were smaller than most public restroom stalls. The nurse who ushered us in instructed, "shirts and bras off, gowns facing forward."

Alrighty, then. I closed the curtain to my tres petite dressing room and found myself face to face with a sign which read, "You may be asked to remove your jewelry."

Lovely. The sign did not specify what kind of jewelry, but if they're looking at the boobs, it only stands to reason that what they are referring to here is boob jewelry, right?

I redress, as instructed, with the frumpy hospital gown opened to the front. Am I supposed to tie the strings together or just leave it open? Feeling somewhat chilly, I wrap the garment around my body, kimono-style. My name is then called and the tech asks me if this is my first "mam." I was impressed that she and the mammogram were so well acquainted that they had cutesy nicknames for one another. I admitted to being a newbie and waited for further instruction.

Suffice to say, even though the boob-squishing machine bore an uncanny resemblance to the devices at the junkyard that squish cars into metal cubes with it's flat panels coming together with great force, the procedure really wasn't painful as much as it was uncomfortable and awkward. Believe me, I've been around the block a time or two and this tech had me in positions I'd never been in before! As for the piercing? Let's just say that the tech had been around the block a time or two, as well.

And furthermore, let the record show that the boob-squishing machine renders nothing even remotely resembling a pancake! A thick and juicy hamburger, maybe...

I feel as though I'm now on the other side of a rite of passage of sorts. I'm now qualified to sit around and quaff martinis while chatting up other women about our "mams."

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 2

2006-11-02T02:26:00.000-08:00

Part A: Someone's got some s'plainin' to do

I was crushed. Crushed, I tell you. Here I was, reluctantly willing to go on a blind date with a girl from L.A. and unexpectedly, after meeting me, the girl bails on the real part of the date, leaving me rather high and dry, or neither as the case was. Without even really knowing her, and after previously considering her charming, I was a little bit angry at Amaris.

I leater learned that she flew back to L.A. to do whatever it was she did there. I'd asked Jackie what gives with regard to Amaris backing out on the fun at the last minute. I asked Jackie if Amaris was just snooty and didn't think I was cute enough for her, being all shallow and from L.A. and all. Jackie assured me that it had nothing to do with me or my appearance and not to worry about it.

A few weeks later, I stumble upon the scrap of paper in which Jackie had jotted down Amaris' email address for me. I vaguely remember her suggesting I email Amaris, who was new to being online and might need some help navigating and such. I was about to throw it in the trash and then something compelled me not to.

Instead, I brought the scrap directly to my computer desk and logged onto my AOL account. I listened to the intermix of high pitched and crackly sounds as I watched the three icons on my screen change, the telltale crowd of faceless icons eventually indicating to me that I was connected with America Online.

I went directly to my mailbox and typed out a missive to Amaris. I told her that it was nice meeting her and that it was too bad that we didn't get a chance to get to know one another a little better while she was in town. I expressed some sort of sentiment indicating that I hoped it wasn't something I'd said that caused her to change her mind about going out with us that night. I further expressed that I had never been set up on a blind date before, so to get stood up on my first one felt like quite the blow.

"Blind date?????" she fires back.

Turns out she didn't know nutt'n 'bout no blind datage. What gives? you ask?

Part B, in which Amaris tells the real story behind her abrupt departure...

Well, lemme tell ya. It is revealed to me that Amaris and Jackie once had a little fling-a-ding culminating in Amaris realizing that alcohol impairs her judgment and Jackie realizing that she wants herself some more of that Amaris. No bueno. So, even though Amaris had been informed of the later gathering, she was not informed that she was being set up with me and was convinced that it was a ploy for Jackie to get her all liquored up so that she could, well, you get the picture. Since Amaris wasn't down for that, she pulled ye olde "look at the time...I gotta go" card so as not to have to spend the remainder of her evening peeling Jackie off of her.

I was but a decoy!!!

And dyke drama lives on...

A New Frock for my Blog!

2006-11-01T02:18:00.000-08:00

My blog's been good to me, so I got her a new frock!

I've also sprung for accessories!

Now featuring TAGS!

Who's got links now? I've got links now!

je suis le mental case, part 2

2006-10-31T22:33:00.000-08:00

Essentially, I Tremor

I have a neurological disorder called Essential Tremor. Personally, I think that is one of the stupidest names ever, but since I'm not able to change that anytime soon, I should just get over that. It's a tremor, to be sure, I have no problem with that part of it - it's the whole "Essential" bit that I just can't wrap my head around. There's really nothing "essential" about it. But I digress.

While the onset of Essential Tremor can result in a trembling or twitching impacting many different areas of the body, it is most commonly found in the hands or the face of those afflicted. The tremor is sometimes, but not always, noticeable in a resting position and is frequently seen in moving gestures, particularly those with a more precise or finely tuned sense of movement. Love espresso though I may, those demi-tasse cups are killer. Chopsticks are also difficult for me to maneuver, but I still insist on using them. And it's safe to say that I could never aspire to become a brain surgeon.

For some time, I simply thought that I drank too much coffee and left it at that. I later was able to rule out this theory when I asked my doctor about my shaky hands.

Essential Tremor is surprisingly common (more so than Parkinson's Disease), yet I had never heard of it prior to my diagnosis some ten years ago. And while many are under the impression that she had Parkinson's, Essential Tremor is actually what Katherine Hepburn was afflicted with and that caused her to tremble.

To settle the tremor, I take beta blockers (specifically Inderal) and that seems to work most of the time. Alcohol works, too, but isn't always advisable. Unfortunately, the condition seems to worsen with age and I'm pretty much maxed out on the dosage of beta blockers that I'm permitted to swallow. You see, beta blockers lower one's heart rate and blood pressure and since, in both cases, mine are already on the low side, the consumption of the beta blockers plummets my blood pressure into the alarming region.

And, still, I shake.

Not such a big deal if I were a go-go dancer or a dog washer.

The worst part of it is not so much the shaking itself - it's not as though it is painful to tremble, although it is a little bit agitating. Worse, though, is how some folks respond to me when they notice my hands trembling.

I kid you not. Peeps are downright MEAN. I have had people ask me if I am an alcoholic or a junkie or if I am jonesin' for a fix; I have had folks exaggeratingly mimic my tremble (often with an affected crazy-person expression on their face); I've had customers at work tip me less because I shake and have been the recipient of cruel career advice (i.e. "maybe you should get a job where you don't have to carry things"); I've had people nervously grab things out of my hands and I've encountered people who have just said rude and obnoxious things (in addition to those previously mentioned).

I wish it didn't bother me so much when folks say rude things or when they mimic me, but it does. I don't know why. Years ago, before I knew that I had a neurological disorder, I would cower in shame at the rude comments and mimicry. Now, I just look people directly in the eyes and tell them that I have a neurological disorder and can't help it and that I'm sorry if it makes them uncomfortable. Usually, when this happens, people will shut up already. Unless, of course, I am at work and am serving them a martini and accidentally spill it. But then I just make them a little extra to (over)compensate for what I spilled and that usually shuts them up.

The moral of this story: be nice to shaky people please!

The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup, Chapter 1

2006-10-30T12:01:00.000-08:00

This tale is true. All of the names have been changed because Amaris can afford to sue me and I can't afford to be sued.

Part A: I paint the background a glorious and sunny shade

About twelve years ago, while I was still an undergrad, I was working as a waiter in a super-small, neighborhoodly, all-gay-owned restaurant (it's still there, but I'm not) with four owners, all very different from one another, but all friends at the time. I was hired practically on the spot and I loved my job so much. The owners were almost all a little bit older than I, except for one, Devin, who was a little bit younger (he and I are still good friends to this day), and I got along with all of them.

This was the early/mid-nineties, when computer access at home was not yet a given and America Online was still considered a hot new cool thing. Of course, I signed up, and was able to have a username that was a nine-letter word with no numbers or symbols in it - unheard of by today's standards. It didn't take long before I discovered the chat rooms and how much fun I could have in them. It had not yet occurred to me that the the seemingly hot punk-rock dyke I was chatting with could easily have been someone's grandfather. C'est la vie - I was having a good time and learning all sorts of useless information.

The owner/chef, Jackie, was a butch dyke who liked to flirt with me. I flirted right back at her because I found that, in doing so, I could obtain mini favors from her such as getting my tables' food faster than the other server (who Jackie didn't like anyway). Jackie and I also shared a common interest in that we both enjoyed stopping by the local strip club for a post-work beer, so we'd hit our friendly neighborhood titty bar together after work once in awhile.

Part B: I take the bait

One day, Jackie tells me about her friend, Amaris, who just got online and maybe I should email Amaris and show her the ropes and chat with her.

"No problemo," I tell Jackie and ask her if Amaris is cute. Jackie assures me that not only is she cute, but she's coming to town soon.

"Wait a minute...coming to town? From where?" I ask her. Jackie then tells me that Amaris lives in Los Angeles.

"Hmmm. I don't like LA. No LA girls for me, thanks," I tell Jackie she should find someone else to flirt with her friend online.

"No, you'll like her - she's really super smart," Jackie tells me. "In fact, we should all go out when she comes to town."

"I'll think about it."

