I'm morbid

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.

Things that go bump in the night...

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.

Confiscation, confiscation, what's your function?

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.

Just wondering: Where did American citizens come from?

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.

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

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!

what a tangled web we weave

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.

Exes and Whys

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?

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

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.

Something visible but without substance

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.

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

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.

Enter manager-dude

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)

insomniacs anonymous

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.

And I waited.

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.

perhaps I watch too much of The Sopranos

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!

Stoopid Haagen Dazs or Stoopid Me?

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.

Random

Between tax refunds and birthday money, I'm prepping for something of a mini-shopping spree and, consulting my virtual wishlist:

iPod
digital camera
KitchenAid mixer
dutch oven
scanner

I decide to do some online searches for KitchenAid mixers to see if I can get a cheap one if I'm willing to have an ugly color (read pale pink). I then realize that there's no way in hell I'd buy a pale pink KitchenAid mixer - I'd have flashbacks of my Barbie-overload childhood to be sure. Then I see an awesome lime green one that I want most of all and it would look fabulous in my kitchen, which has white tile, stainless steel fridge, black counter-top appliances (coffee maker, grinder, espresso machine, convection oven) and paprika walls (yes, the color is really called "paprika" - it's a Miller Devine shade).

Anyway, I'm on Amazon comparing some prices and I realize that my search for "KitchenAid mixer" somehow turned up several non-mixer items, but that there are links available in categories such as: "all KitchenAid," "coffee and espresso," "mixers" and I click on "mixers."

And do you know what happens???

I get a page of recomendations of a couple of Bauhaus cds, a Joy Division cd, and a Tones on Tail cd - all of which I already own.

I even replicated the search thinking that I must've done something wrong or inadvertently hit a button, link or key that caused the snafu...But got the same results again.

Talk about randomness.

Curses! Mother’s Day!

I hadn’t really forgotten to get my mom a Mother’s Day gift; I just hadn’t gotten around to it yet. And never mind that it was 10am ON Mother’s Day – I wasn’t going to her house until around 4pm anyway.

So I run to the Fred Meyer to pick up some vegetables to grill that evening at my mom’s – since my daughter, K, is a vegequarium* and I guarantee that the non-meat offerings will be minimal and carb-heavy, rather than fruit/vegetable heavy.

As I start to drive past the garden center, I notice all of the lovely fuchsia plants hanging from the eaves. My mom loves those and I get her one every year, so I make a note to self to stop by there after picking up my groceries and pick out a nice fuchsia plant for Mom.

With about $20 worth of grillable vegetables filling two plastic grocery bags, I roam the aisles of the garden center comparing each and every fuchsia plant so that I can give my Mom the best one there. I narrow it down to two: one of the purple and white color scheme and the other is purple and fuchsia. I decide that they call ‘em fuchsias for a reason and opt for the purple and fuchsia combo. I head toward the makeshift cashier area and stand behind a tall older gentleman with a shopping cart, who is being assisted by the cashier. I put the heavy and awkward fuchsia plant down on my left side, but continue to hold my two bags of groceries on my right.

After about five minutes, the older gentleman in front of me begins to steer his cart away back into the garden center and I realize that I should be standing on the other side of the makeshift cashier stand in order for the cashier to ring me up. I pick up my fuchsia plant and begin to walk toward the counter. But before I can do so, a man of 60 or so hanging onto his last smidgeon of hairline and what appears to be his teen daughter step in front of me with their purchase. When I notice that the cashier is helping them first, I decide to speak up for myself.

“Um, excuse me, am I invisible?”

“No, you’re a pushy bitch.” Receding Hairline clearly has an issue with women standing up for themselves.

“I was waiting in line long before you got here,” I asserted.

“No, you were standing over there,” he gestures to where I was originally standing, “and the line is supposed to be here,” he moves his pointing finger to indicate the spot about a foot and a half from where I was actually standing. Then he adds, “deal with it.”

Now, I have been on both sides of this equation and my experience has pretty much always been that when someone accidentally takes cuts and it’s pointed out to them, they apologize and gracefully allow the person who’d been waiting to go ahead. This has happened to me when I’ve spoken up before and it’s happened when I was oblivious to someone waiting before me. I was really astonished that this guy was not only determined to be helped first, but was calling me names and chewing me out. I just had to speak up.

“I feel really sorry for your wife.” Oh-oh, did I just say that out loud? I must’ve because all of a sudden, Receding Hairline was in my face.

“You know what you are?” clearly this was a rhetorical question, “You are a fucking cunt!”

Holy shit. The wife pity comment must’ve really hit home. I can’t believe he just called me that. I didn’t want this clown to escalate any further and, clearly, it doesn’t take much.

