My absolute favorite personals from this week:
"What I'm looking for is simple: someone single (read: not married or in a romantic relationship with another person), sane (read: not bipolar, on head meds, currently in therapy or skipping out on it, or diagnosed with a mental illness), not into drugs, not an alcoholic, not deeply religious, 18+ Being down syndrome is also right out."
"I like to start backwards with my relationships. Instead of getting to know someone really well before we have sex. I like to have sex then get to know someone. I figure if the sex is not good for both the relationship will not go very far. Any ladies out there want to possible have some good sex and then take if from there send me a pic. If I like I will send you one in return. Worst thing that can happen is we get together have sex and then never talk again. Doen't sound that bad. Happy hunting."
"Seeking a woman who is seeking a man, but not a big social life. A woman that wants to be with a man all day affectionately, but isnt interested in going out a lot, or lots of social engagements, who just simply wants to stay with me as much as possible, something really attached physically and mentally..Someone who will be with me at every moment and not want anything else, few desires but us. In short, a woman who will live with me, walk with me to places, sleep with me, and generally be there with me without a lot of ambitious we-must-get-ahead activity."
30 September 2006
28 September 2006
NY fat attack
Have you heard this? The NY Health Department asked all NY restaurants to voluntarily ban trans fat rich ingredients. Now, as bad for you as trans fats may be I think this is just STUPID. I don’t think food - healthy food, not so healthy food - is the problem: I think people - NOT SO HEALTHY PEOPLE - are the problem.
I have worked (among other places) at a Mrs. Fields Cookie shop, as a baker for a chain of Seattle coffee shops and as an assistant pastry chef for Tom Douglas’s restaurants in Seattle. I know what goes into your madelines and sucre and tartes and crème brule and scones and pies. And I know, as you know, that “healthy” should not attach to certain foods. If it takes a pound of Crisco to make you a damn fine apple pie, it takes a pound of Crisco. I know, you know but would rather not know, and that’s the way it should be.
Here’s a thought NY: it’s not what people eat it’s how much they eat and how they live. How ‘bout this? Require every New Yorker to get a license to eat out. Or, have every NY Restaurant index their menus to the Body Mass Index. Waiters will wield calipers and qualify diners before taking orders. Got a healthy BMI? Then you can have the Alfredo. Unhealthy BMI? Sorry, you get the steamed fish and veggies.
Because really, I’m sure removing trans fats from restaurants will make up for all the crap New Yorkers will continue to purchase at the Grocers. And, processed foods remain one of the highest sources of trans fats.
I have worked (among other places) at a Mrs. Fields Cookie shop, as a baker for a chain of Seattle coffee shops and as an assistant pastry chef for Tom Douglas’s restaurants in Seattle. I know what goes into your madelines and sucre and tartes and crème brule and scones and pies. And I know, as you know, that “healthy” should not attach to certain foods. If it takes a pound of Crisco to make you a damn fine apple pie, it takes a pound of Crisco. I know, you know but would rather not know, and that’s the way it should be.
Here’s a thought NY: it’s not what people eat it’s how much they eat and how they live. How ‘bout this? Require every New Yorker to get a license to eat out. Or, have every NY Restaurant index their menus to the Body Mass Index. Waiters will wield calipers and qualify diners before taking orders. Got a healthy BMI? Then you can have the Alfredo. Unhealthy BMI? Sorry, you get the steamed fish and veggies.
Because really, I’m sure removing trans fats from restaurants will make up for all the crap New Yorkers will continue to purchase at the Grocers. And, processed foods remain one of the highest sources of trans fats.
27 September 2006
I choose happiness
I put stock in few absolutes. Disclaimer provided, I feel more and more strongly that happiness is a choice. I won’t substantiate my belief with any sort of context. And before you disagree with me, don’t. Because I’m more than aware that anyone who doesn’t believe happiness is a choice cannot be convinced it is. It’s just a belief you come to or don’t. Believe me, there was a time when I was in the other camp.
But hey, I also put stock in the belief that people can change but only if they want to. Which is really just a more general way of saying happiness is a choice. And people feel pretty strongly on that one too (though many leave out the "if they want to" part).
So there you go.
But hey, I also put stock in the belief that people can change but only if they want to. Which is really just a more general way of saying happiness is a choice. And people feel pretty strongly on that one too (though many leave out the "if they want to" part).
So there you go.
25 September 2006
Did you see that leaf in front of her house?
Talked to my mom last night about how I don’t understand why all my neighbors spent the weekend raking leaves. I mean, one of my neighbors actually came up to my next door neighbor last night and congratulated her on how much better her place looked since she raked. The most pressing leaf issue I know of concerns their clogging of drainage systems and the subsequent flooding of streets. Yet, none of my neighbors bothered to remove the leaves lining the street curbs in front of their houses.