Jackie gives me Amaris' email address and suggests I write her. I pretty much blow off that idea because I don't want to involve myself with someone from LA (for the record: some of my stereotypes about LA turned out to be true and some, not so much). I figured that Amaris would be snobbish and I wasn't in the mood for that.

A few weeks later, Jackie says to me, "Hey, Amaris is coming to town next week. She's coming in here to have dinner - you can wait on her- and then we'll all go out for drinks after work and maybe play pool or something."

A blind (albeit, group) date with a cute out-of-town girl? Sure, why the hell not? I tell Jackie that I'm in and start thinking about what I'll be wearing to work that night. I opt for the naughty schoolgirl look, complete with black thigh-high stockings with my Doc Marten oxfords. I learn from Jackie that Amaris works in the entertainment industry and is very cultured and very hip.

Part C: Meeting Amaris

When the fateful Friday night arrives, I'm feeling great and excited about my post-shift afterparty. I'm rockin' my naughty schoolgirl getup and I think it's working. Amaris comes into the restaurant at around 8pm and she's adorable: tall, athletic build, sort of a k.d. lang look, but with Clark Kent glasses. She has a great smile and her face is full of expression. Yeah, I can hang with her. We have a great time flirting up a storm while I'm waiting on her. She tells me to select a wine for her and then to select her dinner, as well. I'm loving this. She seems to, also.

Part D: In which I am slapped silly

As I'm serving her a trio of chocolate pave with a cardomom cream sauce for dessert, alongside a double espresso (I figure she'll need that), I bring up the subject of going out later for beer and pool. Nevermind that I don't play pool. I don't need to.

Amaris informs me that she's planning on going back to her friends' house, where she's staying, and going to sleep after dinner.

Huh???

"Soooooo, you're not going out for drinks and pool with the rest of us when we get off work?"

Amaris smiles and politely says no thanks, that she's tired and she's gonna take a raincheck this time.

Crap. Was it something I said? Things seemed to be going so well. What happened?

You Decide:

2006-10-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

So my lovely wife and I had an interesting conversation in the car today.

We had just entered the freeway and the lane that we were in was about to become an exit-only lane. When we merged onto the freeway, the traffic was moving, but we could see that it was bumper-to-bumper not too far ahead of us. Rather than attemping to merge as soon as she could (and where traffic was lighter, with gaps between the vehicles), she proceeded to remain in the right lane and drove as far as she could in that lane before merging over.

I told her that her Southern California upbringing was showing and she claimed that the maneuver was just an example of her superior merging skills. I further explained to her that where we live, in Portland, Oregon, that is considered rude and obnoxious and that she should have merged upon entering the freeway, that her "cutting" up ahead was an example of her inability to wait her turn and asked her what would happen if everyone cut up ahead on the right and then cut over like she did. She says that everyone does do this and that what she did was not illegal. I agreed that it was not illegal, but reasserted that it was obnoxious.

We eventually agreed to disagree, but bandied about the idea of asking others what they think. Anyone care to weigh in on this one?

Enter manager-dude

2006-10-19T01:37:00.000-07:00

So, we have a new manager-dude at work. No, I wasn't fired and I'm still *A* manager, I'm just not *THE* manager. This actually works out well for me, in a way, because I never wanted to be: full-time, salaried, babysitting the lunch staff. So owner-man, John, found someone willing to do this. Problem was, he didn't exactly give me much warning ahead of time - he's not the best communicator, but that is a whole other story.

I must say, as one who has functioned as a manager in this restaurant for the past (almost) four years, I feel like I have a pretty good pulse on the place and I know where the weak spots are and where the strengths lie. I should also confess that I have pretty high expectations of a full-time manager (probably even higher than owner-man, John) but, in all fairness, I don't expect anything more of someone in that position than I would expect of myself, should I've been willing to take on that position full-time.

That's not unreasonable, is it?

Well, manager-dude has been with us two months exactly now and he still doesn't have all of the table numbers down (there are a total of 33 tables in the restaurant and they are numbered chronologically, not by some random whim). Manager-dude has been working on an "employee manual" for us (we never had one, just some verbal general guidelines) which will include a major crackdown in what is deemed acceptable for our personal appearance. Changes he deems necessary include: our all-black clothing must always have black stitching only and no other colors present for any reason; shirts must be long-sleeved and button-down at all times (yes, even on those 98 degrees in the shade days); no visible tattoos, no non-ear piercings (will he be conducting body cavity searches or will he contract out for that?); only naturally-occurring colors of hair allowed (mine currently has a big ~~blue~~ fuschia chunk in front); only two earrings in each ear and only two rings on each finger (why? just why?) and I'm sure there are several equally idiotic commands that I have successfully purged from memory.

He wants us to greet customers with MUCH MORE ENTHUSIASM and ask them if they have been to our establishment before. He has been saying disparaging things about the staff, including singling some out for special mention. According to him: we are not enthusiastic enough, we do not wash our hands frequently enough, we give "Olive Garden" style service (this coming from one who once worked as a manager at Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville and passed up an opportunity to manage one of the local Hooters to work in our establishment) and he named three of us (yours truly included) as prima donnas.

The guy just doesn't seem to get it. Not all diners want their servers to be bubbly over-the-top enthusiastic - some prefer a more calm, professional, yet friendly, approach (my personal fave). We all have our own style in how we wait tables, interact with people and dress ourselves. Some of us are very very good at what we do and have been doing this for a very long time. We know our stuff and we have uncanny abilities to read our customers and know how to adjust our service accordingly. Us veterans, including the three of us who have been functioning as managers for almost four years, have been trying to help manager-dude to learn his job and to do it well. Sadly, much of our advice and direction goes unheeded, as girlfriend gets mucho defensive and doesn't even listen to what we say. He then runs around like a whipped puppy dog and makes negative references to himself. Dude, grow up. If any one of us wanted to sabotage his career as a restaurant manager, we could easily do so (it would be beyond easy to withhold useful information from him), but we are not going to do that...we don't need to, as he's shooting his own damn self in the foot.

I'm hoping that John will ixnay some of those ridiculous dress code suggestions. I mean, we've been allowed to exhibit some semblance of personal style in the four years that the restaurant has been open and my level of service and compentency is not dependent upon what color my hair happens to be or how many damn rings are on my fingers. Provided that I am clean, tidy and well-mannered, that should suffice as far as my appearance goes. If I wanted to go and work in a chain restaurant with stupid dress code rules, I'd do that.

Here's why I continue to work where I do:

1. tremendous schedule flexibility (which is important re: school)
2. I have much freedom in my personal appearance (John LOVES me and he honestly doesn't care how many tattoos I have or what color my hair is as long as I'm taking excellent care of our customers)
3. the peeps...well, the ones I work with, anyway (I truly dig some of the folks I've worked with for the past four years and I am treated with an enormous amount of respect by them - that feels good and you don't get that everywhere you go; I've known John for more than ten years and he's a great guy, even when he pisses me off, and would do anything for his most loyal employees)
4. For the most part, I am the boss of me (obviously, owner-man, John, is the boss of everyone, but he pretty much allows me to be on autopilot - which I LOVE (I have had jobs before in which a supervisor is always looking over my shoulder - HATE that...essentially, I CAN be trusted and so I prefer to be treated as such)

I been framed.

2006-10-19T00:51:00.000-07:00

Manager-dude has, in only two months, made countless (ok, but I've counted them anyway: 23) mistakes on the schedule, some of which were not caught in time to fix them. Just to give you an idea, Whitney used to do the schedule and, in four years, made only three (3) mistakes. You get the picture. It's a pain to work around everyone's busy lives and make sure all positions are filled and that the staff is well balanced, but it ain't rocket science. After writing his first schedule, he brought it to me and asked me to look it over for errors - I found about three or four that week and pointed them out to him. For the next couple of weeks, I continued to point out errors to him...the last thing I wanted was to have a busser not show up because manager-dude had neglected to schedule one for the evening. It was in the best interest of everyone that I continue to try to assist manager-dude in mastering that muthah. And with each progressive week, he would get more and more edgy and defensive with me and then start whining about how needy everyone is with requesting certain days off. Sorry, dude, it's a restaurant, not a school/police station/doctor's office/hospital/etc. For most folks working the front of the house, this is not a career, but an end to a means. And so we have other plans.

Like me, for example. Tonight.

It was my lovely wife, J's, birthday and I had planned to wine and dine her at one of my new favorite restaurants in Portland, Nuestra Cocina (sooooo delicious!). En route to dinner, my cell phone rings, indicating that I have a new voicemail. It's Whitney and she's calling from work and wondering where I am since, according to the schedule, I was due in at 5:30pm.

What the hell?

When manager-dude posted that schedule about a week or so ago, I specifically remember him telling me that he scheduled me for only three days, as I'd requested (last week he had me scheduled for five days, which I'd specifically told him I would not be able to do once school started) and I also would have noticed if he'd scheduled me on this date since it was J's birthday and we had plans to celebrate together. I am 100% certain that I was scheduled off for Oct. 18 when that schedule was posted.

How can this be, you ask?