“Get away from me with your filthy mouth.”

He continued with his colorful expletives. Man, I must’ve hit the jackpot – the wife must really hate him and he knows it.

“Can’t you see there are children around here?” Still, the guy wouldn’t stop. I raised my voice at least one decibel.

“Shut up and get away from me. NOW.”

I don’t know if I caught him off-guard with my raised voice or if he just ran out of expletives to sling at me, but he finally turned around and stomped off. His teen daughter was already in the parking lot waiting for him. Was she embarrassed? Or does she think that this is how one resolves a conflict? The sad thing is that I really did feel sorry for this guy’s wife! Imagine being married to someone who can’t admit to being wrong, considers women who stand up for themselves to be pushy bitches, and is rather quick to spew a string of expletives at anyone who calls him on his rudeness…

I was a little bit addled after this. Not how I imagined my Mother’s Day to begin. Perhaps next year I’ll get my mother something different for Mother’s Day.





*Vegequarium = One who is pretty much a vegetarian, but also eats fish. K was in preschool when she decided to become a vegetarian because her best pal, Fritz, was a vegetarian and she didn’t want to hurt animals. Shortly after this decision was made, we asked her what she wanted for dinner one night and she said, “sushi”! I asked her if she’d decided not to be a vegetarian after all and she looked at me quizzically. I reminded her that sushi is fish, which could be considered an animal. She thought about this for a minute and then said, “since I love sushi, I guess I’ll be a vegequarium then.”

Cruising in Portland - the royal welcome mat

So last week was houseguest-O-rama 'round here and that's a-ok by me 'cause they were all good houseguests (this includes my fabulous dad, who is a regular reader of my blog)!

My classmate, Gregory, was visiting from one of my favorite red states and, even though he's visited Portland before, he wanted to learn Portland better and do some semi-touristy things on this visit.

No problemo.

After a delicious meal at my favorite place to wait an hour for a breakfast table, The Tin Shed, we shopped on Hawthorne for a bit (including a visit to the store called Greg's because duh!) and then went downtown for the mini-version of my urban Portland walking tour (there's a mini, regular, and extreme version).

We parked smartly, then looked at The Governor Hotel architecture, which I think looks like Transformers-Robots-in-Disguise at the top of the building (mouse over "The Governor Hotel" and click on the link and you can see for yourself - they have some good pics on their website). From there we walked to Pioneer Courthouse Square, also known as Portland's living room.

Now, this is where things got interesting.

I was dying to show Gregory the amphitheatre at the northwest corner of the square, where you can stand on a small circle of metal and speak aloud, facing north, and just like magic your voice is seemingly amplified, but only within the sphere of the little circle where you are standing! To those standing just two or three feet away, your voice sounds completely normal! I don't know how this works or why it works, but I LOVE it!!! And every out-of-towner I've shown it to has found it rather fascinating as well.

Gregory, J and I take a few steps away and are laughing and talking while I'm pointing out other features of the square. Then, seemingly from nowhere, he emerges in his kelly-green glory and tips his hat to us. It is Eduardo and he works for the Portland Oregon Visitors' Association Sidewalk Ambassadors. Interestingly, their Info-Patrol logo utilizes a lowercase "i" with a curlique, not unlike the logo for my school, The Information School at the University of Washington. Gregory notes aloud that Eduardo is sporting our school logo.

Eduardo cheerfully offers his assistance and J and I mention that we live here and are showing our friend, Gregory, the sights. Eduardo makes small talk with Gregory and is clearly very interested in every word Gregory has to say. Gregory mentions that it would be nice to have a big map of the entire city, not just the puny walking maps of downtown that they hand out at Powell's. Eduardo opens his messenger bag that is chock-full of every type of tourist map one could possibly imagine and inquires as to whether or not Gregory is interested in any of them. Gregory holds his ground and does not succumb to Eduardo's temptations. Eduardo is not the least bit put off by Gregory's refusal of his goods and, instead, confides to Gregory the not-so-secret nickname that the Sidewalk Ambassadors have dubbed the good map, the "Mama Jama." Eduardo tells Gregory where he can obtain said Mama Jama, tips his hat to us and bids us farewell.

Suddenly he is gone as mysteriously as he arrived.

Approximately two point five seconds later, we notice Eduardo running toward us at top speed. J and I inform Gregory that he is clearly being cruised. Gregory spouts some nonsense about Eduardo doing his job. Yeah, right. J and I stifle laughter and enjoy our front-row seats of this show.

