It's my party and I'll cry if I want to...

So I'm almost officially 40 (5/9/06 at 1:14pm) and, so far, it doesn't hurt a bit. I thought 30 would hurt and it didn't, but 30's not old and, well, 40's kinda old. Oh well, I don't feel old yet and that's what really matters, right?

Anyway, I had a lovely party over the weekend for all of my friends to celebrate my aging fabulousness and, since some of my friends were unable to make it due to distance and illness and blasted homework, I thought I'd recreate some of the festivities here so they can attend vicariously. And, I suppose, those of you who did attend and wish to relive it, can do so as well! And those of you who don't know me and read my blog because, well, I don't know why you do, but I welcome you regardless, you can attend my virtual party as well.

The theme of the party was: come as what you wanted to be when you grew up (when you were little). I was a movie star attending the Academy Awards, J was a gas station attendant, Kira was a writer, Anthony was a magician, Galen was a pilot and so was Patrick, Karen was I Dream of Jeannie, Dennis was a philosopher, Dad and Jan were a cowboy and cowgirl respectively, Max was Wonder Woman, Jen was Strawberry Shortcake, Kristen was a construction worker, Julie was a punk rocker, Michael was a professor, Pat was a nuclear physicist, Damion was Daisy Duke, Diana was Madonna, the other Damien was a chef, Heather was supposed to be a gypsy but then showed up as a librarian, Sarah was perfect, Gregory couldn't come but dressed up as a Solid Gold Dancer at home, Whitney said she was coming as a tree and then didn't dress up, and several others didn't dress up 'cause they were shy or party poopers or whatever. Well, I'll give Laurie and Erique a break since they came directly from the airport and had been travelling all week - I'm just glad they came!

The party was held in a wonderful party room in a local Portland restaurant that had a fireplace, leather couches, comfy chairs adjacent to a bar, several cocktail tables for your dining pleasure (table tops were sprinkled with a variety of Hershey's kisses - including the yummy carmel ones!), and a big plasma screen tv on which we showed David Bowie videos and Brady Bunch reruns. We brought our own cds to play for the party and here is some of what we played:

• The Smiths
• The Postal Service
• Pink Martini
• The Garden State Soundtrack
• David Bowie
• Carla Bruni

Speaking of cds, we gave out a party favor to each and every guest (and some of the restaurant employees, too!) that was a compilation cd with one song from every year I've been alive. We named it "DJ Bad Kitty's Picks of a Lifetime" and here's what is on it:

1966: I Want You by Bob Dylan

1967: Happy Together by The Turtles

1968: Dear Prudence by The Beatles

1969: The Boxer by Simon & Garfunkel

1970: Cracklin' Rosie by Neil Diamond

1971: Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves by Cher

1972: Walk on the Wild Side by Lou Reed

1973: Daniel by Elton John

1974: Band on the Run by Paul McCartney and Wings

1975: Fame by David Bowie

1976: Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen

1977: Strawberry Letter 23 by The Brothes Johnson

1978: Take a Chance on Me by Abba

1979: A Message to You, Rudy by The Specials

1980: Love Will Tear Us Apart by The Joy Division

1981: Radio Free Europe by REM

1982: More Than This by Roxy Music

1983: Smalltown Boy by Bronski Beat

1984: Song to the Siren by This Mortal Coil

1985: Kiss Me on the Bus by The Replacements

1986: Real Wild Child by Iggy Pop

1987: Ahead by Wire

1988: Birthday by The Sugarcubes

1989: Here Comes Your Man by The Pixies

1990:Cuts You Up by Peter Murphy

1991: Until the End of the World by U2

1992: The Drowners by Suede

1993: Noel, Jonah and Me by The Spinanes

1994: Sour Times by Portishead

1995: Thirty Three by Smashing Pumpkins

1996: Is That All There Is? by John Parish and PJ Harvey

1997: Sleep on the Left Side by Cornershop

1998: Waltz #2 by Elliott Smith

1999: Babylon by David Gray

2000: Good Fortune by PJ Harvey

2001: Mad World by Gary Jules

2002: Slow Burn by David Bowie

2003: The District Sleeps Alone Tonight by The Postal Service

2004: Run by Snow Patrol

2005: We Both Go Down Together by The Decemberists

2006: Twin Cinema by The New Pornographers

and the following Bonus Tracks (cause there was extra room that I didn't want to go to waste):

Soul Meets Body by Death Cab for Cutie

Thursday by Morphine

New Career in a New Town by David Bowie

Supernova by Liz Phair

Cannonball by Damien Rice

If She Wants Me by Belle & Sebastian

The Killing Jar by Siouxsie & the Banshees

Ball of Confusion by Love & Rockets

Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett

Tears Run Rings by Marc Almond

The food was awesome and looked beautiful! We had: cold tarragon poached salmon with an aioli dipping sauce, eggplant stuffed with goat cheese, an Isreali cous cous salad with kalamatas and roasted red bell peppers, a caprese salad, hot curried oysters, a gorgeous fresh fruit platter with tons of BERRIES, miniature spanakopita triangles, and an assortment of six or seven fabulous cheeses that included a Stilton with mango that was so delicious. And the cake, which we got from Polly's Cakes was to die for!!! It was the coolest looking cake ever...essentially if Dr. Seuss and the Mad Hatter got together and had a baby and it was a cake, it would be my birthday cake! Polly's Cakes have been featured on The Food Network and in several food magazines of note. Polly was very kind and down to earth and very easy to work with. Most importantly, the cake was delicious! One layer was chocolate cake with chocolate mousse filling and the other was a passionfruit-coconut cake with a coconut cream filling.

There were two games that we had going and people seemed to enjoy them both, even though some dubbed one of the games as "too hard." One was a photo board that J put together of a bunch of pictures of me over the years and ten of the pics had a post-it with a letter on it and folks were asked to put those ten in chronological order. And, nope, my dad didn't win this one (maybe it was too hard after all) - my friend, Heather, did! Her winning strategy was to gauge by the fashions above all else.

The other game was a quiz about me. It had 20 questions and the winner got 11 right! Here's the quiz:

If Bad Kitty were to go through the McDonald’s drive-thru, what sort of condiment would she want for her fries?
a) Ranch dressing
b) ketchup
c) mayonnaise
d) are you nuts? Bad Kitty wouldn’t be caught dead at the McDonald’s drive-thru!

How many tattoos does Bad Kitty have?_______ Tiebreaker: What are they and where are they located?

Bad Kitty drinks:
a) scotch
b) bourbon
c) gin
d) beer
e) yes

Where, other than Portland, has Bad Kitty lived?
a) Seattle
b) Eugene
c) San Francisco
d) Los Angeles

Name one of Bad Kitty’s favorite flavors of ice cream (include brand):

What cheesy pop-culture tv show does Bad Kitty actually enjoy watching?
a) The OC
b) Family Guy
c) American Idol
d) That 70s Show

What get-rich-quick scheme did Bad Kitty consider when she was an undergrad?
a) selling her eggs
b) robbing a bank
c) Amway
d) Taking all of her books to Powell’s and selling them

Bad Kitty has met all but one of the following famous people. Which one has she never met?
a) Luke Perry
b) Courtney Love
c) Tom Selleck
d) Joaquin Phoenix
e) Ellen DeGeneres

What is Bad Kitty’s favorite color?
a) Royal blue
b) orange
c) green
d) magenta

Bad Kitty’s favorite strip-club in Portland is:
a) The Acropolis
b) The Dolphin
c) Sassy’s
d) Magic Garden

When in Vegas, Bad Kitty’s favorite table game is:
a) blackjack
b) roulette
c) craps
d) poker

Bad Kitty’s favorite “guilty pleasure” singer from her childhood is:
a) David Cassidy
b) Jim Croce
c) Don McLean
d) John Denver

One of Bad Kitty’s favorite writers is:
a) Iris Murdoch
b) John Steinbeck
c) Virginia Woolf
d) Anton Chekov

Bad Kitty’s favorite Broadway show is:
a) Oklahoma
b) A Chorus Line
c) 42nd Street
d) The Producers

Bad Kitty’s daughter was conceived via what combination:
a) Fellini films and a fine chianti
b) Andy Warhol films and tequila
c) Peter Greenaway films and gin martinis
d) David Lynch films and microbeer

Bad Kitty met her partner:
a) at a bowling alley
b) through a personals ad
c) at work
d) at a lesbian bar

Bad Kitty has worked at all but one of the following Portland restaurants:
a) The Heathman Hotel
b) Pazzo
c) Paparazzi
d) The airport Sheraton
e) The Chart House
f) Saucebox
g) Wild Abandon

Which of the following is Bad Kitty’s favorite Grateful Dead song?
a) Sugar Magnolia
b) Casey Jones
c) Truckin’
d) None of the above. There is only one Garcia she loves to hear sing and it's not Jerry!