To my credit, this sort of thing has happened before. Manager-dude discovers errors on the schedule and fixes them on the computer, putting the updated version where the old one was posted and discarding the old one. Does he tell the people whose schedules are impacted by his changes? No he does not. He somehow magically expects us to know that, not only should we check and write down our schedule when it is posted, but we should also check it every day thereafter in the event that it has changed.

I don't think so!

That's the most crazymaking expectation I've ever heard. Is he nuts? Does he really truly believe that it is my fault that I missed my shift tonight? Let's look at the facts:

Number of times bad kitty has (in four years) missed a shift at work (including tonight): 1

Number of times (in two months) manager-dude has made mistakes on the schedule (including tonight): 24

I rest my case.

Je suis le mental case, part 1

2006-10-16T16:50:00.000-07:00

I'm mildly agoraphobic.

I mean, I am not fearful of actual marketplaces per se, but I don't do so well in crowds or around folks who take up a great deal of emotional space. With elevators, I'm great as long as I'm the sole rider (or if I am amongst family or friends); otherwise, 'tis freaky for moi.

So I guess it's not so much the open spaces that prove alarming for me, but the people in the open spaces that I have a hard time with. Is that still agoraphobia?

Sadly, none of my phobias seem to have names and all of the phobias that DO have names don't seem so applicable to me.

Arachnophobia - nope
Xenophobia - nope
Homophobia - absolutely not
Acrophobia - no
Claustrophobia - oh, definitely. ok, nevermind.

Here are some of the other things I have a hard time with - are there names for any of these phobias?

loud noises
flourescent light/direct (non-natural) light
abandonment
dental work
fire (pyrophobia?)
change

Looking at the bright side, I should consider myself fortunate to be living in an era in which I can fearlessly blog about my phobias and not during a time in which I might have been burned at the stake or put away in a mental institution.

Yay 2006!

our restaurant customers say the darndest dumbest things

2006-10-14T02:07:00.000-07:00

and here are some examples of them:

Customers, after entering the restaurant through the front door, ask the host(ess), who has been in the air-c0nditioned restaurant since the start of her shift, "What's the weather like on the patio?" Some of our hosts are savvy enough to inform the customer that the weather on the patio is not unlike the weather outside the front of the building, which the customer should be quite well acquainted with, seeing as how they just came from there.
"Is that real ice?" This is a frequently heard query regarding ice sculptures as well as a large glass sink of crushed ice holding martini glasses (which exists in the bar where I currently work)...to which I frequently can't help but reply, "Why wouldn't it be?"
"Do you know where the restroom is at?" OK, I hate the whole preposition at the end of a sentence, but give me a break. Of course I know where the restroom is located - I work there! C'mon, folks, don't be so silly. Ask me where it is, don't ask me if I know where it is! And please don't tack an 'at' on the end of the sentence! KThnx.
When they have finished their dinner and their dessert, I always ask if there is anything else I can get for them, hoping that perhaps they will order a glass of port or a nip of scotch to end their evening. At least once a month, however, someone will reply with, "a winning lottery ticket?" and the entire table will burst into laughter as if that is the funniest thing they've ever heard. I refrain from informing them that I could likely retire if I'd had a dollar for every time I'd heard that one.
Folks call on the phone and will ask "How busy will you be at 7 o'clock?" Gee, I dunno, let me pull out my crystal ball and check! I know, on the weekends especially, it is relatively easy to determine that we WILL be busy, just not HOW BUSY. Sure, we can look and see if there are alot of reservations, but sometimes there are a lot of walk-ins as well and sometimes not. C'mon folks, really, how we would be able to give an accurate response to that?
Cutomers will ask me a question about an item on the menu or whether or not we carry a certain item. After responding (with confidence!), some will look at me and say, "are you sure?" Please. If I wasn't certain, I'd say so - or I'd excuse myself to go and make certain. If you ask a question, please just accept the answer that you are given. If someone asks you a question at your job and you answer them promptly and with confidence, how would you feel if they came back with "are you sure?"

une petite update

2006-10-12T14:11:00.000-07:00

By the way, our floors look fanfuckingtastic! Hooray for Pergo! The bad kitties have been forgiven, although we will be garnishing their allowances until the beauteous new floors are paid off.

who's the bad kitty now?

2006-08-02T04:20:00.000-07:00

Last day of vacation and we're pretty ready to be home. We're tired, we're hot, we're grouchy and we all want to sleep in our own beds, for a change.

Nevermind that we ALMOST RAN OUT OF GAS on our last leg of the roadtrip...

We pull up in front of our still newish-to-us townhouse and we're all delighted to see our Edward Scissorhands-ish abode. J was talking about how much she missed our kitties and how she was looking forward to seeing them. She jumped out of the car and ran to our front door. I tried to grab a couple of random items, figuring it'd be less to lug in later.

The smiles of excitement on our faces, as our key was unlocking our front door, turned to utter disgust as we stepped into our home and took a big whiff of the hot, muggy, cat-urine infested air.

What the fuh...?

Our cats had sitters and were well fed and paid attention to while we were away but, somehow, this was not sufficient for them and they were angry. They were pissed. They pissed!

All over our dining room carpet.

And our living room carpet.

And our kitchen wood laminate flooring.

It was utterly disgusting. They'd never done this before.

We busted out the Nature's Miracle. We lit scented candles. We opened the windows and turned up the fans. After a few hours of cleaning and wiping down surfaces, our home smelled like Pineapple Cilantro candle. AND cat pee.

We'd been considering tearing up our carpet and installing wood laminate flooring on the entire downstairs living area, but that was to be next year's home improvement project. Should we consider doing that now? Or just borrow a friend's carpet shampooer? Or call a professional cleaner for the carpets?

We opted for the latter and selected a gay-friendly, environmentally-conscious carpet cleaning service to do the job. Karen found the concept of gay-friendly carpet cleaning to be a hoot, but hey, I don't want negative angry energy directed at me in my home, so we use gay-friendly services whenever possible. Besides, this way the money that we pay them won't later be used against us politically.

Well, the carpet cleaners came yesterday and -even though it smelled 100% better when our carpets were saturated with their nontoxic chemicals- the smell came back as soon as the carpets dried. Turns out that the angry urine invasion was pretty pervasive, plummetting deep below the carpet surface and through the pad underneath, then onto (into?) the sub-floor. This is a larger problem, we are told. This will require a tearing up of the carpet, discarding the pad beneath it, painting the affected area with a product called "KILLZ" (something every aspiring Buddhist should use, no doubt), then re-covering the floor. It looks like our wood laminate remodel will be happening much sooner than we'd originally intended.

In the meantime, the enviro-friendly carpet folks gave me some volcanic ash to sprinkle around and then vacuum up after several hours. Yes, volcanic ash. Who knows if this will help rid our home of the odor in the meantime. I do not understand at all how volcanic ash of all things will be plucking each and every odor particle from the air and taking it away forever.

We shall see.

insomniacs anonymous

2006-08-01T02:22:00.000-07:00

I have insomnia.

Fierce, vicious insomnia.

I've had it on and off for years since high school (so, about 25 years) and, for the most part, I've learned to live with it. During the school year, I make the most of it and typically get a LOT of studying done between the hours of midnight and 4am. Sometimes people think I'm crazy. Which is fine, I guess, but the insomnia has become so normalized for me by now.

Sometimes I am completely incapable of making sleep happen until 6 or 7 am.

When I embark upon a group project at school, I have made it a habit of letting my groupmates know that they ought not be alarmed if they receive email from me at three in the morning or so. I learned the hard way that that sort of thing tends to freak some people out a little.

Here is a list of things I have tried in an attempt to rid myself of said insomnia (either permanently or temporarily - ya gotta take what you can get):

warm bath
hot tea, milk, and other warm beverages (without alcohol)
alcohol (in varying quantities and temperatures)
Chammomile
Lavender
Melatonin
Valerian
St. John's Wort
reading
thinking about something peaceful
thinking about something boring
several over-the-counter sleep aids, none of which worked
Trazedone (kinda works, but takes too long to kick in)
Ellavil (did not work AT ALL)
~~one other lame Rx that did nothing~~ Restoril
Sonata (worked well most of the time)
Valium (kinda worked)
Ambien (got me to sleep, just didn't keep me there)
Morphine (this worked!)

So, you see the problem. And even though I go to my doc and say that I wanna try this Lunestra stuff that I see advertised in my New Yorker or that I did okay with Sonata, or alternating Sonata and Ambien, they tell me no and write me a prescription for Trazedone. When I first picked this prescription up from the pharmacy, the pharmacist told me that I should be really careful if I get up in the middle of the night because this drug will make me so drowsy that it'll be dangerous for me to be at large! In my own home even!!!

This was so exciting for me to hear, I cannot even begin to describe. Hooray! Finally a drug that will conk me out completely so that I can have a peaceful night's sleep like the normal people do! I simply could not wait for evening to fall so that I could battle my insomnia - kapow, right in the kisser!

The kind pharmacist even suggested that I cut the pill in half and begin with a mere half dosage! It's that powerful, he tells me! I consider the possibilities. I so cannot wait to try this and I'm gonna take a whole one because I have a high tolerance and I hate cutting pills in half - they never divide perfectly evenly and this drives me crazy. I do not tell the pharmacist any of this, though. It is my own little secret.

