Latest Favorites

I have a lot of things in life that I really like a lot. Sometimes, the level of really wanes, or the thing liked is forgotten, but truly, I like so many things (like, REALLY like) that if I were even ABLE to remember all of them forever, I’d probably have room for nothing else in my brain! And I need to be able to do my taxes, honey. Speaking of, I gotta make this quick… SO!

Here are a couple of my latest and greatest “things that I really like”:

1. Pagecrusher’s new blog – It’s poetry done awesome.
(as an aside, every time I say “pagecrusher” I can’t help but think of the episode of Family Guy where Peter is selling backscratchers… backscratCHAAAAAA!!!)

2. Gardens & Villa and their super laid-back summer jam that hasn’t turned into a summer jam YET but I have GREAT HOPES!!! And check it: YOU CAN DOWNLOAD THIS TRACK FOR FREEEEEEEE.

It was recoded in muthafuckin’ Cottage Grove last summer and so I am gonna bet a cool FIVE Washingtons that these dudes took a dip (or 10) in the cool blue waters of the ol’ res’.

I’ve given you external reading material AND a soundtrack. My work here for today is done.


House, M.D.

I am a big fan of the show House, M.D. Not for any particular reason, really, aside from the average reasons anyone really likes a TV show: good writing, good acting, some jokes, sexual and human interest tension, blah blah blah – and can I get a WUT WUT for killer singles in the soundtracks! I probably like House as much as I do simply because I’ve been watching it since the first season (thank el yah-way-o for Hulu). I mean, sometimes I’ll watch Grey’s Anatomy with my roommate. It’s good, too. But I don’t care. It’s been around too long for me to catch up now, and anyhow, why would I leave House for Grey’s??? That’d just be dumb.

One reason many people like House is because Dr. House is soooo… recognizably adult inappropriate. He’s like the Bentley “Phantom” version of the smartest, wittiest, driest asshole you’ve ever known or had to deal with in life. I LOVE those kinds of people. Especially when I can watch them instead of having to actually deal with them. Here is a great example of “Drunk Dr. House and the Fucked Up Shit He’ll Say”:

Ohhhhh vagina, you are such a goofy word. And when wet, drunk, intelligent actors-playing-doctors-on-TV speak of you from laps, I truly can’t help but laugh in that horrifying way that shocks and upsets my cat. She’s lazy anyway. I’m just gonna keep on laughing.

Being a lady

People – especially dudes – have a horribly disrespectful tendency to chortle when I firmly proclaim my distaste for or refusal to do something “because I’m a lady.” ‘Haha, yeah, “a lady.” Right.’ Um, ‘scuse me, asshole; last time I checked you were using the men’s room to pee, so don’t fucking tell ME what it is to be a muthafuckin’ lady. I promise you it sure as HELL isn’t ever gonna be what you WANT ladies to be. But just because this lady genie isn’t granting one of your three wishes most certainly doesn’t mean I’m NOT a lady. ‘Cuz I am. 100%.

At the moment, I am “packaged” like you’d expect a lady to be packaged: makeup, hair did, tasteful cleavage, heels – I look damn near Mad Men, if I do say so myself. But here’s the thing: this now is a very true expression of me and my personal style – and so is ‘non-descript everything with no “face” on’ me. I AM a lady 100%, but maybe you think I don’t LOOK it all the time.

I realized the perception shift when I got on the bus in my lady garb, headed to the chapel for what’s sure to be another gorgeous wedding of two incredible and loving friends, and noticed that people – ‘speshly dudes – were staring. Like “WHOA, dassa layyyyydy” staring. I truly didn’t comprehend that I looked any different than a normal day until then because everywhere I go everyday, I don’t even think about whether I look like a lady. In my head and heart, I just… am.

So. There you go. This lady is signing off to go celebrate love, commitment, and friendship.

Delirious: It’s Not Just a River in Spain

No blog yesterday – yeah, I’m supersure you noticed. DON’T TASE ME, BRO, I’m only human. Or am I??? No blog was the result of working all day and into the wee hours (look at those hours! they so SMALL!!) on job apps, paperwork, and tests. All kiiiinds of not-exactly-Turkish-delight. Then, I woke up about 3 hours later (hence the delirium), smooched today on the cheek, and proceeded to grab it by the huevos. Four job interviews, so much more paperwork, and more tests. SORRY, BLOG. In the life game of rock paper scissors, getting a job trumps blog.

