Do Ya Wanna Makeup?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm really hoping that Maryanne acquires a clue.

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

Desert Island food

just in case

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

City Hall's first mosh pit

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

I am so damned proud.

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Crappy Mother's Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't wait for lunch tomorrow.

My mother is so FUBAR.

feeling like the underdog

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

Dear Lizzie B.,

You fuckin' pissed me off tonight.

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

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

Signed,
bk

and, at the same time,

Dear S-L P,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With warmth and admiration,
bk

My mom = not a mom

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

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

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

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

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

Hi Mom,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
(insert my name here)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WTF???

What gives, Damien Rice? Why no opening act?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And, apparently, so do I."

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

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

"Wrong show," J concluded.

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

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

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

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

Bravo!

When Disco Inferno and Hollywood go head to head

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

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

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

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

How serendipitous this turned out to be!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wow, vicious, I'm thinking.

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

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

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

This is one of the best games ever.

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

Ipod shmypod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next time he does that, he's grounded.

what a tangled web we weave

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Twas a dark and stormy night...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't identify any of them.

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

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

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

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

Exes and Whys

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

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

I can sort my exes into three distinct categories:

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

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

'Tis weird, though, eh?

I just gotta know...who was Steve?

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

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

Goodbye Steve
We'll Miss You

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

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

Part A: Validation Collection

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

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

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

I feel better already.

Part B: Editrix seeks room for let

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

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

I am thrilled. Not.

I think I'm gonna puke.

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

Part C: Lies, lies, lies, yeah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What comes around, goes around...

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

Am I always this irresponsible? Hell no.

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

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

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

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

How did I later explain my absence?

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

Cruel? yes.

Unusual? Not so much.

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


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

Above the Law

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is there a full moon tonight?

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

huhhhhhhh?

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

Oh shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Something visible but without substance

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

Anyway, I'll cut to the chase here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps Ruben Studdard is opening for him.

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

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

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

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

Oh crap.

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

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

What the hell was happening here?

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

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

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

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

not an alter ego, mind you

Hey peeps!

I doth have me a doppelganger!!!

And she is a former Portlander!

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

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

Part A : Look! A Pirate!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I visit L.A.

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

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

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

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

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

Part E: Donning the martini goggles at Musso & Frank

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

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