I was nearly giddy with joy when I popped my first Trazedone at around 11pm. I crawled into bed and found a somewhat comfortable position while I waited for the magic drug to whisk me away into a wondrous sleep.

And I waited.

Some grueling two hours later, sleep finally remembered me and claimed me as one of her own. I did not feel like crap the next day and for that I am grateful. In two and a half weeks, I see my new doctor. Perhaps she will agree with me that perhaps a different, better, more effective sleeping pill is in my best interest.

I don't understand why they won't just give me Morphine to take for insomnia. The motherfucker works. And how.

Sleater-Kinney...it's not just a freeway exit in Olympia, Washington - it's a phenomena

2006-07-27T00:08:00.000-07:00

A week or two ago, I got word that Sleater-Kinney, my fave girl punk rock band and one that has been my solace during a hardship or two, is breaking up and that their present tour would be their last. This saddened me enormously, but I totally get that these things happen. At the time that their breakup was announced, there were no plans for a farewell show in Portland, but we all knew that they would have to schedule one.

And they did.

But tickets sold out in less than ten minutes and many local fans, myself included, were left high and dry. And ticketless. I couldn't believe it. For all of their previous shows, I'd been able to get tickets the day they went on sale and never had any trouble whatsoever. Their shows would typically sell out, but not usually right away.

In no time flat, tickets were available on eBay for upwards of $300. Scalper websites had them available for between $90 and $135 per ticket. These are tickets that originally sold for $12, plus a $1 service charge. In the past, we'd paid around $20 or so for their shows, but clearly they weren't looking to make any money on this show, they just wanted to give back to their very loyal fanbase.

A friend of mine boasted that he'd scored tickets and I have to admit that I was a little jealous. They just had to add another show. They just had to.

Then a couple of weeks ago, my daughter (K) came home from hanging out downtown with her pals and reported that her friend, Hannah, had claimed that a second show was already on the books with tickets to go on sale the following Saturday at noon. Tickets would be available at the venue box office for one hour before they would be released for online and telephone sales. J and K and I all looked at one another.

We all had the same thought.

We would go downtown very early Saturday morning and queue up at the Crystal Ballroom. This time we would not miss out on obtaining tickets to the last Sleater-Kinney show ever. We confirmed on the Crystal Ballroom website that our information was, indeed, correct and then set our alarms for 5am Saturday.

By 5:45am, we claimed our spaces as 10th, 11th, and 12th in line, joining the other bleary-eyed fans who'd come before us. I ran down to VooDoo Doughnuts and bought a dozen, which we shared with the other fans in line near us. We brought blankets, a newspaper, snacks and our senses of humor as we did our best to get comfortable on the urban sidewalk. It got colder before it got warmer and we spent a fair amount of time shooting the shit with Amy, who was just in front of us in line.

When fatigue (and sugar crash) set in, we tried laying down and sleeping on the sidewalk - I'll just say that the residentially challenged folks make it look easy and comfortable sometimes, but trust me, it's so not. Other folks were spending the next several hours until the box office opened reading (I saw two copies of The Devil Wears Prada), knitting, playing cards, etc.

About an hour before the box office opened, we noticed a fellow with a large and very official-looking video cam scanning the crowded line and we, at first, thought that perhaps we'd be on the evening news. 'Twas not the case. Turns out he was making a documentary for the band! We gave K our money and let her buy our tickets so that she could be filmed for the documentary.

I'm really sad about Sleater-Kinney breaking up. Their music means a lot to me and the women in the band are smart and very articulate. I hope they continue making music separately and I'm sure I'll get used to the idea eventually.

I don't do so well with change.

Californiacation

2006-07-25T23:40:00.000-07:00

While standing in line for the Pacific Spin at Soak City, the little boy who got his swim trunks pocket torn off by his dad was goofing off with (presumably) his brother while waiting the 45 minutes to get to the start of the ride. During that time, we overheard this fellow (who had maybe 6 or 7 years under his belt) proclaim, "You know, most people don't survive this ride."

We all laughed out loud at this and the young fellow was none the wiser. But, did he really think he might die on the ride? And, if so, what did he suppose they did with all of the dead bodies? And how did they procure so many repeat riders wanting more? I suppose it's possible that he meant something different by this, but what?

Then, while in line for a different ride, about ten kids from a summer camp were separating me from J and K, who'd seen them coming and ran ahead. No worries, though, as the line for this ride went pretty quickly and it was enjoyed on an individual basis. While waiting, a cute African-American girl strikes up a conversation with me.

"Do you have any sons or daughters?"

"Yes, I have one daughter who is ahead of us in line, the blond girl with the orange swimsuit," I tell her. I then add that I wasn't fast enough to get in line with my family before the kids from the summer camp came over and that is why we aren't standing in line together.

She checks K out, then asks me, " Have you ever been on that ride?" she says, pointing to the Pacific Spin.

I tell her that I was in line for that ride, but didn't get to go on it because they didn't like how my swim trunks were. I wasn't sure if she followed or not, but then she says, "I was wondering why you were wearing your boxer shorts."

I explain to her that I find the shorts more comfortable than a swimsuit like hers. I refrain from adding anything about "when you get to be my age" or from using the phrase "fucking fat-phobic Southern Californians thinking that anyone over size 8 is obese" and she seems cool, yet perplexed by my response.

Her friend asks me if the ride we're waiting for is scary and I tell her that it isn't. I then feel compelled to qualify my statement since I don't find very many rides "scary" and these girls are about 8 years old. I explain to them that it's dark for a little bit and then light and that it goes pretty fast and that water dumps on your head. The friend admits that she's somewhat afraid of the dark and I assure her that it won't be dark for very long. The African-American girl then poses a serious question to me.

"Do you bond with your daughter?"

Holy crap. Did I hear this kid correctly? What an odd question. Perhaps she said something else or means something different by it.

"What do you mean?" I asked her.

"You know, how moms and dads bond with their daughters?" Yowsa, did she learn about this at summer camp?

"Do you mean, like, hanging out with her and doing special things together with her?" I ask for clarification.

"Yeah, like that."

"Oh, sure, we bond."

Where on earth do kids get this stuff?

Other observations from California

1. WAY too much use of styrofoam. Unbelievable.
2. Drove past a shop in Oxnard, CA, called "Retarded Persons Thrift Store"
3. "Gum Alley" in San Luis Obispo is a little bit cool and punk rock and a little bit just plain gross

Super-Soak Me

2006-07-20T21:40:00.000-07:00

Today (day 4 of my family summer road trip), we decided to spend the day at a water-park to cool our hot selves off. I'd only been to one water-park before (Raging Waters in San Dimas) and I remember it being very fun, so I was looking forward to spending the day at Soak City, a subsidiary of Knott's Berry Farm.

The park had just recently opened the Pacific Spin - a ride in which 2-4 people, on an inner-tube-type-of-flotation-device that is shaped like a Honey Comb cereal, are situated into a small wading pool at the top of a tower (in which said people have climbed about four flights of steps, carrying the giant Honey Comb) and, after being instructed by a 17 year-old O.C. kid, pushes off into a large, dark tube that is flowing with running cold water. The tube twists, spins and turns in complete darkness for a minute or so and then there is a sudden 20+ foot drop. Happy screams ensue while the tube is speedily dumped into the large end of a giant funnel-like contraption, complete with showers of running water in both directions. The Honey Comb then slides rapidly along the large curve of the funnel, and back again toward the original direction, continuing back and forth until the Honey Comb loses momentum and is coerced by the water into a small opening where riders are treated to one last splash via a waterfall raining down on their heads before they are finally dumped into the finishing pool and hurriedly ushered along by the no-longer-thrilled-with-their-jobs teen lifeguards.

Sounds like fun, huh?

That's what we thought, too. So J, K and I decided to make the Pacific Spin our first ride of the day. The line seemed to be on the short side for such a new thrill ride, but we'd gotten there just when the park opened, and we thought it an excellent place to start. The short-ish line turned out to be about 45 minutes long but, judging by the faces of those exiting the ride, as well as the screams of joy heard from nearly every rider, we figured it'd be worth it.

Now, here, I must digress for a moment.

Being something of a dork, I managed to pack my swimsuit top, but no bottoms/board shorts. I realized this by the time we arrived in Long Beach and figured it was no big deal, as I didn't think we had plans to swim and I was content going into the ocean in my cargo shorts and swimsuit top. But then we decided to go to a water-park and, since they're super particular about what one may and may not wear on their water slides, I thought it best to treat myself to a new pair of board shorts. Every other pair I own had been purchased at Target or the Gap and since I was in a major surfing Mecca (Huntington Beach), I thought I'd score some fine authentic surfer board shorts. After trying on a gazillion pairs that were rejected for various valid reasons, I found myself sporting a pair of Reef shorts sporting a green East-Asian inspired design. I loved them and didn't mind being $50 poorer in order to own them. Swimsuit dilemma solved, I was ready for the water-park.

Being somewhat organized, J decided to check the website for the Soak City prior to our departure for the park. In doing so, J noticed a warning about attire stating that swimwear may not have any metal or plastic accessory or be jeweled in any way. Crap. My bikini top had these metal dealies joining the strings and the top of the bra-ish part. We ruled out the bikini top and I just wore one of J's yoga tops with my board shorts.