After all the “round 1” testing and paperwork was done, I was informed that I’m really good at a myriad of totally random-yet-marketable things! Thank goodness… it’s bad enough to feel useless as an unemployed person, but it’s a doubly depressing setback to find out via standardized tests that you’re also a moron. (Hey, it’s happened before; there’s a reason I never pursued a degree in astrophysics. [<– that is NOT a joke. I really wanted to! Haven’t you read Contact??? If not, DO IT!]) High “hireability aptitude numbers” notwithstanding, I know I won’t get hired on scores alone. Tomorrow’s to-do list: MY FACE. Ha. Yeah right. I’ll probably just keep… I don’t know, doing whatever it is that people like me do that have and will never be professional “faces.” LIKE BLOGGING. Or practicing my mad grammar skillz (as they may actually be what pay my billz). Or scoping for dudes. LIKE THIS CHICK!

Spell check yourself before you wreck yourself??? THIS LADY HAS WRITTEN THE SONG THAT SINGS (or raps) MY TRUTH!!! Do I live my life spelling/grammar-error-free? Um, DUH NO. SPESHLEE not here on el blogo. But in life – and definitely in a JOB – I do my best. It’s like respecting mama. When she isn’t looking, maybe you do things she’d poo-poo. But when you’re in the house where mama raised you (aka adulthood), you show some fuckin’ RESPECT. The mama, pops, or village that raised you worked their ass off to fund your schools and pay your teachers. The least you can do is ACT LIKE YOU KNOW the difference between there/their/they’re. Don’t be an ingrate.

I’m deeply indebted to my parents and the massive village that raised me for all the lessons I’ve learned (and continue to learn). And I hope to one day be able to deeply embed the knowledge – not a single lesson, but the know-it-in-yer-bonez knowledge – that I was fortunate enough to receive. Some people think that this means I’d make a good mom. AU CONTRAIRE, MON HOMESKILLIT. Because, see, here’s the thing: in my opinion, being a good parent has NOTHING to do with how much you like kids or want to see them grow up to be exemplary grown chicklets. It’s much more about being good at PARENTING. Monkey’s Mo’ and I were flappin’ our yappers about parenting this weekend (cuz das how you DO when you hang out with people with kids). I said something like “GAHDAYUM, gurrrrl! You done had yerself the CUTEST BABY EVARRRR. and to boot, HE’S SO GOOD!!! Does it ever make you just want to baby seal club bad babies you see in the stores and such cuz they aren’t as good as Monkey?” She said “nah. It makes me want to club the parent, though. Most bad babies are bad cuz their parents suck.” Again, truthbombs over Baghdad were dropped, right there in that kitchen. And the people rejoiced. And it was good.

Now. Are there exceptions? DUH. NOTHING IS BLACK AND WHITE when it comes to things like nature/nurture and blanket statements regarding “all kids.” But. Monkey Mo’ helped me put into efficient words why I so often disagree with those who said I’d be a “good mom”: I don’t think I’d be naturally good at parenting. And presently, I have no interest whatsoever in overcoming this personal opinion. Would the kid grow up to be a dance machine with pretty much really awesome taste in most things that are worthy of excellent palate development? Prolly. That’s not parenting. That’s fairy godmothering. And that’s all that holds interest for me.


SO. For all you babycrazy friends out there who see me having a grand ol’ giggly baby time with your kids, it’s cuz I love kids when they aren’t being bad. When they are bad, I don’t see it as a chance to rise to the challenge – I see it as the perfect time to give the kid back to you.

But then, Monkey Mo’ said “even though I lucked out with such a good baby, I know that I’m gonna do SOMETHING to screw him up. Everyone will.” BNNNGGGGG. Gong of life smacked me in the face: things NOT on my short- or long-term to-do list include screwing people up. Especially tiny baby people. They are DELICATE those ones!!! I think I’ll just stick to letting my friends screw up their own kids and getting myself a job that I will, undoubtedly at some isolated moment, screw up, but will otherwise love to work and crush with awesometude.

Oh, and in case anyone was curious, I basically type at the speed of light. JUST PUTTING THAT OUT THERE.

Now stop reading this blog already and go do something helpful for Japan!!!

Other People’s Babies

I don’t wanna birth my own baby, but I’m not opposed to someday being a mom. However, at the moment, I have NO interest in being a mom, and yet still greatly enjoy screwing with my friends’ kids who are passing through major developmental milestones, as they are learning how to process all kinds of stuff and thus are SUPER easily and strangely entertained.