Bad Kitty has fallen prey to all of the following fashion fads except:
a) leg warmers
b) 80s “sun” lightened big permed hair
c) Acid washed jeans
d) Robert Palmer’s “Addicted to Love” girl look
e) Ray Ban sunglasses

Bad Kitty loves all of the following kitties except:
a) Hello
b) Patience Phillips (Catwoman)
c) Mortimer
d) Josie

So thanks for coming to my party! Happy Birthday to Me!

quenching the thirst of the holy elite

When I used to wait tables and tend bar at Le Glamour Hotel, we had more than our fair share of -shall we say- high society patrons. Many were well behaved and generous, thus making my work all the more worthwhile. However, it was the not-so-well-behaved of the financially elite who could ruin a night in no time flat.

Sometimes, serving several of these folks back-to-back could nearly send a poor waitron over the edge. The phrase "desparate times call for desparate measures" comes immediately to mind as I recall one especially condescending matron who came into the lounge with her well-heeled entourage late one busy holiday eve.

Whenever the symphony would let out, our lounge would go from empty to completely full in just over five minutes flat. And, since guests were not seated by a host, there was virtually no pacing involved in the filling of the tables - I would essentially be sat ten tables pretty much simultaneously. Unfortunately, those placing their derrieres in my section seemed to be completely oblivious of this fact. Worse still, nearly every single one of them would order a Spanish Coffee, which was one of the most time-consuming drinks to make. The trick for me, at this point, would be to get a few of my orders in to the bartender -pronto!- before the other servers' orders came in, so that at least a few of my tables would receive timely service. Nine times out of ten, though, this would backfire as I'd show up at my first-sat table just as their asses were hitting the leather of the chairs, eager to accommodate their beveragely wishes and they'd have a zillion questions to ask of me...or they'd hem and haw a bit, at which point I'd offer to come back so as not to rush them and they'd say "no, stay, we're ready to order!" with desparation in their voices as if they knew that if I left, it could easily be ten minutes before they saw me again. So I'd stay, only to be subjected to "hmmm, well, let me see....I think maybe....oh, tell me a little more about this chardonnay..."

Meanwhile, my section is suddenly full and I am beginning to feel eyes boring into the back of my head. I rattle off a "little more about the chardonnay" while I take a quick scan of the room and seek out patrons who are known to tip well while remaining on the low maintanence side - they are the ones who will see me first. Although, in all honesty, if it were to come down to a mediocre tipper who treats me well and does not attempt to monopolize my time at the expense of others and a good tipper who is rude and demanding, I'm most likely to visit the mediocre tipper first: good behavior trumps good tips, for the most part, in my book.

A couple of the hemmers/hawers ask me for ice water and I seize that opportunity to escape their table, telling them that I'm going to get their ice water while the others decide. I make a quick stop at a table of regulars on my way back to the kitchen - they have the same thing every time and are nice folks who tip well - their order will be the first one in. I then gather enough ice waters for all of the hemmers/hawers because, invariably, if I return to the table with exactly the number of ice waters equalling the number of those who requested them, the power of suggestion will unleash itself and everyone else will want one - I'm better off bringing water to someone who doesn't really want it and saving myself the trip, as time is still key here.

I try to squeeze in an order here, an order there, and gently let people know that I'll be right with them. Really, the best way to handle zero to full in no time flat is to take orders in at least two trips. I've seen neophyte servers start at one end of their section and just start taking orders and then put all the orders into the computer and then wait and wait and wait for all of their drinks to be made because every single one of their orders was submitted last, behind every other server. Then their drinks are all up at once and they panic because it's too much all at once. Poor Lambchop almost had a panic attack one time with just this scenario.

I get my section a little bit better paced and things are calming down. The first table served pays and leaves and I bus their table quickly in hopes of another turn there. I'm making my way through my section offering another round to those who qualify. Thankfully, not everyone drinks at the same rate. The hemmers/hawers can't simply order another round of drinks - they all need to ask a bunch of questions and keep me sequestered at their table until they're good and ready to let me go. I dutifully answer their questions and try to keep things moving in a forward direction. After all, I have hot drinks coming up for some of my lower maintenance tables and I wish to deliver them promptly. I escape with their order just in time.

As I'm delivering their second round, an elegantly dressed 40-something society woman at the hemmer/hawer table slurs to me that she'd asked me for an ice water. Ew boy, somebody hit the bar during intermission at the symphony! I look at the table where each guest has a sweating glass of ice water, most of them barely touched, sitting before them.

"This one is yours," I say, gesturing to the glass that, if it were a snake it would've hissed at her to lay off the sauce. She then looks at the glass, then at me. With an ultra-stern expression on her face (this was before the popularity that is Botox), she condescendingly instructs to me that this (she then points to the glass for emphasis) is not ice water.

Um, okay, it's not? I'm thinking somebody also forgot to take her medication tonight. Where on earth do I go with this one? I really don't want to argue with this woman, but she just told me that ice water is not ice water and clearly wants me to do something about it. Something is very wrong with this picture and it's my job to figure out how to fix it without pissing anyone off. And, unfortunately for me, alcoholic society matrons can be a little bit touchy in times such as these.

Society matron interprets my brief silence and rapid contemplating as complete and utter cluelessness. She picks up the glass in question, holds it up and, raising her slurred words a notch higher, says sternly, "Do you see any ice here???"

The funny thing is that there IS ice in the glass and it's even making a clinking sound as she shakes the glass at me! At least now I know what she wants so I say, "Okay, why don't I take that water and get you some more ice."

As I'm reaching for the glass, she yanks it away, splashing water on the table and continues to hold it with a death-grip.

"No, a fresh glass of ice water. I don't want this glass," she says of the receptacle she is refusing me.

"Sure, okay," the words from my mouth say, while the bubble over my head says, "crazy bitch."

I go back to the kitchen and pull out the rack that holds the clean water glasses. It's empty. Oh crap. I ask the bartender for a bucket glass, all the while thinking that this woman is the type who will flip if I bring her ice water if a different type of glass than before (which also happens to be different from everyone else's at the table). The bartender tells me to hang on and I notice that he has about a dozen or so tickets lined up, all coffee drinks and espressos. Crap, crap, crap. As I'm looking around and trying to think fast, I see the round tray of glassware from the table I'd just recently bussed. My blood still boiling over the humiliation of being yelled at in the middle of my section, I grab a dirty water glass off of the tray and fill it with ice and water. My heart's pounding fast because, even though I've been pushed to the boiling point before by a customer, I'd never done anything quite like this. In fact, such things had never even occurred to me. But I knew that if I didn't get back to Society Matron soon with a new glass of ice water, there'd be more humiliation in store for me and I didn't deserve that. Nor did I have time for it.

I found that once the glass was safely on her table and out of my hands, the pleased look on her face erased any bit of guilt I was feeling. She was happy now, damn it, and -in a way- that was what really mattered. I really wanted to have a cherry on my sundae, so I strolled by the table and asked Society Matron how this glass of ice water was working out for her.

"It's perrrrrfect," she slurred.

American Idol Drinking Game

OK, so we sort of invented this American Idol drinking game...and I say sort of because I find it really hard to believe that nobody else has thought of this yet and I'm sure that somebody has, I just haven't necessarily stumbled upon it. So, if it turns out that somebody else thought of this exact game way before we did, then fine, take credit - I'm cool with that.

And here's how it goes: While watching American Idol, take one drink any time any of the following occur:

• Paula Abdul acts drunk, loopy, out-of-it, goofy or claps her hands with her fingers all spread apart like a toddler
• Simon uses the words "karaoke" or "cabaret"
• there is a spat between either Simon and Paula or Simon and Ryan
• the contestant follows the camera with their eyes
• the contestant holds up their fingers to indicate their call-in number
• Kellie Pickler says something stupid or doesn't understand something
• Paula, for lack of anything credible to say about the contestant's performance, (or, apparently, when she doesn't really care for the performance but is incapable of offering negative feedback), compliments the contestant's appearance
• Randy says "dawg," "dude," "I wasn't feelin' it," "we got a hot one tonight," "yo,"or "a'ight"
• Ryan has a different facial hair configuration from the week before
• a member of another show from Fox network is in the audience
• a contestant cries
• a contestant does the "Country Western Squat" while singing

So, Should I Laminate the Freebie List?

Remember that episode of Friends - the one with the freebie list? And Ross was going to laminate his freebie list and, before he did, he removed Isabella Rosellini from it because she was too international. But then Isabella showed up at Central Perk and Ross put his foot in his mouth and told her that she used to be on his freebie list but that he'd removed her from it and put Dorothy Hamill there instead (note to Ross: what the hell were you thinking???).