So here we all are at the top of the Pacific Spin and it's finally our turn, after waiting about 45 minutes. We'd watched as the group before us, comprised of a dad and his two sons, and one of the sons had "illegal grommets" on his shorts back pocket. The ride operator said that the kid couldn't ride with the grommets on his pocket, so dad just rips the whole damn pocket off. Um, problem solved. J, K and I are frantically checking for anything that may prevent us from riding and J determines that a rubber tab on the edge of my pocket flap may not be ok and that I'll have to tuck it in. I do this and, convinced that we are ready to take the plunge on this fantabulous ride, I help plunk our Honey Comb into the wading pool and am asked by the ride attendant to spin around. I happily do so, convinced that I will pass this inspection with flying colors.

"Ma'am, I can't let you ride with those grommets on your back pocket," the tan ride attendant firmly tells me.

"Huh? Grommets? What grommets?" I ask her, as I turn my head in order to look at my left ass cheek, which holds the offending pocket. They're there alright, but we hadn't even seen them because they were the exact same color as the fabric. But eagle-eyes tan lifeguard chick saw 'em and busted me. She tells us that we can step aside and determine what we'd like to do. She offered me the options of: pulling them out or putting my swim trunks on inside-out. J suggested we just pull them out, as many before us had clearly done already, judging by the sprinkling of grommets on the ground at the top of the ride.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

J just looked at me.

"I just paid fifty bucks for these and they're nice shorts and I love them. I'm not about to rip them up just to ride a water-slide that will last all of 3 minutes."

"Well, what do you think we should do," J asks.

I tell her that she and K should go ahead without me and I'll go back down to the fitting room and look into the possibility of turning my shorts inside-out. I meet them at the bottom of the ride and both J and K accompany my to the changing room. J asks if I want her to turn her shorts inside-out in solidarity. It's an incredibly sweet gesture, but I'm not in the right space to appreciate it properly. There's no mirror in the changing room (which is probably just as well) and I feel utterly ridiculous. Oh well, I figure, it's still quite early in the day and I figure that by noon or so, at least 20% of those wearing board shorts will have them on inside-out. Sure, some folks will just tear the grommets out, some will choose to ride the few rides that don't hold this requirement (basically this rules out all of the tubes), and some others will choose inside-out, right?

Wrong.

Total number of parkgoers sporting inside-out board shorts (including me): 1

Total number of parkgoers sporting board shorts with ass pocket grommets and riding the fun rides (where said grommets are supposedly banned): 7+

Time I began seeking other inside-outers: approx. 10:35am

Time I began counting grommet rebels running free: approx. 2pm

Time we left Soak City: 3:05pm

Getting caught checking out the booties of the other park patrons (all ages, genders and races) in order to conduct this survey: priceless

Amount of fun I had, despite this wardrobe malfunction: lots

Funnest ride: Pacific Spin, natch

Greetings from supah-sunny Caul-eeee-fawrn-ya!!

2006-07-18T21:43:00.000-07:00

Yep, I'm on another vacation. Nope, it's not fair, seeing as how I just took a mini-vaca only a mere three weeks ago. Deal with it, firefighter.

This time it is the family roadtrip down the coast of Oregon and all the way down to San Diego, with stops in the bay area, Long Beach and the Redwoods along the way. Internet connections are few and far between and, even though I brought le laptop along, I'm reporting from a borrowed machine currently.

Highlights, observations and oddities seen thus far include:

a Toyota (yay! a palindrome!)-ish SUV pulling a trailer holding a(n) historical military cannon (circa Civil War, ours)...we photographed this as we passed it by, as the driver proudly beamed (dude, we were amused and mortified, not impressed, get over yourself)
a senior-citizen biker gang, some avec bitches and some not (on Harleys, for reals)...this was far more impressive than the dude with the scary cannon
waaaaay too much roadkill (quite the variety, though)
stopping in a farmer's market/produce stand/store in Gilroy, CA (garlic capital of the world) and watching J bust a move to The Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited" to the shock and surprise of onlookers
K, intending to join J and I across the street at the relative's home, walks into the wrong house (which, incidentally, was right next door to where she needed to be) and calls out a "hello?" to J and I (who are, of course, in the correct house) and, upon receiving no response, proceeds to walk through the home looking in the rooms and hoping to find us there...eventually, she realizes that she might be in the wrong house and comes next door
conversation overheard in a boutique selling women's surf-inspired clothing:

Salesclerk: "What size is she?"

Grandma (to sales clerk): "She's pretty big."

Salesclerk: "So, like a 10 or a 12?"

Grandma (mortified): "No, she's an 8!!!"

Yes, I'm officially in Southern California, now. Where a size 8 is considered pretty big and the size of the brain appears to be irrelevant (please, no hate mail about how faboo SoCal is - I lived here for five years and I know that there are some folks here who are smart and not superficial and all that...I'm just talking about the prevailing idea of what = beautiful here and that it bugs me a little...I actually love a lot of things about this place - super-duper multicultural, great food and better year-round produce, the cultural arts and music options for those who love them, you can buy booze in the supermarket - I just HATE the whole beauty contest that nobody's gonna win that is so everpresent).

I'm neither super grande, nor am I tres petite, but I just hate the whole skinniest girl contest and all the icky judgment that goes along with it. There's nothing good that comes of it and it makes a lot of chicks feel crappy about themselves. That's no bueno, to be sure.

Today, after a late breakfast enjoyed while shouting out the answers to questions from Who Wants to be a Millionaire and The Price is Right, we went body boarding at Seal Beach and then hung out at Huntington Beach for awhile. The people-watching was fan-fucking-tastic.

More to come, on an as-able basis.

Kids Say the Darndest Things - Preschool Edition

2006-07-08T03:27:00.000-07:00

I was recently reminded of a time when my mother was frequently babysitting my wonderful daughter, K, many years ago when I was working on my Bachelor's Degree and sometimes worked in the evenings.

My mother would continuously attempt to pump K for information of any sort that she could get. I was in my mid/late-twenties at the time, but my mother seemed to still be under the impression that I was under her charge.

I remember when I dyed my hair a luscious shade of maroonish pink (which looked fabulous, by the way) and K (then 4 years old) decided that she, too, wanted pink hair. I couldn't see any reason why not, so I promptly dyed her blond bob pink, albeit a slightly lighter shade than my own. Pink hair became all the rage at K's preschool and Olivia, a 4 year-old with long blond locks decided that she also wanted pink hair. Olivia's parents sorta ended up kinda hating me as a result.

I should also mention that K's bob was a result of my mother thinking K's hair "too messy" and not liking my attempts at growing out K's bangs. One time, while babysitting for me, my mother brought K to my sister's home (sis is a beauty school dropout) and had sis cut K's hair into a very tidy bob, complete with bangs. I was not happy about this.

Anyway, the lovely K with her pink-haired bob is at my mom's and is making some teasing reference to imposing some sort of preschool evil upon mom's husband, Papa. My mother then says to K, "be careful that you don't upset Papa - or he might call you bad names."

K thinks about this.

"My mom calls people bad names when she's driving," K says, volunteering this info to my mother, who was continually attempting to catch me at less-than-stellar parenting.

"What sorts of bad names?" my mother asks, obviously trying to trap K into dropping an F-bomb so she can confront me about swearing in front of my daughter.

"Gramps," K says, revealing my insult for the drivers in front of me who seem to subtract 15 at every Speed Limit sign.

"And Idiot," K continues, clearly with no sense of loyalty whatsoever.

"And Clown," K finishes, making sure my mother has them all down.

"Oh, those are bad names," my mother assures K, "are there any others?"

K thinks on this another moment and then, fortunately and miraculously, tells my mother no.

What Kind of Fool am I? Or am I?

2006-07-07T13:31:00.000-07:00

I recently learned that a friend of ours has a crush on my lovely wife, J. Let's just call this friend Gertrude. J was also unaware of the affections Gertrude held for her until just the other day.

Can open. Worms freakin' everywhere.

Interestingly, J and I met Gertrude through mutual friends, the Shapiros, another lesbian couple we hang out with frequently. At the time we met her, Gertrude was dating a cute and funny gal from New York, who I'll call Len, and upon meeting them both, J and I both found Len quite charming and fun to be around, but agreed that Gertrude seemed less approachable and that something about her caused us to see some red flags...although neither of us could put our finger on it.

Gertrude is an amazing singer, though, and if American Idol had been around ten years ago, she coulda been a contender. J and I both appreciate music pretty enormously and gave Gert many kudos on her fine set of pipes.

But, when I later learned that Gert had once made out with my boss (um, eww) many years ago and that she'd dated a friend of Alison's and stalked him after they broke up a few years back, the red flags started to make a little sense.

I'm not that good at having really casual friends. Amongst the friends that I do have, there are far more things that I like about them than things that I don't like. When the reverse is true, I just feel that it's not worth my time or effort to maintain the connection. J is different than I am in that respect and is great at hanging out with most people, even if she doesn't have that much in common with them or they don't interest her that much. I admire that about her, but it could never work for me.