Eduardo magically reappears and gifts Gregory with the Mama Jama in his hand. If his eyes twinkle any more, he may find himself employed as the top of the ginormous Christmas tree that Pioneer Square displays each December. Eduardo slips us a card with his number on it - number 9, after The Beatles' song, and because 17 was already taken. The card asks us to rate his performance and he mocks the terminology stating that it seems like maybe he should do a song and dance. We all but dare him to. At this point, there is no doubt in my mind that Eduardo wants Gregory to rate another of his "performances" and I am marvelling at Gregory's suavitude. I've seen this happen to him before.

I ask Eduardo if he has any recommendations of any downtown sights not to be missed. He mentions the Chinese Gardens, which we don't have time for, and happy hour at the Portland City Grill. We tell Eduardo that we were already planning on going to Portland City Grill for happy hour and that we'll be there around 4:30 that afternoon.

Another tip of the hat and Eduardo magically disappears again. We continue our mini walking tour through the square and over to The Portland Building and the Portlandia statue. The Portland Building is a controversial Michael Graves design from the early 1980s - long before his teapots and toasters started to appear on the shelves at Target. Portlandia is the second largest hammered copper statue ever built - second only to the Statue of Liberty.

Plunked on the viewing bench in front of Portlandia, the three of us opened up the Mama Jama and noted various points of interest on the map. J and I were the "Mapgals" holding the corners taut while Gregory studied the grid of Portland.

Next stop: Powell's Books. Gregory went speed-shopping through the store and acquired about a dozen books in thirty minutes flat.

True to our word and with 4:30 rapidly approaching, we walked down to the Portland City Grill to brave the happy hour crowd and hope for a table. As we nestled in to the large, comfortable booth that was easily the worst seat in the house with regard to the view, we decided that we were lucky to have a table at all. Just as we are settling in with our drinks and contemplating our food order, who should mysteriously pop from around the corner?

EDUARDO!!

As we register our shock and awe at his appearance, Eduardo gestures with excitement and sends a plate of calamari flying out of a waiter's hands. The plate lands with a thud and a crack and calamari goes scattering in every which direction under the barstools and between the high-heeled feet of the building's office workers enjoying a post-workday libation.

Eduardo is clearly mortified. We invite him to join us and he repeats that he was just popping in to see if we made it for happy hour. Talk about follow-through! His hat is removed to signify that he is on a break and he mentions that he must return to work shortly. With that, Eduardo then re-donned his hat, tipped his hat with a gentle nod of his head and -poof!- he was gone.

Much to our surprise, Eduardo did not magically appear anywhere else.

(insert Theme to Dragnet here...)

The story you are about to hear is true. None of the names have been changed because nobody is innocent.

My story begins on the night of Wednesday, February 8, 2006. I was in the spare room in our home, which we have dubbed “our office.” It was after midnight and I was reading a novel that a friend had recommended while J was sound asleep in the next room. Suddenly, I heard a loud CRASH sound and I put my book down. I walked swiftly, yet quietly, to the window at the top of our stairs and parted the curtains ever so slightly. I saw a man, dressed in black, sprinting up the alleyway behind the townhouses across the street. A black and white police car raced to the end of our street, presumably attempting to meet the sprinter at the end of the alleyway. I looked down the street in the other direction where I noticed three more identical cars, two of them with blue and red lights flashing.

I watched this scene for a little bit, attempting to fully gauge what was happening in my neighborhood and trying to think if there was a way for me to let the officers who emerged from the other end of the alleyway with officer police dog in tow know which direction I had seen the alleged perp sprinting. They appeared to still be searching for him and, as the streetlamps reflected upon their ruddy visages, they appeared dumbfounded. The canine, however, had not yet given up any hope of finding the fellow, as he was pulling in another direction, clearly urging his handler to keep searching.

I returned to the "office" and went about my business, wondering where the perp was hiding and whether or not he’d be found. After a few more hours, I returned to the window, where the scene remained unchanged. Shortly thereafter, officers emerged again from the alley. Again, with canine in tow, but no perp. I watched as a flatbed tow truck hoisted away what appeared to be an older model Mustang. I later learned from a neighbor that the car had hit the mailbox unit on the corner, which houses all of the mail for the entire street, and that the mailbox had been stuck up in a nearby tree.

I can only imagine the facial expression of an unsuspecting neighbor who may have slept through the preceding night’s commotion and walked to the end of the block the next day, hoping to retrieve that day’s mail delivery. At least I thought it was here…

It's what's for breakfast...

The problem with protein fruit shakes, bottled in recycleable 16 oz. plastic easy-to-hold containers, is that they so often taste chalky. Delicious in flavor, yet chalky in texture...Why is that?