Although I know that this term originated pre-Friends because I remember discussing it with others prior to the airing of that particular episode in the autumn of 1996, I do not know the exact origin of the term (and Wikipedia credits Friends with the coining of the term). Anyone know where/how it started?

Well, without further ado - and to keep me honest - I am, essentially, "laminating" my freebie list by posting it on my blog. Alas, the following are "the five celebrities that, should the opportunity present itself, I get to have sex with without causing any hurt or damage to my current relationship."

Freebie List:

1. Kate Moennig
2. Fairuza Balk
3. Johnny Depp
4. Two-way tie: Constantine Maroulis & David Bowie circa The Berlin Trilogy
5. Three-way (tee-hee) Tie: Angelina Jolie, Jodie Foster & Jenny Shimizu

OK, now I realize that I have two people listed in slot number four and three (ahem) in slot number five. I know that that's sorta like cheating, but here's the deal: since David Bowie circa The Berlin Trilogy doesn't really exist anymore (unless I figure out how to time-travel), then that opportunity wouldn't really ever arise anyway. Which pretty much leaves Constantine Maroulis flying solo in spot number four. And as for slot number five, well, I can think of reasons to keep or lose each one of them (none of which are because they are too international, though), so yeah, here's how that will have to work: that number five slot will be honored on a first-come, first-serve basis, as it's the only fair way to select just one.

Edited to add: Hey, don't tease me about the Jodie Foster thing! That's sorta leftover from my teen years when she used to be kinda butch! And she's still hot! And smart! And mysterious! Plus, I saw her in person one time on the Warner lot when she was working on Home For the Holidays and she was perfectly, fabulously adorable! That moment cemented her spot on my freebie list for life.

AI

As some people know, and others who don't know would never guess, I'm something of an American Idol junkie. I'm not a superdiehard fan who has watched every season, but close enough to be made fun of.

In fact, I am quite guilty of making fun of J when she and Kira were watching early on in Season 2. But one day that all changed and then I had to make up excuses to be in the room while AI was on so that I could watch and hear Clay Aiken. (And it's ok if you are now thinking what a big 'ole dork I must be - I'll accept that). Finally, I just came out and admitted that I loved the guy and that I'm a sucker for certain "Adult Contemporary" music (i.e. Harry Connick, Jr., etc.).

But, still, I tried to downplay my love for all things Clay and would act mortified if anyone referred to me as a Claymate. But it was all totally fake. I must say, though, that I wish that Clay would just come on out and admit to being a big homo - he would be most welcome into our big 'ole rainbow-flag-wavin' family.

Just for the record, I have a major thing for Constantine Maroulis as well. Although it's very different than the major thing I had/have for Clay. Clay, I just love his singing and there are certain songs that he sings that just give me chills (Solitaire, This is the Night, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Unchained Melody...actually, his Mack the Knife was good, too). The guy has pipes, ya know? But Constantine is a different experience altogether - completely visceral...all over. His AI rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody was genius and unstoppable and his retro Partridge Family homage of I Think I Love You was completely meltworthy. This guy is completely sexy AND he can sing. I am eagerly awaiting his solo works.

This season, though, it's all about Elliott Yamin. And, just for the record here, my fascination with him is more akin to my Clay-adoration -- strictly musical. Although, in addition to having a lovely voice, there is something else about Elliott that I just love. He just comes across as this down-to-earth, very humble and likeable guy. He seems honest and sincere, without being sappy. He's the AI5 contestant I'd most like to sit down and have a beer with (especially in a karaoke bar so he can sing!). Paris Bennett was my early-on fave, when she was singing Billie Holliday tunes during her audition. But she doesn't really wow me unless she's doing the sort of older jazz classics, such as "These Foolish Things" last week.

And the contestant I most love to hate? Well that'd be mink-in-residence Kellie Pickler. Can this girl get any dumber? No? I didn't think so.

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.

The Arab Boy With the Strap-On

I have only one question to pose of the super tall couple who pushed their way past me at the Belle & Sebastian concert last night. They know who they are...the man looked more like a fellow you'd see at a Hootie and the Blowfish show: a veritable frat brother with a neck as wide as his head and the woman had one of those very protruding chins and a nose that looks like the tip piece was added on hastily as an afterthought. I felt a little bit sorry for her because her boyfriend smelled like sour milk. But what I want to know from them is this:

When you arrive at the concert later and feel entitled to shove your way past other people in order to stand in front of them, do you do so because:
a) you paid more for your ticket than they did
b) you're better than they are
c) you're completely oblivious to the fact that this is rude

I'm just wondering because you folks were very tall and arrived after The New Pornographers had concluded their set. I, on the other hand, am not tall and my girlfriend is even less so. We arrived very early (30-45 minutes before the show started) so that we could stand close to the stage and see well. We intentionally surveyed the crowd upon our arrival and stood behind the other not-so-tall people already there. We planned ahead - way ahead - to ensure that we'd be able to see the show. And then you shove past us an hour and a half later and plunk your tall selves right in front of the short folk. Why?

Fortunately, however, having my view of the stage partially obscured by a foul-smelling frat brother was only a minor dent in what was otherwise a very good time. I was very impressed with Belle & Sebastian's live show and thoroughly enjoyed the ongoing banter between Stuart Murdoch and Stevie Jackson. The large ensemble made beautiful music and Stuart's fluid dancing was fun to watch as well. My only complaint is that I wish they would have done more from Fold Your Hands Child, You Walk Like a Peasant, which is actually my favorite opus of theirs (I know, I know) - although their latest release The Life Pursuit is quite excellent and may get to become my favorite after I listen to it about ten more times. Still, one of my favorite live shows ever. Thanks to David and Dave for taking us!!!

David and Dave were here on a propaganda tour to persuade Dave to someday maybe hopefully wish to move to Portland and I'm pleased to report that it worked! I was happy to have finally met Dave and especially liked him because, like me, he pretends to be Canadian.

Space. The final frontier. To boldly go where no man has gone before and should never go again...

To the pregnant, balding man wearing an orange fleece vest at the Adrienne Rich reading on 20 March, 2006:

Do you have any idea how much space you consume? Your heavy breathing should be reserved for your more intimate moments and your overly audible "Hmmmmmm," "Mmmmmmm," "Oh," "Yeah," and "Wow" at the conclusion of each and every poem read aloud by Ms. Rich does not need to be heard by the person three rows back and five people over. Do you have any idea how intrusive it is to be so very vocal when you are in a crowd of mostly women listening quietly? Were you feeling dwarfed by the 15:1 ratio of women to men in the audience? Did it make you uncomfortable to be in the minority? Did you feel threatened? Were you wanting others to view you as a "sensitive man" and perceive you as one who is identifying with the works being read? Because I can assure you that your bodily outbursts painted you as something quite the opposite: Ironically, the precise patriarchal form that the uber-feminist Rich personifies in her prose. If you really stand behind what Rich proclaims, please, do so with respect to your fellow feminists and think twice about what you emit from your body and how far it travels; then consider whether or not those around you likely wish to share in these emissions.

the perils of hard butter

I arrived in an inexplicably good mood. It was Friday night, I was prepared to be busy, I was ready to make some money.

When I first arrive to the restaurant for my shift, I have something of a ritual - a routine that keeps me on track and ready for the onslaught, whatever that may entail. I check the dry-erase board to update myself on what we are out of, which seafood is starring in the seafood salad that eve, and find out what the soup of the day happens to be.

Then I do some fact checking.

If the board declares that our soup is presently green split pea with ham but, when I open the lid of the soup vat, it more closely resembles clam chowder, then I must do some editing as well. When this is the case, I then taste the soup (ok, yeah, sometimes I taste the soup even when it does resemble what it's rumored to be...quality control, you know?). I let my tastebuds determine the flavor and then I seek out assistance from the kitchen staff to confirm my assumptions. Often, I must inquire of several different folks in checkered pants before I find one who is able to name that soup. It doesn't end there, though. I also find out if the soup contains any meat or any dairy and, if so, how much and what kind. Trust me, I think I've met every "food issue" on the planet.

As I leave the kitchen feeling pretty well-informed about what is coming out of the kitchen doors, I head to the host podium to scan that night's reservations and learn more about what will be coming through the front doors.

"Maaaaaaaaammmmm."

I believe I am being summoned. Being called "ma'am" isn't such a horrible thing (oh, I've been called worse), but something in the voice just had this certain...I dunno...hint of desperation or something. So instead of reviewing that night's reservations, I head to table 27 (which "belongs" to the closing lunch server, Drew, for the record) and find myself face-to-face with a woman in her late 60s/early 70s sporting the most disgruntled look on her face. Uh-oh, this is not the picture of a happy camper. And whatever has her so upset is about to become my problem.

"May I help you?" I offer, with some reluctance that - hopefully - remains undetected.

"Can I get some butter that isn't hard?" the woman barks - more of a demand than a question.