When I had to work last Sunday night and we realized I wouldn't be able to attend the soccer game for which we hold season tickets, J decided to call Gertrude, as she enjoys soccer also. Gertrude, of course, wanted to go to the game with J, and then they hung out afterward and Gert decided she wanted to get her first tattoo and asked J to come with her. I later learned that J held a frightened Gert's hand as the needle pumped ink in and out of her skin. No big deal, though, as J would do that for most anyone and has excellent calming skills when others are freaking out. At the time, J had no idea that Gert had a thing for her, nor that Gert was under the impression that it was reciprocal. No doubt the nurturing, comforting and hand-holding fueled that impression.

So when C. Shapiro called J on Wednesday morning to discuss their (the Shapiros, J, Gertrude) camping trip this weekend, she felt it was time to let J know how Gert was feeling. Why was this important? Because, even though I was originally invited on the camping trip, I couldn't get any of my shifts covered and had to stay home. I'd encouraged J to go anyway, since she loves camping and C. Shapiro's birthday would be celebrated on the trip. Problem is, J gets a little bit frightened of "the woods" (I think she watched too many horror flicks as a kid - that or her older brothers convinced her that the woods were scary). I grew up in Oregon and think that trees are lovely - the more the merrier...I have no problem whatsoever with being in "the woods" and the fewer other campers there are around, the better.

A week or so ago, when we realized that I wouldn't be able to be a part of this trip, J asked if I'd have any problem with her sharing a tent with Gertrude, so that it wouldn't be as frightening for her.

"Nope, I don't have a problem with that," I told her.

And then I thought nothing more of it...until C. Shapiro called with her revelation and suggested that maybe J might want to bring her own tent, after all. C. Shapiro also warned J that Gert is convinced that J feels likewise about her - is it because she was selected to use our extra soccer ticket and received nurturing support during her first tattoo (during which, I later learned, she freaked out extensively)? is it because she perceives J's kindness, charm and enthusiasm as being directed at her personally? is it because she perceives unrest between J and I, since J shows up to a lot of parties and group events alone (since I am ususally at work)? or is it just wishful thinking on her behalf?

Since J and C. Shapiro are pretty good friends, I'm certain that C. Shapiro's motivations in telling J about Gert's feelings are purely to avoid any awkward situations that may arise from sharing a tent. I appreciate C. Shapiro for this and am glad that she was forthcoming about this as well.

I've teased J a little about this and planted a few conversations with a little bit of bad kitty propaganda...not that it was necessary or vital to keep J honest, but just to make light of what will likely become an awkward situation in the very near future. Plus, it didn't hurt matters to make sure I look fabulous, smart, witty and studly by comparison.

Furthermore, though, this revelation explains some of Gert's frequent phone calls and text messages to J, including asking to borrow a sleeping bag and an early morning call (these I do not like - from anyone) today to our house to see "how things were going."

Should be an interesting camping trip.

I trust J enormously and don't worry in the least that she will betray me. I know that she loves me and don't worry that she's at all attracted to Gertrude. I guess it bugs me a little that Gert has been pining away for J for some time (despite C. Shapiro's attempts to dissuade her) and would love nothing more than for me to be out of the picture. If I were a sucky partner, that wouldn't bug me so much...but I'm not, so it does.

Of course, what bothers me more than anything about this whole scenario is the flashbacks it conjures up of The Incredibly True and Heartbreaking Tale of my First Hollywood Breakup.

Hotter.

2006-07-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

Through the course of my mucho double shiftage this past week, I ended up working some lunch waitshifts – something I pretty much never do. The lunch crowd is a different breed than the dinner crowd in many ways and the lunch regulars are in an alien class all their own. Those amongst our servers who work lunches regularly have all cataloged the various peculiarities of these regulars and are able to administer individualized service to them sans verbalized requests. Ironically, my four-year tenure at the restaurant was invisible to these lunch regulars who have never seen me before and, on more than one occasion, I was asked “are you new here?”

The three little biddies on table 14 didn’t bother asking if I was a newbie and my fellow lunch workers, Drew (who infamously dodged the butter bitch) and Sherry, who sat them there, knew that these wrinkly, diamond-deckered women were not exactly low-maintenance – they just didn’t bother to tell me so.

Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive arrived before WAY-Too-Tan, but didn’t want anything but water while they waited for their friend to arrive. A few minutes after WAY-Too-Tan arrived, I stopped by the table to see if she would like a beverage.

“She just got here! Give her a chance to look at the menu!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick and Mini-Beehive ordered, almost in unison.

I told them that this was no problem and that I’d check back in a few minutes. Later, while I was inputting their order of three identical appetizers and one Caesar salad to share, I learned from Drew that this is the same thing they order every time.

Although I have excellent balance and strong arms, I can only carry three large-sized plates at a time. I’d asked the women if they wanted their salad to be served first and they said no, that they wanted it all at the same time. So I deliberately refrained from placing the salad first, so they wouldn’t think that I was disregarding their wish to have all the food simultaneously. As I’m placing an appetizer plate before each one of them, Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick pipes up, “you forgot our salad.”

“Actually, ladies, I’ll be right back with your salad – I can only carry three plates at a time.”

They said nothing and the look on Mini-Beehive’s face told me that they may or may not have believed that I really didn’t forget about their salad. I returned immediately with a solitary Caesar salad, as well as additional plates and freshly ground pepper. At this point, Mini-Beehive requests a cup of coffee black and asks me to microwave it for 15 seconds so it’ll be hot enough. As this is a frequent request of several of our elderly regulars, I often pre-heat the mug with boiling hot water before pouring the coffee in and decide that I will do this for Mini-Beehive instead of subjecting her coffee to the myriad other flavors roaming around the microwave. All of my other customers have been content with the pre-heated mugs. But not Mini-Beehive. She consumes about one-third of the coffee in the mug and when I offered a refill, she asked that I take her existing coffee and microwave it for another 15 seconds. When Drew and Sherry see me at the microwave, they laugh and remark that they forgot to warn me about her.

“Thanks guys,” I tell them, as they continue chuckling at me.

“At least they’re decent tippers,” Drew advises.

I deposit the freshly nuked coffee in front of Mini-Beehive. A minute later, I return to ensure that her coffee temperature is to her liking.

“It’s okay,” she tells me. I don’t know if that means that it’s okay, meaning just right, or if she means that it’s not what she wants and is tired of me trying to get it right and failing miserably. My guess is that it’s the latter, but also figure that if she wanted me to do something about it, she’d say so. I decide to just leave it at that. As I’m walking away from the table, I hear Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick say to Mini-Beehive, “is your coffee okay?”

“No, it’s not hot enough,” Mini-Beehive confides to her cronies. I make an about-face and return to the table.

“Would you like me to re-warm your coffee?”

“She heard you!” Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick proclaims, clearly mortified.

Mini-Beehive allows me to take her coffee away for another 15 second treatment and I return moments later with a cup that is steaming so much, you’d think it was on fire.

When I check back a moment later, Mini-Beehive frowns at me and tells me that her coffee is fine. Again, as I’m walking away from the table, I get the real scoop.

“It’s too hot now,” Mini-Beehive complains.

“Send it back,” WAY-Too-Tan advises.

I decide not to return to the table and hope that the natural cooling-off process will suffice for Mini-Beehive and her coffee. After clearing away all of their plates, I return with their bill.

WAY-Too-Tan attempts to hand me her credit card, but Wrong-Shade-of-Lipstick reaches across the table with an interception. She slaps WAY-Too-Tan’s card out of my hand and tries to give me her credit card instead. Mini-Beehive speaks up, “no, I’m paying…take my card.”

It should go without saying that I really hate it when people fight over the check – particularly when it involves physical contact with my hands (which have been slapped and grabbed before under similar circumstances). If you genuinely want to buy someone’s meal, do it without a production: slip your credit card to your waiter when you have excused yourself from the table to go to the loo (this is what the people with class do). People who make a show of picking up the tab and who grab me/the bill/the other person’s credit card do not impress anyone – they create a situation that is uncomfortable and embarrassing for all. If you don’t see me wearing a shirt with black and white vertical stripes, then it is not part of my job to referee disputes over the bill and I have no grounds on which to determine whose credit card I should accept. A couple of times, I thought I had the perfect solution of taking all of the cards being offered to me and splitting the check, but nobody was happy when I did this – especially me when they left me crappy tips for not doing it the way they wanted.

Rant-O-Rama

2006-07-01T15:59:00.000-07:00

I returned from my lovely vacation earlier this week to be confronted with the following:

*a teen daughter needing four teeth extracted (a three-hour process, it turns out) and, subsequently, a diet of pablum - essentially.

*an employee at work who unexpectedly had an internship turn into a full-time position and put in her two weeks' notice, but stating that she was going to get as many of her shifts covered as possible...not such a big deal, except that she didn't get ANY of her shifts covered and then no-showed, thus putting a managerial schmuck like myself in the position of begging some of our otherwise overworked souls to pick up yet another extra shift and the ones I couldn't fill fell into my schedule. This meant double shifts for me this past week. Yes, plural.

*a partner who was enrolled in a week-long graduate course covering a quarter's worth of information; suffice to say, I got to do everything she typically does around the house, in addition to what I typically do, in addition to the double shifts and the healing daughter relegated to only consume pureed nourishment.