Take for instance one of my all-time FAVORITE babies, Monkey*. Here’s Monkey:

If you are thinking to yourself “my, that baby sure does look HAPPY!” you are CORRECT! He may be the happiest baby I’ve ever encountered. If you are thinking “does he have rib sauce on his face??” you are ALSO correct! Monkey LOVES ribs and gnawed on a few rib bonez during dinner (CHILL OUT, WHISTLE BLOWERS. AIN’T YO BABY, AIN’T YO RULEZ). But this happyhappyjoyjoy face is the direct result of the fact that he loves EVERYTHING that is in the world – and he’d just, I dunno… probably looked around and got excited about some lint. He’s a one-man all-discovery, all-the-time JOY MACHINE!!! If you’re thinking “Oh, so what you’re saying is that he’s a baby,” yeah. Yeah he is. But I can almost guarantee you that he is a “Top 1% Best Babies That Have Ever Lived” baby. [Seriously, if you say one mean thing to/about that baby and mean it, I will probably kill you. I love that baby.]

As he is a happy and curious baby, I must fuck with him and try to derail – I prefer “enrich” – his learning because I feel it is my calling in life (when I’m around babies. When I’m not around babies, my calling feels more like competitive eater.) So today, I taught Monkey a game called “put stuff on the baby and see what happens.” First up was a kleenex. Monkey pretty much KNOWS he hates kleenexes because they are STOP MOVING FOR A SECOND BABY WHILE I DON’T PUT A BOOB IN YOUR MOUTH OR OTHERWISE ADD FUN TO YOUR LIFE mechanisms. But I didn’t try to wipe Monkey’s nose, I put the kleenex on his head. Yep. Why? Because I wouldn’t FEED him a kleenex – that’d be CRAZY! You guys, IT BLEW HIS FUCKING BABY MIIIIIIND!!!! Which, of course, was awesome and hilarious for me because I got to sit there watching and listening to him laugh and squeal with delight, which makes me laugh – both with him and at him, like “baby, IT’S JUST A FUCKING KLEENEX!!! LOOK HOW EASY THIS IS!!! THIS IS AWESOME!!!!”

Sometimes when I hear people bitch about how much baby toys cost, I just want to call them out for being boring. Babies don’t CARE. They just want STUFF. They especially want whatever you don’t want them to have, so if the issue is that your baby “needs” expensive toys, perhaps it’d be best to start with the man in the mirror before you place that order on Amazon.

After the success of the kleenex experiment, I moved on to a salad bowl (OR IS IT A DRUM?? It’s whatever Monkey wants it to be, Captain Pigeonhole! DON’T CAGE THIS MONKEY!) The weight of the bowl made it a much less tenable chapeau alternative than the kleenex, but for Monkey, just knowing it could ALSO go on his head AS WELL AS being a drum made it a “double the fun” toy. Monkey was pleased and laughed gah gah gah all the way home. And by home, I mean to THE BOOB.

*Again, a nickname. I don’t have friends that would ACTUALLY name their kid “Monkey.” THAT’D be stupid.

More important things

Today is the day Japan endured an 8.9 earthquake. If you want to donate money, the first organization I’ve heard of that’s accepting remittances is the Red Cross. You can text REDCROSS to 90999 to instantly provide US$10 to the relief and recovery efforts.

And you guys, because I love goofy cats and things that are cute and wonderful and such, I want you to know that MARU IS OKAY!!!

[from Maru’s blog]


Maru is safe.
Thank you for worrying and praying.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
Animals have a wonderful ability of helping people through hard times in life. I’m glad to hear that this one cat, who has given so many giggles, and has warmed so many hearts, is still obsessed with sitting in mostly-enclosed spaces. These kinds of little things really do help people move on from major catastrophic events, and so, while I may become infuriated to the point of nearly snapping when jackholes blame nature’s fury on “the gays” and “women,” I don’t get mad at people talking about “frivolous things” like Maru when their world has literally been ROCKED to its core.

The REAL Portlandia

One thing I love about legit PDX hobos is that they embody the mighty honey badger and they don’t CARE about aaaaanything. Today, I walked by a small gathering of maybe-they-were-old-or-maybe-it-was-just-the-face-of-drugs hobos. Kind of sane-ish looking, they also were openly discussing how best to smoke the crack they had in the pipe which they were not at all concealing. I thought old mama hobo had the best advice: “JUST TURN TO THE SIDE! We’ll cover for you!” She was in a wheelchair and started lifting up a blanket that was draped across her lap, as if to shield her friend from any possible danger or sighting by the cops.

Yeah. Do that. You’ll really fool them, you cunning, sneaky hobo you. The cops might have otherwise seen old man crack pipe winter hobo openly waving around and/or lighting that crack pipe, but they will instantly be thrown off and lack suspicion when they see you going all ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ impromptu fort builder at the bus stop. And hey, even if your bright quilt fort DOES draw attention, all suspicion will again be lost when your friend simply turns to the side. That will surely shield him from any lingering harm.

Kids, I’ve said it before and it bears repeating: drugs are bad, mmkayyyy?