"Actually, all of our butter is hard like that - we keep it refridgerated. I'm sorry."

People make this request on occasion and are typically understanding when I explain the situation to them. If I have the time and I like the people, I will show them my trick of placing the ramekin of hard butter on top of an unlidded teapot - this will soften butter in about ten minutes, but something told me not to go there this time.

"Well, then bring me some more butter," the Charmer on table 27 demanded.

"Sure, no problem."

I began to count my blessings that she wasn't my table and that my interaction with her would be only temporary. I return with another ramekin containing one pat of butter and placed it next to the ramekin already on her table that held a half pat of butter still. The Charmer looks at the ramekin with disdain.

"That's all you brought me?"

This is a trap. I can tell. Refusing to fall for such an obvious set-up, I sidestep the bait.

"Would you like me to bring you some more?" I offer politely.

"Well, I just don't understand why you bring it to me in these little bits!"

For the record, "these little bits" consisted of single tablespoon-sized squares of solid fat. The Charmer's face was reddening - she was actually getting really angry about this!

"Honestly? We don't want to waste it. So we're happy to bring you more if you intend to use it, but think it foolish and wasteful to bring a lot at each request."

I knew that I was playing Russian Roulette here. Sometimes it works in your favor to explain the rationale to a customer and sometimes not. It's about a fifty/fifty shot, but it's so gratifying when, upon explaining the whys of something that doesn't make sense to someone, they get it and calm down. I should have known that I'd be playing with fire to try to make sense of anything to the Charmer.

"Ohhhhhhh, you don't want to WASTE any of it, huh? Well, in that case, forget it. I don't want it."

And the Academy Award for best meltdown over butter goes to...The Charmer!!!!! [raging applause]

The Charmer jerks her head to the left, refusing to look in my direction, as if to punctuate her retracted request. I want to laugh out loud, but I don't. As I'm walking away from the table, the oh boy from inside my head somehow is uttered audibly from my mouth. Out of prinicple and professionalism, I hope the Charmer didn't hear me.

I return to the kitchen, fill a ramekin with as much butter as will fit, and return to table 27 where Charmer, who sees me approaching with about 1/3 cup of butter, turns her head away again, refusing to watch me honoring her initial request. Knowing it won't make any difference at this point, I politely inform her that if she needs more, just to let me know. I notice that she has since acquired a dining companion and a walker.

As luck would have it, Drew needs me to take over table 27 so he can get off the clock and run errands before his dinner shift begins. Somehow I knew this would happen. After the Charmer's grievances regarding her takeout order, I was thoroughly convinced that the Charmer just liked to hear herself when she becomes exasperated. There was no amount of kindness or additional service to appease this woman. I watched them from afar while I conducted my opening sidework and ventured near table 27 only when necessary. At my offer of a bag for her to-go boxes (into which she'd placed all of the butter I'd brought her), the Charmer grabbed the plastic bag out of my hand saying, "give me that," while handing me the guest check presenter and saying, "you take this."

After scraping every dust bunny from my wallet to make change for her hundred dollar bill on her $30 tab, I approached the table with a smile (yay! they're leaving soon!), told them thank you and placed the change tray on the table. As I was about to make a mad dash as far away from this toxic woman as possible, she says to me, but without really looking at me, "Help him with his coat. He can't get his arm into the hole."

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo my mind and body are screaming.

But, in retrospect, Dining Companion has done nothing wrong aside from having lunch with the wicked witch of the west. He looks helpless and frustrated trying repeatedly to get his arm to coincide with his jacket pocket without success. As much as I don't want to do this, I gingerly reach for his jacket and try and scoot the armhole closer to his actual arm. Naturally this feat requires more than merely holding the jacket still. After resituating the position of his jacket on his opposite shoulder and doing something of a six-point turn, then holding the armhole still with my left hand and practically holding hands with the old man with my right, I was finally able to steer his arm into his jacket. Not sure what to do next and receiving no verbal feedback from either Charmer or D.C., I happen to notice that the walker is more than arm's length from the gentleman. Apparently desperate to end this transaction on a positive note, I gesture to the walker and ask the man, "Do you need this moved closer to you?"

Silence.

As tempted as I am to just bolt away, I don't. I repeat my question, uncertain as to whether or not D.C. is even capable of hearing me. Realizing that it's been a full eight minutes since she'd had an outburst, Charmer barks at me, "He can get that himself."

Delivering mail through snow and sleet…and volunteer?

aka, The Saga Continues...

So Friday rolls around and, still, the spot at the end of the street where the giant metal mailbox for the entire neighborhood was rooted remains empty. As I am expecting some important documents from school and want to read my new New Yorker, I decide to give our local postal branch a call to find out what gives. I am informed that “someone ran over the old mailbox” and that the new one is scheduled to be installed that very day. I am then told that the corresponding keys for the new box will be delivered directly to our doors shortly thereafter.

Then Friday night, I receive an email from Sheri, a neighbor from a couple of doors down, informing me that she was told that the keys are locked inside of the newly planted mailbox and will be distributed on Saturday, since more people are likely to be at home then.

Well, Saturday comes and Saturday goes and nobody darkens our door with any keys. Sunday is, of course, the national day of rest for those who carry the mail, so I hang out at home on Monday, expecting my doorbell to chime at any moment. I make certain that music isn’t on too loud and try to summon the arrival of a key-bearing postal worker at my doorstep using my psychic powers.

My psychic powers seem to be taking a personal day off.

I wish to take a shower and am certain that, if I do, that will be when the doorbell will ring and I will miss my opportunity to have access to my mail until…tomorrow? The next day? Whenever they get around to it?

By 4:30pm on Monday I’m beginning to, again, wonder what gives. I decide to phone my local post office once again. As I begin to explain why I am calling, the woman who answered the phone says that she will transfer me to Larry, who is handling that situation. When I explain to Larry the discrepancies between what I was told would happen and what has actually occurred, Larry tells me that “they were having difficulty getting all of the keys out” and that if I go to blankety-blank address tomorrow, I’ll be able to pick my keys up from Arnie.

Arnie does not work for the postal service. Arnie is my neighbor and is one of those distrustful-of-the-government, uber right-wing republicans. He is the one with the bumper sticker on his car described in this post. I do not trust Arnie. He hates gay people and has not been very friendly to me. While my jaw is dropping to the ground, Larry hangs up.

After mulling over my thoughts for a moment and phoning J to see if she knows if this is even legal (as I’m thinking it’s not), I decide to phone the post office again and clear this up with a supervisor. The woman who answered the phone claimed to be a supervisor when I requested to speak with a manager and, when I began to explain the problem to her, she told me that she was going to transfer me to Larry.

“But wait,” I tell her, “I thought you said that you were the supervisor.” She tells me that Larry, too, is a supervisor. Too many chiefs…not a good sign. I tell Larry that I need to clarify what he told me only moments ago.

“So, let me make sure I understand this correctly. All of the keys to all of the mailboxes in the neighborhood are being left with Arnie –my neighbor, Arnie- tomorrow?”

“That’s right,” Larry assures me.

“Is that legal???” I am unable to contain my incredulousness. Larry stammers and tells me that he doesn’t know.

“I don’t think it is and it’s not okay with me.” Larry then informs me that Arnie “volunteered” to distribute the keys since “they were having trouble getting them out.” Interesting.. I never knew that one could "volunteer" with the U.S. Postal Service and gain access to the private mail of others. I'm certain that there are many aspiring criminals who would be quite interested in this civic opportunity.

I inform Larry that I am not comfortable with them giving access to my mail without my permission to someone who does not like me and who I do not trust. I pause briefly for a deep and cleansing yoga breath and then ask Larry if he realizes how rampant identity theft is and that I'm really quite surprised that they would just give all of those keys to a complete stranger. Clearly, this sort of thing hadn’t entered anyone’s mind and Larry tells me that he can leave a note for my postal carrier to leave my key under my doormat if I am uncomfortable with Arnie distributing them. Still, it hasn’t dawned on him that it might not be such a good idea to leave access to twenty homes’ worth of mail to a random stranger who “volunteered” to take care of it.

Content with the outcome that Larry will instruct our mail carrier to leave our mailbox key under our doormat (although not fully believing that Larry will actually do this) and envisioning the awkwardness that may occur as a result of the interchange between our mail carrier and Arnie: "Well, Arnie, here are all of the keys except for one. She didn't want you having access to her mail. Thanks for helping out, Arnie, and if we ever need any more help, we'll let you know!"

I then pose to Larry one final question:

"I'm just curious. If I hadn't called you today to find out what was going on with our keys to our mailboxes, how on earth would I have known that I was to pick them up from my neighbor? Was the postal service planning on sending out some sort of memo to everyone on the street?"

And do you know what Larry told me???

"Oh, Arnie was going to take care of that."