I've barely had two minutes for myself, save for some downtime spent working crossword and sudoku puzzles in between shifts at work. But I did have an opportunity to laugh this week.

I was pulling out of a parking structure downtown into rush-hour, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Well, trying to anyway. Despite inching out bit by bit, nobody would let me in. Grrr. I rolled my window down and smiled at the oncoming traffic, as sometimes this actually works (usually with men). Finally, a friendly-looking businessman slows down and gestures me over. I wave to him as a thanks and pull in behind one of the many cars that did not allow me to exit the garage. Then I noticed the bumper sticker on the back of this car. It said "Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Acts of Beauty." Apparently this does not include allowing the occasional vehicle to go ahead of you. I had to laugh. Then it occurred to me, perhaps my laughter during an otherwise cranky day/week was the senseless act of beauty they were bestowing upon me.

Nah, probably not.

Out of Office Reply

2006-06-23T11:15:00.000-07:00

I am out of the blogosphere until ~~Monday, June 26, 2006~~ next week. If you have urgent matters that must be tended to, please email somebody and hopefully they will give a crap enough to email you back. Nobody will be blogging in my absence.

Thanks! Have a great weekend!

just the facts, ma'am

2006-06-19T18:42:00.000-07:00

Some random facts about my blog:

1. All stories here are true (so far)
2. Some of the names have been changed and for various reasons, usually to cover my own ass or prevent someone from possibly getting into some sort of trouble
3. When I do use real names, I usually ask first
4. Sometimes when I blog about people (and even when I change their names), they inadvertently find my blog and leave a most surprising comment (like here)
5. I try to stay anonymous and don't post bonafide pictures of myself mostly for future employment reasons
6. This started as a school assignment (see this post)
7. All opinions are mine and are subject to change
8. I try to avoid saying anything I might later regret
9. I am not Japanese, despite my URL...it's actually an homage to two of my longtime favorite folks, Hello Kitty and David Bowie (not in that order) (as HK is a cat from Japan and DB sings about a cat from Japan in Ziggy Stardust, hence the plural); for the record, my predominant family heritage is Scottish and Native American - a very funky combo

Ya Gotta Have Style

2006-06-14T01:49:00.000-07:00

It was my first term of graduate school and I’m working on a research paper and want to do it up right. I learn that my program requires the use of the APA (American Psychological Association) Style Manual, rather than the MLA (Modern Language Association) Style Manual, which is what I used as an undergrad and in my previous grad program.

While I try to wrestle with my confusion as to why the librarians would use the APA over the MLA, I make peace with the fact that it doesn’t make sense to me and that the bottom line is that I need to get myself a new style manual. Stat!

As it turns out, J owns a copy of the APA Style Manual, but it’s an older edition and does not address how to cite web articles in my bibliography, so I decide to purchase a new style manual altogether. I recall that I have a gift certificate for Borders, so I head there instead of my usual stomping grounds, Powell’s Books. And, besides, I’ve always had some respect for the Borders.

Allow me to digress…

At the onset of my final year as an undergraduate, a new Borders store was about to open in Portland and my friend, David, and I decided that it was time to ditch restaurant work altogether and use our noodles helping people decide what to read! We were literary! We were smart! Together, we chose to attend the Borders Job (un)Fair.

After receiving a stamp of approval from our first round of interviews, both David and I were corralled into an area where we were administered a super fun test (which I understand Borders no longer uses in hiring). We had to tackle several literature-related questions (“Who wrote 1984?” “Name a novel written by Virginia Woolf,” etc.) as well as several questions about where to locate certain types of things in the bookstore (such as Feng Shui and I.M. Pei). For a geek like me, this was CANDY!!

During my second round of interviews, I was told by Shane, who was going to be the Café Manager, that I obtained a perfect score on the test (Yay! I’m gonna work in a bookstore! I’m gonna work in a bookstore!). After our first two interviews and testing, both David and I were advanced to meet with the General Manager of the store-to-be and were interviewed briefly by her. We both left the job fair with the impression that we’d be hearing from Borders soon. We were going to work in a bookstore together and, because we were also roommates, we’d carpool to our bookstore jobs!

We were going to fight illiteracy and save the environment! Together!

But then David was offered a job and all I got was a form letter, but it wasn’t even a letter – it was a post card, so a form post card telling me that there were many fine applicants and it was so hard to decide and blahblahblah I wasn’t one of ‘em. I was crushed. Absolutely crushed. Since I’d done so well on the test they’d administered at the job fair, I could only conclude that something had gone very very wrong. That something was very wrong with me.

Some time after this horrible blow to my ego, I learned through my spy, David, as well as through another friend I later realized knew the GM of that store, that this particular Borders was only looking to hire full-time employees – no part-timers allowed here. Although there was some relief in learning this, I still found it enormously ironic that what prevented me from getting a job at the bookstore was my status as a full-time student – majoring in English – at the local university. I then somehow arrived at the conclusion that if I couldn’t get a job at the Borders and I clearly knew a lot about books, then the folks who did get the jobs must be even smarter and more knowledgeable about books than I.

So, about that style manual.

Not wanting to be distracted by things I didn’t know I wanted, I head straight to the information desk of the Borders store, gift certificate in hand. This is not my typical modus operandi, as I am typically rather reluctant to request help finding something until I have exhausted my own possibilities within the search. I enjoy the search and appreciate serendipitously stumbling upon things I didn’t even know existed and wouldn’t have learned about if I always let other people find stuff for me. A young, intelligent-looking fellow seemed eager to assist me.

“I need to find the most recent printing of the APA Style Manual, please,” I tell the clerk. I know it’s likely somewhere in the reference section, but if I go at it myself, I’ll go home with an armload of dictionaries and books about writing that I have no time to devour.

“Hmmmmm,” the clerk looks super-perplexed and I do my best to be patient with him as he taps away on his computer. Since the APA manual is so commonly used and this particular Borders is within walking distance of a university, I’m surprised they don’t have a surplus stack under the counter, that these things aren’t flying out the door. I can’t figure out what is taking a seemingly inordinate amount of time to locate the APA Style Manual and, after a few minutes and resisting the urge to tap on the counter with my fingers, I jump to (what seems to me) the only logical conclusion for his apparent confusion.

“Are you out of stock?”

“Well, no,” he responds, looking more bewildered than ever, “We have an APA Style Manual, but I’m afraid it has nothing to do with fashion.”

“Well I should hope not!!!” I can barely contain my laughter at this point. Particularly considering what I was wearing (cargo shorts and a tank top, with old Jack Purcell’s)! Poor guy thought I wanted the most recent update of that kind of style manual!

perhaps I watch too much of The Sopranos

2006-06-13T12:08:00.000-07:00

I think that our new neighbors (who just purchased the similar-to-ours townhouse next door for about 40K more than we paid in the fall - yippee!!!) may be in the Witness Protection Program. Since I work in the evenings, I'm home a lot during the day and, due to our many windows, I see a lot of the goings-on in my neighborhood. It's amazing how much you can find out about folks without even trying!

But the jury's still out on these new folks next door. I first noticed them while they were interacting with their home inspector one morning while I was making my coffee. They appeared to be amiable and attentive and I found myself hoping that they would follow through with the sale, as they seemed like they'd make okay neighbors.

Well, they've since moved in and, quite curiously, I have yet to see a U-Haul, or any such moving vehicle, filled with various and sundry belongings. I have noticed, however, ~~five~~ six separate large trucks delivering different pieces of furniture. They seem to have purchased a lot of new stuff, as if they are starting fresh, new. This wouldn't seem so odd to me if they also seemed to have boxes of belongings that most folks have when they move...you know: books, linens, dishes, music, clothing, that sort of thing. And I suppose they could have snuck this stuff into the house at night, while I'm at work, but you'd think I'd catch a little residual of the movings of belongings. But no. I've seen them pull up in their practically brand-new Lexus and have nothing to unload - no boxes, no clothing on hangers, no groceries, nada.

And a brand-new Lexus in this neighborhood??? That's odd.

Furthermore, J was noticing -with amusement- last night that the female counterpart of the new neighbors was having an enormously difficult time parallel parking her car, despite at least 10-15 feet of additional space beyond the length of her car between the two already-parked cars. Perhaps she's not a city gal. Or perhaps she's not accustomed to driving herself around.

And then there's the insipid black sedan that cruises slowly down our street every now and then. I never noticed it before and, now, I've seen it several times. It never stops, either...just slowly drives by.

So, let's recap:

lots of new furniture
seemingly, no prior belongings
no groceries
can't parallel park
apparent willingness to oblige
upper-middle class car in a lower-middle class neighborhood
the sudden appearance of a mysterious black sedan

All evidence points to the Witness Protection Program, as far as I can see.

Unless, maybe they are aliens!

Listmaker, Listmaker, Make Me a List...

2006-06-10T13:49:00.000-07:00

My supah-cool friend and schoolmate, Heather (not to be confused with my sister, Heather), turned me on to the website/blog 5ives and I'm having much fun devouring the archives, starting at the very beginning, of course! So far, this is my favorite list of 5ives. You know it's good when you LOL for reals.