No sooner do I hang up the phone from Larry and it rings. It’s Arnie and he has our mailbox key and can we come and pick them up from him? So, Larry the “supervisor” not only has no clue that it’s quite likely illegal to give keys to locked mailboxes to a random stranger, but – despite being the one who is “handling this situation” – he has no idea that said keys had already been distributed to said random stranger.

J then walks in the door, home from work, just in time to see the steam emerging from both my ears. She offers to take over while I drink my coffee and attempt to locate calm. Like a crazy person wandering urban streets, I’m pacing and muttering to myself…the occasional I can’t believe audible and somewhat clear.

J retrieves our key from our bigoted and unfriendly neighbor and returns home with an armload of our mail. She then phones the main postal number and registers a formal complaint. The woman graciously receiving our complaint tells us this should never have happened.

(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…

signs

Last fall, we bought a townhouse in what is pretty much the bible belt of Portland. This initially seemed harmless, as we knew that residing in what is barely still considered the city, even though it more resembles rural country land in most spots, was the only way we could afford to buy a house and still remain in Portland proper. (Having been raised in the suburbs from age nine on, the thought of living in the "official" suburbs just churns my stomach). We knew that we were leaving an area where we were in good company with regard to political and philosophical preferences and that we would be venturing into the unknown.

Given the sheer number of churches that dotted the area, it was our guess that this area was somewhat conservative and that we'd be living amongst some folks with whom we disagreed when it came time to exercise our rights each November. But, given the numbers that Portland churns out each election, it didn't seem like it could possibly be that bad...or could it?

When turning onto the street where our newly purchased home sits, the first thing one is likely to see is the bumper sticker on our neighbor's white car. It reads: One Man. One Woman. Yes on 36, a nod to a recent anti-gay marriage initiative that passed by a small margin.

A few weeks ago, an SUV-type vehicle turned on a side street a couple of blocks from where I live. It had a sticker in the back window that said: ACLU and the 'C' was turned into a hammer and sickle and then underneath that it said: Enemy of the State. While I'm not entirely certain what the hell this was supposed to mean, I was pretty sure that it wasn't good and I'd also venture to guess that the driver of this gas guzzler didn't care too much for people like me.

Then today, I was driving alongside a pickup truck that had a sticker of a confederate flag in its back window. I remember feeling somewhat shocked upon noticing this and it sort of frightened me. Who are these people? Do they really stand behind the implications of such emblems? And what do they really mean by these statements? A part of me wanted to ask the driver about it just to satisfy my curiosity, but I didn't because I'm not sure that I really wanted to know.

Planes sometimes crash

I just recently learned that someone I know has been diagnosed with some form of Leukemia. It's sad, to be sure, particularly considering how young Avion is. However, I've never really liked her all that much. She's rather unkind to her on-again/off-again girlfriend and speaks to her condescendingly. One time she broke up with her, stating to Whitney that she wanted, instead, to be with someone who is her intellectual equal. Ouch. I honestly don't know why Whitney puts up with it and told her just as much. We were becoming pretty close friends until Avion told Whitney to stop hanging out with me and, sadly, Whitney complied.

And, since that time, Avion's been nothing but haughty and arrogant toward me as well. Her air of superiority has been an enormous turnoff and I've avoided opportunities to share in her company even though we know some of the same people and run in similar circles. Seems that most people I know who know Avion don't really care for her much and some even seem afraid of her in a way. But now that she's sick, people who know her and know of her mostly only show concern for her. I have to wonder whether it's Avion they're really concerned about or if it's more of a reflection on how they feel about Whitney, who is very well liked. People won't really talk about it and are more so talking around it. Why are they afraid?

But I understand the reluctance to speak frankly about Avion as a person, as the person we have known her to be, as it feels so cruel to dislike someone who is dying more rapidly than they should be. So do I now just forget about her cruelty and how she has hurt my friend? Do I toss aside her rudeness and arrogance? Does severe illness erase those things? Does she get a clean slate because she's sick?

As much as the thriving Buddhist wannabe in me wants to forgive Avion and have compassion for her because I feel like it's what I'm supposed to do - because it's the right thing to do, if I'm being completely honest with myself - and I am, I'm just not there. I have pity for Avion, as I'm sure that her failing health has been humbling and challenging to her, but I still just don't trust her.

And maybe that says more about me than it does about her.

Ode to Opus

Sadly, I lost another canine friend today (see also this post). Opus was an awesome and happy beagle with the softest ears in the history of the universe. I liked that he didn't piss my cats off and that he didn't realize that he wasn't a very big dog. His clear bent for adventure was evident in his many escapes from the backyard on 34th Street and the many friends he'd accumulated throughout the neighborhood. Everyone knew Opus. I'm still embarassed that I'd presumed that Beth had named him Opus because she enjoyed classical music, rather than as an homage to Bloom County. On the few occasions when I was temporarily in charge of walking Opus, we had wonderful conversations in which we discussed the nuances of the various aromas we encountered along the way. Okay, I admit it, I couldn't actually smell a damn thing, but it seemed really important to him to compare and contrast the various aromas from one yard to the next, one block to the next, one tree to the next, so I just went along with it. Opus, I apologize for faking it.

I hope you will forgive me. I shall overnight you an assortment of the finest biscuits to doggie afterlife immediately.

The Tipping Point

The next time you're considering deliberately withholding a gratuity from your waiter -or intentionally leaving less than 15%- I ask you to think about a few things first before you embark on this drastic maneuver.

First of all, if you are considering leaving anywhere between 0-14%, there must have been something that went wrong or was not handled well or was not to your liking...Are you certain that whatever has upset you is, indeed, your waiter's fault? Because if not, it's truly unjust to reduce her/his income for something that was completely beyond her/his control. For example, if s/he was incredibly busy and running around, but you think that your food took a long time, it probably wasn't your server's fault. Think about it. Waiters don't make the food, waiters pay attention to what you ordered and communicate that to the kitchen. After that point, it's out of their hands and if the food takes awhile, that most likely = kitchen's fault, not waiter's fault, so don't dock the waiter's pay for that. If they're super busy, then they're very likely doing their best and isn't that good enough? What about when you're really busy at work doing whatever it is that you do and suddenly you find yourself with more work than usual, do you think it's fair when people get upset with you for not being as fast as you usually are? Of course not. Would it be fair to dock your pay if all of your work is not getting done as quickly as usual due to an increase in business (or someone calling in sick and you have to pick up their slack?)? No, of course not. So don't do that to your waiter. They don't deserve it any more than you do. And remember, waiters have to pay taxes on their tips whether they make them or not. That's right. The IRS presumes that waiters are making tips on every table and waiters are expected to pay taxes on a certain percentage of their net sales regardless of how much they actually made. Bear in mind, too, that waiters are required to distribute a portion of their tips to other workers (many of whom never pay taxes on their tips, but that's another rant altogether): bussers, hosts, bartenders, sommelier, expediter, kitchen, etc. These folks expect their due cut (and are entitled to it) no matter what percentage of tips the waiter has accrued.

And what if the service really is lousy and it really is the server's fault? (i.e. you saw your food sitting in the service window while your waiter chatted away with the hostess, all the while oblivious to your cooling food slowly becoming less appetizing while you sat...) Well, this is why restaurants have managers and owners and you should speak to them and let them know what went wrong. Merely leaving a crappy tip will not effectively communicate anything and will certainly not incite a behavioral change on the waiter's behalf.

And remember: if you can't afford to tip, then you can't afford to dine out.

Yay me!

You are Louis Althusser! You tried to bring
together structuralism, Marxism, and Lacanian
psychoanalysis. Your brilliant analysis of
ideology and the state is still widely
influential. You murdered your wife, were put
in a sanitarium, and lived the last decade of
your life alone before dying in 1990.


What 20th Century Theorist are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

hail to the mighty kitty!!! or, I couldn't be a bad kitty unless I were a kitty first, right?

You Are A: Kitten!

Cute as can be, kittens are playful, mischevious, and ever-curious. Like you, kittens hate getting wet. Kittens are often loving, but are known to scratch or bite when annoyed. These adorable animals are the most popular pets in the United States--37% of American households have at least one cat. Whether it is your gentle purr or your disarming appearance, you make a wonderful kitten.

You were almost a: Monkey or a Bear Cub
You are least like a: Lamb or a DucklingWhat Cute Animal Are You?

Go ahead and take the test! You know you want to...

Can I just say...

that the word FAMILIAR has only one 'R' in it? And it's at the end.

Check, please!

So I have these regular customers, Harry and Mary, who come in to the restaurant about 4-6 times per month, order the exact same extremely modified drinks and the exact same extremely modified food. Never any salad and they barely touch their water. They typically tip about 30% and gave me a $50 "bonus" at Christmas-time. Their generosity is marked by a game that we play upon arrival of the check in which Harry always asks the total and I always say, "I'm not sure. Let's take a look" and then announce the total aloud. Harry then pulls out a wad of large bills and proceeds to make certain that I am aware of his generosity. The first time this happened, I felt uncomfortable and awkward about the situation (although I'm relatively certain that he didn't intend for me to feel this way).

In my many years in the restaurant industry, it has always been my preference to be discreet about the financial exchange and the acceptance of gratuities. One of my least favorite scenarios is the one in which I am about to drop the check in the middle of the table and my check-bearing hand is literally mauled as each guest claws at my hand, forgetting that there is a human attached. Sometimes I yank my hand out of that mess and let the check presenter fall where it may while the feist-fest continues (do they have any idea how ridiculous they look, clawing away at the check presenter like frumpy housewives vying for the very last Cabbage Patch doll?); other times I pull my hand away with the presenter still in my grasp and inform them that I shall return when they have resolved their dispute (this option is generally my preference when I am injured in the process of attempting to leave the check...yes, really). What I really would like to do is say, "Look. I am relatively certain that none of you REALLY wants to pay this tab, that what you really are after here is the notoriety of being the one to pick up the tab - that oneupmanship that will enable you to feel superior over these other guys in suits. Who are you trying to impress? Each other? Yourself? Me? Impress each other by being gentlemanlike when dining out. Impress yourself by knowing that you are being sincere and treating others with respect (yes, this includes me and my mauled hand). And do not, under any circumstances, involve me in determining who will pick up the tab.

And when you do pay, please place the cash or credit card on top of or sticking out the top of the check presenter. Do not place your credit card under the check, as I can not see it there and will not pick up your check and run the card that I can not see. Do not tuck it all inside the presenter and then close the book and leave it in the exact same spot where I left it - I am not as likely to conclude that you are ready to pay when you do this (remember, we are looking for subtle hints that YOU are ready: the check presenter has moved, there is money or a credit card on top or sticking out the top of it, the check presenter is at the edge of the table, that sort of thing). Do not be upset when I stop by and check inside the check presenter to see if you have indeed done any of the aforementioned things I've advised against, as there are so many people who do not understand the value of a subtle hint and expect me to utilize x-ray vision that I do not have to ascertain that they are ready to pay. And please, whatever you do, do not take the check presenter and hold it in your lap (I will very likely bring a new check to you as I will conclude that I have lost my mind thinking I'd dropped a check that appears to be nowhere on the table - this messes with me psychologically and is, thus, cruel). Finally, do not pick up your check presenter and carry it up to the host podium. Do you see a cash register up there? No? Good, then don't bring your check there. The hosts are the people who greet you and seat you. They do not get to take your money unless you see a cash register sitting in front of them. Get with the program, folks. When you are at Denny's and the like, you take your check up front to the cash register, if there is no cash register, you will only look like an idiot walking all over the place with your bill. That, and you might get me in trouble because you did not listen to me when I thanked you and said that I'd take care of that whenever you are ready. C'mon folks, it's not rocket science.

The Thrill of Victory and the Agony of Defeat

I was tending bar the other night and had the TV on the Food Network. I can have whatever channel I want on the TV whenever I am tending bar and have found that when I have the Food Network on, and they are showing the making of some tasty-looking dish, I tend to have higher food sales. But, because I get bored pretty easily with television, I tend to switch it around a bit: CNN, Nick at Night, Seinfeld episodes, Oregon Public Broadcasting, some bizarre Korean game show I found once, old movies, Jeopardy or Who Wants to be a Millionaire, Animal Planet, The Travel Channel, The History Channel, and I tend to only tune in to the sports channels under one of the following conditions: 1) the Olympics are on, 2) there is some hot women’s sporting event on, 3) ESPN is running the bartending championships (yes, somehow, that is considered a sport), 4) the world series/March Madness/NBA championships or some other MAJOR event is on, or 5) a customer nicely requests it. Yet, even though we are not a sports bar by any stretch of the imagination, people seem to expect sports to be on a bar television. In fact, one of our owners (the one who is rarely ever there) insists that we always have sports on the TV.

But do you know what happens when some random football game is on the telly? Well, I’ll tell you. What happens is that most of the men are utterly captivated by it and most of the women who are there with men are bored and irritated because the men aren’t paying any attention to what they are saying. I know, it sounds like a cliche, but it’s true (remember, we’re in the suburbs, so factor that in). Women who are there with other women are engaged in conversation with one another, typically, and tend to not even notice what is on the television. But, since it pains me to see women sitting idly and looking around as if they are bored while their male companions are riveted by each play on the screen, I tend not to have sports on so as not to have my female clientele feeling alienated.

But, still, it is what people inexplicably expect.

So I had the Food Network on and this guy sits up at my bar. I’m in the middle of assembling a take-out order for someone who is waiting, so I say hello to the guy and tell him I’ll be right with him. His acknowledgement in return is “any chance of changing the channel to sports?”

Lovely. I see where this is going (see aforementioned comment regarding the expectation of sports to be on a bar TV regardless).

“Is there a particular game you wanted to watch?” I ask him, even though I already know the answer.

“Nah, just so long as it’s sports,” he says – almost verbatim with my prediction. “I don’t even care if it’s bowling.”

“So let me get this straight,” I venture, dipping my foot into what could be very precariously unwise water, “you want me to turn the channel to sports, but you don’t even care what sport it is or who is playing it, so long as it is sports and not anything else?” (I so do not get this).

He confirms that what I say is correct and I finish up what I’m doing, ask him what he’d like to drink and offer him a dinner menu (hey, business first, right?). After mixing his cocktail, I grab the remote control and turn it to ESPN. I don’t even recall what the featured event was, but it made the guy happy. He then asked me if I was watching the Food Network (and proceeded to inform me that I could change it back after he left…no, pal, I can change it back right now if I please because I’m the one with the remote control and you’re the one who better leave me a decent tip for succumbing to your viewing whims or I’ll remember you and not change the channel next time). I let out a little laugh and told him that no, I wasn’t watching the Food Network, that I was working. He told me that he’d never been into a bar before where they had the Food Network on the TV. So? He allows me to continue a sassy, but friendly banter with him and to treat his request as a ridiculous one. He’s a good sport so I’ll change the channel for him next time he comes in.

Not everyone is such a good sport about it, though. Some are outright demanding and sometimes they aren’t even out of middle school. Yep, that’s right. I recently had a nine-year-old boy tell me to change it to the football game (I had CNN on at the time) and he even followed up his demand with, “sports bars should always have sports on the TV.”

“That’s true,” I confirmed for the self-absorbed tyke, “but this isn’t a sports bar, it’s just a bar.” Unfortunately, our bar allows minors at the tables for dining and restricts them only from sitting at the bar stools. I continue working while the kid cuts away from his table of all-elementary-school kids to the neighboring table where their parents are doing their best to ignore their offspring and rats me out to his dad. The dad then approaches me to explain that the kids (let’s just say that they were not using their indoor voices) would be more “focused” if football were on the TV. Given that the volume of kidnoise was giving me a headache (and that somehow I’m hearing focused=quieter), I said ok and changed the channel. Suddenly, it was as if these boy children were in the stadium with the other screaming fans – they got even louder, those kids!

And it got me thinking back to when I was a kid and there was something I noticed that I didn’t like or wished was different and I only learned to deal with my displeasure of the situation. Never did I learn that I had a voice and that my opinions mattered enough to create change. Is this the product of a new generation or a different style of parenting? Does it serve the kids well to be raised feeling as though they can object and change will occur as a result? Or is it better for kids to learn that they can’t change/control everything and that the world does not revolve around them and that sometimes you need to learn to deal with what you are dealt?

one. two. three. jump!

The other night, my boss’ recently-come-of-age son, B, was bellied up to my bar drinking margaritas, for lack of anything better to do. B is an odd bird. A very odd bird. And not in the cool, interesting, artsy way either. B has horrendous social skills and an ill sense of boundaries. He is also unaware of the physical space he consumes and when he invades the physical space of others. At 21, he still lives at home with “Ma” and “Pa” (yes, he really calls them that), works part-time at the family business and has no aspirations to do otherwise. In other words, he is a little on the green side and, while curious about the world in which he lives, there is a lot out there that he just doesn’t get.

While I already knew this about B, this became even more clear as he attempted to converse with me on the subject of strippers. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I am very much in favor of the sex industry and firmly believe that women who make a living stripping and such are simply working a job and deserve not to be judged or labeled or presumed about. In my earlier days, I would frequent the neighborhood strip club for a beer after work before heading home. I don’t go so frequently now, but only because of time/money/school and not because of some sort of moral opposition.