Thus, in the spirit of listmaking and as an homage to 5ives, I present for you...Five Lists of Five Things:

Five Creepy People I Have Known

My Dad's best friend from pharmacy school
The football player from high school with the silver front tooth
The Special-Ed teacher at my daughter's school
My former boss' bookie
My neighbor, Arnie

Five Films I Loved as a Teen

The Hunger
Harold and Maude
Rear Window
Valley Girl
Breakfast at Tiffany's

Five Stupid Things That Annoy Me More Than They Should

When people write 12 p.m. to indicate midnight
Misplaced and missing commas & apostrophes
When police cars turn on their lights just so they can go through a red light and then turn them off once they are through the intersection
When the telephone rings before 8 a.m.
Prepositions at the end of sentences (i.e. "Where are you at?" Answer: "I'm at the preposition Lost & Found")

Five Delicious Snacks

Dried mango
Chocolate-chip cookies fresh from the oven
Tuna carpaccio
Strawberries dipped in sour cream, then dipped in brown sugar
Popcorn topped with Penzey's Brady Street Cheese Sprinkle

Five Charming People I've Met

Alfonso Cuaron
Nancy Pearl
David Sedaris
Joaquin Phoenix
Suzan-Lori Parks

Six Six Six

2006-06-06T13:10:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was living in LA, in the Silverlake area, and the phone number I was assigned had a 666 prefix. I found this amusing and took no issue with it whatsoever.

Other folks varied in their reactions. Some would laugh, some would say "seriously?" and some got a little bent out of shape over it.

One woman, in particular, got a lot bent out of shape. She asked for my phone number and in LA you have to give the area code first because there are several of them down there (it's like that here in Portland now, but I don't know about the rest of the states - are there still states in the U.S. in which you give out your number without the area code first or is that a thing of the past altogether?). So I give her my area code, which was 213, and she writes that down.

I then continue, "666" and she just stands there, but says or does nothing. So I repeat myself.

"666..."

She looks up at me and asks if that is really my phone number. Yep, I tell her, and wait for her to write down.

"That's horrible," she says, "why didn't you request a different number?"

"It doesn't bother me," I tell her, "it's just a number."

She then looks at me as if I were Adolf Hitler himself and had just said that human skin lampshades make the best lampshades EVAH. I look back at her and shrug, just wanting to move things along.

"I can't write that," she tells me.

Okaaaaaay, I don't know if she was super religious or super superstitious or a debilitating combination of both. Now what?

"Do you want me to write it for you?" I offer.

She considers this and says that she doesn't want to look at it. She tells me she'll be right back and I'm left standing there. A different woman returns to continue filling out my form.

file under "kids say the darndest things"

2006-05-31T12:13:00.000-07:00

My 14 year-old daughter says to me yesterday, "You know what's cool about butts?"

"Lots of things?" I say after overpondering.

"Well, true, but the coolest thing about butts is that it's the sexy part on the body that everyone has."

"True, although I'm not sure that all butts qualify as sexy."

"I guess not," she concedes, "but at least they have the potential to be."

Gawd I love this kid.

my mom is not amazing

2006-05-30T14:51:00.000-07:00

She's actually kinda mean. But that is a rant for a different day.

So I was just having a little snack-attack and decided to bust out the Pineapple Coconut Haagen Dazs that was purchased just this last week. I put a scoop and a half into a medium-sized bowl (I know, in my last post I claimed to "almost never" eat my ice cream out of a dish...here's the sitch: if said ice cream is being consumed a la carte, then it is done so with a teaspoon directly from the carton; when said ice cream is on something or with something, it goes into a dish. kthx).

I then nuked me some Dulce de Leche sauce, busted up some pecan halves, and sliced up a banana for on top. (You think this is a glamorous snack? Ask my mean mom about the time I came home from school, in the seventh grade, and cooked myself up some lobster tails with drawn butter for a snack...).

But as I'm slicing my banana for the top 'o my snack fest, I have this really vivid memory of my mom slicing bananas for the top of my cereal and how I used to marvel at how incredibly fast she'd slice that banana and how she never cut her thumb that she'd use to stop the knife with (nevermind that it was a butter knife - I was pretty wee and all I knew was knife). My mom might have done some good stuff during my childhood, but what I remember when I think of her being amazing is how supah dupah fastly she'd cut that banana and how each and every slice appeared to be the exact same width and how they'd be so perfectly evenly sprinkled across my cereal.

Man, I seriously thought my mom was a culinary genius!

But then I grew up and became kinda culinary genius-ish myself. And I am sad to report that my mom ("whatsa risotto?" "is it EYE-talian?") don't know so much about cooking stuffs.

I am also sad to report that the superfast slicing of a banana is really fucking easy.

Stoopid Haagen Dazs or Stoopid Me?

2006-05-29T19:59:00.000-07:00

So, I'm a major whore for expensive ice cream. Shamelessly. And when I was at the Fred Meyer the other day and I had to cruise down the frozen confection aisle on my way out (*confession*: it was grossly out of my way to cruise the frozen goodness, but oh-so-worth-it). Hooray, they had the Haagen Dazs on sale two fer $6 (although it used to be two fer $5 - nothing slips by me, when it comes to ice cream) and it'd be a shame if I walked on by without getting me some of that action.

I peruse the flavors of the mostly picked over pints. Anyone conducting research on the favored flavors of euro-ice cream of the Hawthorne district would have some seriously concrete data here. My inner researcher began to wonder what the pickings over of another, very different, Portland neighborhood would reveal.

I instantly grabbed one of my warm weather faves, Pineapple Coconut, and let it fall into my red basket. Then, for my next pint, I stood there with the freezer door open, vacillating wildly between my other faves for a second choice.

Should I get Dulce de Leche (one of my all-time favorites)?

Coffee (an oldie, but a goodie)?

Creme Brulee?

A sorbet (nah, too healthy)?

Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough (hmmm, haven't had that one in awhile)?

Chocolate Peanut Butter?

Mango?

They seemed to be out of Pistachio (freakin' hippie neighborhood)...

I pick up the yummy Dulce de Leche and throw it into my basket.

I walk maybe two feet away from the freezer and make an about face, pulling the completely fogged-up freezer door back open. I put dear Dulce de Leche back in her spot and pick up Mango, thinking it will go nicely with the Pineapple Coconut (mmmm).

I'm maybe at the end of the aisle when I decide that I might not be in a fruity mood and should have one fruited option (thus, Pineapple Coconut) and one non-fruited option (thus, not Mango). I walk my logical self back down the aisle and re-reopen the freezer door, which is still fogged up.

I stand there for what probably looks to others like a ridiculously long time to make an ice cream-related decision.

At this point I must be literally weighing the pros and cons of each and every remaining flavor that has not had a quickie tour of the innards of my red grocery basket. After what feels like about ten minutes or so, I pressure myself into making a final decision because I'm mortified with myself for taking longer to pick out ice cream than it will take to eat it.

I grab the Chocolate Chip Cookie dough, throw it into the cart and quickly powerwalk toward the checkout. Now, at this point, you'd think I'd be more concerned about PTSD at the Fred Meyer checkout (see also this post) than whether or not I'd made the right decision in my ice cream purchases.

I hesitate for the briefest moment before plunking my embarassing array of goods (ice cream, these Little Debbies Ho-Ho-like things that were supposed to be Ding Dongs, and two bags of these awesome Cheetos "natural" white cheddar puffs - nope, not stoned), thinking maybe I should go back and swap out the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream for something else.

Then I just came to my senses and paid the man and then got the hell out of there before I could change my mind again.

Flash forward to Sunday when I am touring wine country and sampling many many lovely pinot noirs with my beloved, along with Karen and Patrick. Somehow the subject of ice cream comes up and we end up talking about the Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough flavor.

Flash forward to Sunday evening after wine tasting and I have a vicious hankering for something sweet. I remember the convo of earlier and head for the freezer to have myself some Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream.

Wha the fuh???????

After digging at least 35% of the way into the pint (I almost NEVER eat ice cream out of dishes), I have yet to encounter anything even remotely resembling chocolate chip cookie dough. Okay, well, that's a half-lie, as I did encounter approximately four randomly placed chocolate chips. I double check the label to make sure I hadn't purchased Vanilla Chip.

Nope, label says Cookie Dough on it, plain and simple. So where's my blasted cookie dough, then? I take my ice cream consumption very seriously and this is so not funny. I set the pint down on the counter so it can get all melty-like and I can then give it a proper probing. I figure the ice cream must have melted at some point and all of those heavy globs of cookie dough must have sunk to the bottom and then the ice cream was refrozen and nobody figured I'd be the wiser.

Well, the cookie dough globules were at the bottom alright - all freakin' TWO of 'em!!! Now, if I'd wanted Vanilla ice cream with a few scattered chips and only two miniscule dollops of cookie dough then, damn it, I would have purchased that. But I did not. I purchased Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and what I got was a scanty imposter. I been robbed.

I can assure you that this most dissatisfied consumer will be contacting Haagen Dazs brass - stat - and informing them of the errors of their cheapass ways. Should I tell them that I have never ever stumbled upon such a calamity when indulging in Ben & Jerry's? Nah, I'll use that as a last resort after I give them an opportunity to make good.