Like most American males, B was taken, by his father, to a strip club on his 21st birthday. Naturally, he had a ball and proceeded to spend subsequent evenings at similar clubs. Pretty normal stuff. Imagine my surprise, then, when, upon telling me that his best friend used to strip for four years (this, I already knew), he tells me how much this saddens him because it’s so disturbing to imagine her stripping across the street from where he would shop at the Target with his grandparents. I told him that I wasn’t too clear on what was disturbing about that and asked him how it was any different from if she’d been working at the Burger King across the street (except that she would have made less money at the Burger King).

B proceeded to “explain” to me that women strip because they are “forced into it” and that they “come from bad families” and that if they could take a different job, they would. Wow. What a crock of shit. At this point, I wasn’t certain that this was a conversation I could/should have with him. How can he go into their bars and watch them dance and then regard them as second class citizens with all of these assumptions about their families and their job/intellectual skills? How quick I was to become the angry feminist!

I asked B if he ever considered that perhaps women strip for a living because they want to? Or that perhaps they are paying their own way through school and stripping enables them to make the most amount of money in the least amount of hours worked? Or that they simply enjoy it? I surmise that women strip for quite a variety of reasons, including some not so savory explanations (to attend to a fierce drug habit, because they come from a screwed up family). I just don’t understand the moral backlash against strippers, as I see them as merely doing a job like anyone else. Is it because they are seductive? And isn’t that part of “their job”? It is part of my job to be friendly to folks I might not otherwise give the time of day. And maybe sometimes I may use charm and flirtatiousness to increase my gratuities – does that make me morally bankrupt? Or just a savvy bartender/businesswoman? If I went to watch a stripper dance and she was being all surly and “just going through the motions,” I might conclude that she was not doing her job well (unless I found her surliness and robotic behavior to be appealing, entertaining or somehow engaging). I just long for a time when women will be able to do with their bodies as they see fit and not be judged or construed to be lacking morals, common sense, intellect, personal freedom or otherwise.

Come again???

I've found that there are some people in our lives who ask us the same things again and again. Why is this? Are they not paying any attention to the responses the first time (or the second or the third, etc.)? Have they no other topics they can discuss with us? For how long will this continue? Should I say something? Would it seem rude if I did? Or do I just go on, answering their question for the zillionth time with the same response I always give them and marvel as their expression appears as though they are hearing the information for the first time?

Conversely, there are people who pay such careful attention that they catch me off guard with their retention of the things I have told them. Alison, who I work with, is one of those people. The other day when I told her that I spent the day helping my ex-husband move, she said, "Again? Didn't you just help him move?" Wow! That was about nine or ten months ago! And I'm certain I only mentioned it once in one of those "what are you doing this weekend?" conversations we sometimes have at work. I'm impressed with her ability to remember the insignificant details of the stories I tell. Does she remember things so well with everyone? She probably does - she works with the public a lot and I'm certain she hears many stories.

But of those who seem to fail to remember anything they are told...should I be offended? I usually am, just as I am impressed with those who remember what I have told them. Or should I just let it go and chalk it up to them being overwhelmed or having better, more important things to remember?

ode to Doris (for my dear grandmother, who left the earth on this day)

When people in the family have told me that I’m “just like Grandma,” I know that what they’re often referring to are the... shall we say?... more challenging aspects of Grandma’s personality. That’s fine by me, as I know that I also take after my Grandmother in other, more flattering ways.

Grandma was always very proud of my academic achievements – yet she contributed to some of my successes there as well. When I was in high school and had to read George Orwell’s “1984” for my Honors English class and was struggling with writing a corresponding essay, my grandmother (an avid reader) read the book overnight so that she could assist me with writing my paper the following day.

Speaking of reading, I have many fond memories of my grandmother reading to me when I was very young. So often, Grandma would take me to the library and let me select as many books as I could carry. I was always in awe with the tall stack of hardbound books that she would check out. In fact, Grandma claimed that she helped me obtain my first library card when I could barely write my own name. I so loved going to the library with my grandma and this experience has had a profound impact on my use of the public library throughout my life, on my continuing education, and on my choice of career. I am nearly halfway finished with my Master’s degree in Library Science so that I can later become a librarian (which is what I always secretly wanted my grandmother to become).

expecting and predicting

Currently, I know four women who are pregnant. So, I thought it would be fun to log my predictions for the anticipated gender of each child-to-be. Then I figured, while I'm at it, I shall take a stab at the due dates as well (although I must confess that my track record on due dates is not nearly so good as my track record with gender)(Recent correct predictions on gender: Angie (3 times), Sarah, Lisa, Lori). Will my excellent streak continue? Or will I be wrong every time. Stay tuned as I will update as I obtain confirmation of any of my predictions:

Susan will have a GIRL and will deliver on SEPT. 7, 2005
Lisa will have a BOY and will deliver on SEPT. 4, 2005
Dana will have a BOY and will deliver on OCT. 26, 2005
Liz will have a BOY and will deliver on NOV. 11, 2005

While I'm at it, I also predict that Anna will become pregnant within the next year.

sometimes you score a goal, sometimes you're a national champ

Tonight was one of those nights at work that I will refer to again and again in the near and distant future. I went into the situation with some dread, fearing that catering a celebratory party for an ice hockey team (which I later learned was comprised of 9- and 10-year-olds) celebrating their national victory would prove tedious, loud, tiresome and, as our dishwasher would say, “mucho trabajo.” Turns out much of my prediction was correct. In about three and a half hours of tending bar I poured: 30 glasses of wine, 41 beers, 59 cocktails, and over 200 Shirley Temples (yes, that required nearly three full bottles of grenadine). The victorious youngsters were drinking like fish (and boasting about their consumption, as well) and their parents were hardly any different.

The kids were running around, yelling and screaming, blowing out candles, rough housing and making huge messes of their food. A homely girl in an outfit of pale pink was securing the attention of various boys by hitting and kicking them. A curly-headed girl who couldn’t have been a day over five slugged down four kiddie cocktails alone and seemed to be enjoying a fantastic sugar high before the inevitable crash left her sullen and disagreeable. Two preschoolers were egged on by older kids (and adults) to kiss one another.

I overheard many shallow conversations while the parents of these celebratory tweens numbed themselves to the playground sounds that emanated throughout the banquet hall. Grown men allowed their insecurities to be revealed as they, too, pined for attention in unconstructive ways. The coach became disgruntled with me when I asked him to please not reach behind the bar to grab what he was wanting.

Truly, in every way, it seemed no different from whenever any other event celebrating a child’s milestone is held in our facilities.

Enter Grandma C, the hostess of this event, whose grandson was the star player of the winning team. Grandma C was a very kind and accommodating woman, or so it seemed at first. So many hostesses seem sweet and accommodating at first and then Presto! Change-O! They magically transform into Bridezilla. Not so with Grandma C. She remained friendly throughout the duration of the party. She even complimented us on our work. Uh oh. The verbal tip. Sometimes that’s a very bad sign. Sometimes folks feel that if they shower you with kind words about your efforts, they don’t have to tip as much. But when Grandma C was presented with the tab, she asked my co-worker, Whitney, how the tip was distributed. Whitney explained to her that we are required to give a (larger-than-you-would-think) portion to the kitchen as well as to a busser who helped us out and then she and I split the remainder evenly. Grandma C asked permission to write personal checks to Whitney and I in order to give us each a bonus tip. Whitney said “sure” and left Grandma C to her check-writing. Delighted to know that we were receiving a side tip, we continued about our cleaning.

Much to our delight and surprise, Grandma C saw fit to tip us an additional $200. EACH. Suddenly I knew how it felt to be the national champion. This may be the closest I'll ever come to winning the lottery.

sleepy in Seattle

I frequently drive back and forth from Portland to Seattle, where I attend graduate school. Often, I'll stay the night in a hotel so that I can arrive the night before my class and not have to feel rushed in the morning. Last weekend, I spent the night in a hotel near the airport, rather than one near the university. The deal that I found on Sidestep was just too good to pass up and I liked the idea of my drive ending a half an hour sooner than it would if I drove all the way to the university.

Besides, the last time I drove up, I stayed in my favorite inn in the U-District and arrived a little bit later than I'd anticipated. As a result, I woke up the night innkeeper upon arrival and he was pretty disgruntled with me for doing so. At first, I felt badly about this. I hate to be awakened any more than the next guy and will duly explain this to anyone who phones my house before 9am. But, wait a minute...He's at work and he is there to do a job, right? And his job is to be the night innkeeper, right? So now I'm thinking that if getting a decent and uninterrupted night's sleep is part of his typical work shift (during which he is presumably being paid), then I'm suddenly not feeling so bad that I woke him up. After all, do I ever get to sleep at work? Let me see here...um, nope, I don't. Do most people get to sleep at work? Nope again. So at this point I have no sympathy for this groggy innkeeper as I inform him that, in the future, I shall stay elsewhere. But wait a minute...now he gets his uninterrupted night of sleep and I am inconvenienced by staying somewhere more expensive and less ideally located. That hardly seems fair.

So I stayed near the airport last time and, as I was checking out, I inquired of the clerk as to the whereabouts of the nearest Starbucks. I know. I know. All these years of listening to me bitch about Starbucks and here I am pining for one. Let me explain: I'm needing coffee (badly) and I refuse to drink any of that Folger's crap which automatically rules out several places where coffee is available. I want decent coffee. I want espresso. But I completely recognize that hoping for something akin to Stumptown, Vivace, or Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf is way too much to ask and I know that I could likely chance it with some local rendition of an espresso cafe and maybe hit the jackpot, maybe end up with something along the lines of acidic sludge (or, worse yet, coffee-flavored water). But with Starbucks, I know what to expect. No surprises.

I about fell over when the clerk replied that there were NO STARBUCKS IN THE VICINITY.

"You're joking," I deadpanned.

"No, I think the nearest one is at the Tacoma Mall." She was dead serious.

So here I am, in the vicinity of the SEATTLE airport and no Starbucks nearby. Something is very wrong with this picture.

I raise my glass to Dorothy Parker...

Just read this quote, attributed to the witty, and often scathing, Dorothy Parker:

"Heterosexuality is not normal. It's just common."

Clink!

un-namaste

I glared at the guest yoga teacher today. Bad, bad yogi - very un-namaste of me. What's even worse is that I got caught, although it's bad and disrespectful either way. Let me back up a sec...

Upon arriving at class just a teensy bit late (seriously, like three minutes, tops) and encountering a locked front door, I proceeded to head for the back door where I saw my friend, Whitney, making her entrance.

"Ooh! ooh! Hold the door, Whitney!" I yelled quietly in her direction. My pleas fell on deaf ears as the heavy door and my lunging, tired body failed to connect. I rapped three times on the door, possibly a little bit louder than I'd originally intended or hoped for. A startled Whitney, no doubt reeling from a triple loud door rap echoing in her right ear, opens the door to my shamed face, while I take in the scene of the yoga studio...a scene that includes a teacher who is not Dana standing at the head of the class and watching what is now feeling like an amateur Three Stooges sketch.

I utter what is likely an unintelligible, yet sincere, apology for my tardiness and disruption. Now here is where I back up yet again. I have mentioned to Dana before that if I arrive late, I choose to turn around and walk home rather than going to the back and knocking on the door. She was astonished to hear this and asked why I would do such a thing. I explained to her (briefly, of course) that it just feels far too disruptive and disrespectful to her, as well as to the other students, if I enter class in this manner. And that then I feel badly about taking up more than my fair share of space. Dana was most sympathetic and understanding as she asked that I please feel welcome to proceed into the class if I arrive late and to rest assured that there would be no hard feelings. She even put her hands in anjali mudra while saying please - a gesture of extreme respect and gratitude in the yoga community. How could I say no to that?

As it turned out, Dana was participating in the class, as if she were a student, and I planted myself three mats down from her. She smiled at me, but I was not yet ready for her warmth, as I was far too busy fighting the regrets that were emerging in my mind. I was debating as to whether I should've slept in and come to the 9am class instead. I was wondering who this guy was at the head of our class and I was not in a headspace to let him in. Admittedly, I don't do so well with change and I especially appreciate being forewarned of change for maximum ability to cope on my behalf.

But what if this fellow didn't have the same warm and understanding approach to late students as did Dana? What if he is now angry at me? Does he think I'm disrespectful? Is he wishing I weren't there? Does he even care?

I attempted to gauge the answers to all of these questions and so much more while I conducted the warm-up gestures, already feeling confined by my shrunken space all the way at the end of the row (this is what I deserve for arriving late, I told myself) and next to a confident and skilled yogi who seemed to require some of my socially-determined personal space. I slunk back and chose not to compete spatially with the woman with the perky ponytail. But then I found that I could not see the teacher as perky ponytail was now occupying my visual space as well.

I was thoroughly convinced that this was the universe's way of informing me that I did not belong in that class today. So I am in my already-cramped space on the end, now in the corner, and craning my neck to see past perky ponytail. The teacher observes that I am inconvenienced and instructs me to step forward into what is now perky ponytail's space (despite that it rests above my mat).

And that is when it happened. I actually glared at him. And he saw me do it. Bad, bad, so very very bad. At this point I'm a tad cross, as I know that I will not be able to successfully execute his think-outside-of-the-box (yoga mat=box) gestures and not collide (yes, literally) with perky ponytail. So I step forward to observe his instruction, perma-glare stuck on my cross face, and then take a defiant step backward into my corner where at least what space I do have is my own. As he guides us through the next series of gestures, he says,"blahblahblah your left side blahblahblah place your hands blahblahblah," and then came the words of one who is genuinely warm and understanding, "or if you don't want to, you don't have to."

After class, Whitney said to me that this slightly different approach to yoga caused her to realize how inflexible she was.

"Me, too," I told her.

"Oh my god, you are so not inflexible. You could totally do those gestures," she asserted.

"Not inflexible in the body," I declared, "up here," I said, pointer finger tapping gently above the tip of my ear.

happy holidays?

My lovely wife completely digs on the holidays. Me, not so much. I'm certain I can attribute my lack of enthusiasm for all days send-a-card-worthy to my many years of working in the restaurant industry and having to contend with the fact that I'd be working on Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day and sometimes my birthday (as it falls on Mother's Day every six years). Thus, rather than bitching, moaning, and whining about my obligation to my employer, I decided some time ago that if I didn't care about the holidays, I wouldn't so much mind working during them. This tactic proved quite effective and, while I haven't been required to work Thanksgiving or Christmas since my days as a waiter and bartender long ago at the Heathman Hotel, I'm still expected to serve the hungry and thirsty masses on all of the other aforementioned holidays. Although I still never really look forward to working on these days, so infamously known in the restaurant industry as "amateur nights," I soldier forward nonetheless.

But, as I mentioned before, J loves the holidays. I'm not sure why, but she really really looks forward to them and enjoys making special plans to commemorate the day right down to a special meal and gifts commensurate with the theme of that particular holiday. She gets angry when I make fun of the holidays, particularly the ones I refer to as "Hallmark Holidays," such as Valentine's Day. There's no reason in my mind why we need to feel compelled to dine out exactly on February 14 and exchange tired roses and red-wrapped boxes of chocolates to prove our love to one another.

Easter is one of those holidays that I can pretty much take or leave. In fact, I could actually do without it. As an atheist-ish Buddhist, I can't wholly get behind the Christian sentiment of Easter and have yet to figure out what baskets and bunnies and marshmallow Peeps have to do with it all. Furthermore, why does everyone seem to go out for brunch on Easter? Needless to say, I haven't really been the model of what J had in mind when it comes to "how we should celebrate Easter." As far as I'm concerned, it's just another Sunday and should be treated as such. J, an avowed pagan, not only wants the candy-filled basket, but wants said basket hidden so that she can search relentlessly until she finds it. Partaking in this manifestation of how to do Easter just doesn't work for me, doesn't feel natural. Every year it seems we debate this and so rather than spending Easter my way (as if it were any other Sunday) or her way (as if the Easter Bunny had paid a visit), we typically spend the day arguing about how to spend the day...

This year it seems I won the argument, despite never actually having one, as we had a lovely morning enjoying our coffee and then went downtown to see a movie. At the conclusion of the emotional ringer that is Million Dollar Baby, we headed over to the Veritable Quandary for a stiff libation and a good burger and then came home and enjoyed a quiet evening playing cards. As there was no mention of the Easter Bunny or any of his/her tendencies, I thought I was finally free and clear, off the Easter hook until

this morning when J carries a package upstairs and I notice that it's decorated appropriately for the "holiday" with a basket, eggs, and even fake grass. Upon opening the package, J was delighted to find a "basket" of sweet and salty treats, Peeps and all. Without really thinking first, J then exclaims, "Oh! It was a good Easter after all." And who do we have to thank for making Easter happen in the most Easter appropriate manner??? Was it the Easter Bunny? No, it was J's Jewish (step)mother. The world works in funny ways, indeed.

Once in Awhile I Take a Shortcut...

Describe yourself using one band and song titles from that band
Created by naw5689 and taken 22159 times on bzoink!
Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band:	David Bowie
Are you male or female:	Lady Stardust
Describe yourself:	Under Pressure
How do some people feel about you:	Rebel Rebel
How do you feel about yourself:	Never Let Me Down
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend:	Queen Bitch
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:	Loving the Alien
Describe where you want to be:	A New Career in a New Town
Describe what you want to be:	Future Legend
Describe how you live:	Reality
Describe how you love:	Modern Love
Share a few words of wisdom	I'm Afraid of Americans
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