As far as I’m concerned, aesthetically speaking, I enjoy seeing all the fallen leaves blowing about. But, my mother made the only valid point I’ve ever heard on the subject. The leaves will get wet if it rains and then taking care of them will be a pain in the ass.
So, having found some rational basis for the task (not to mention feeling slightly shamed into it by my neighbors) I set to work raking my leaves this morning.
I have to admit, I felt ever so industrious. And amused that anyone could ever stretch such a simple task into even an hour-long activity (anyone with less than half an acre). I started missing simple little things I used to do on the farm or working as a gardener in the cemetery.
I still haven’t a clue what to do about all the persimmons falling about the sidewalk. But, later this week, I think I will take care of the leaves in front of my curb. And perhaps shame my neighbors into doing the same with theirs.
As far as I’m concerned, aesthetically speaking, I enjoy seeing all the fallen leaves blowing about. But, my mother made the only valid point I’ve ever heard on the subject. The leaves will get wet if it rains and then taking care of them will be a pain in the ass.
So, having found some rational basis for the task (not to mention feeling slightly shamed into it by my neighbors) I set to work raking my leaves this morning.
I have to admit, I felt ever so industrious. And amused that anyone could ever stretch such a simple task into even an hour-long activity (anyone with less than half an acre). I started missing simple little things I used to do on the farm or working as a gardener in the cemetery.
I still haven’t a clue what to do about all the persimmons falling about the sidewalk. But, later this week, I think I will take care of the leaves in front of my curb. And perhaps shame my neighbors into doing the same with theirs.
22 September 2006
Call it Fall
All at once, Fall; how do the seasons change so quickly? They don’t, I suppose. They just seemed to change differently this year. Record high temperatures sapped the trees by late July and leaves fell prematurely. Green bleached to beige long before the remnants began the turn to redsorangespurples. And so the shift seems less subtle. Call it El Niño. Call it what you will. Suddenly, seemingly, rain pours down and temperatures plummet. Call it Fall.
As in grinning ear to ear while puddle jumping in a downpour walk with the dog. Hearing the wind whip through the window. Glistening drops hanging from each leaf of a tree. Stripes of daring color shouting out from a mass of trees. Horrid, muddy puddles challenging you to leap like a schoolgirl. Morning mists soft focusing even the most mundane days.
Such a literal season. As if to fall down. Fall into something, fall out of something. And just two letters away from feel. Because how can you not, really? Whether wonder, delight, depression, or whatever you’re prone to, how can you not see so much rain, so much change and not fall into feeling just a little bit more? Can you anthropomorphize the weather? If nothing else, it’s just so damn cathartic.
And I love it.
As in grinning ear to ear while puddle jumping in a downpour walk with the dog. Hearing the wind whip through the window. Glistening drops hanging from each leaf of a tree. Stripes of daring color shouting out from a mass of trees. Horrid, muddy puddles challenging you to leap like a schoolgirl. Morning mists soft focusing even the most mundane days.
Such a literal season. As if to fall down. Fall into something, fall out of something. And just two letters away from feel. Because how can you not, really? Whether wonder, delight, depression, or whatever you’re prone to, how can you not see so much rain, so much change and not fall into feeling just a little bit more? Can you anthropomorphize the weather? If nothing else, it’s just so damn cathartic.
And I love it.
21 September 2006
"Do you mind?"
Running late this morning and no parking in front of the coffee shop so I circle the block to get a spot in the lot. Just past 9 a.m., a line forms to the counter, everyone on their way to work, and I dutifully take my place. And then, it happens:
I hear joyful squeals and giggles as the woman in front of me greats her friend who has just come through the side door. And the latecomer turns to me as she joins her friend in line in front of me and asks – asks?, who is she kidding, this really isn’t a question – “do you mind if I join my friend and cut in front of you?”
And it’s the way I say it, I guess. Because I’m running late and because I just don’t have the energy to be a very good liar and also because this really isn’t a question.
“Sure,” I say, in a voice filled with contempt.
In a voice filled with something that makes her say, “that’s O.K., it doesn’t seem like it’s O.K. with you.”
And I’m supposed to feel rotten, horrible really, because I was supposed to say,“Oh no of course! Go right ahead!” in a voice displaying my glee for their little friendly outing. But actually, I feel pretty happy with myself. Especially after her friend turns to her and says, “here, I’ll pay for you, what do you want?” No lady, you’re not going to make me feel bad.
Here’s the thing. If you’re going to cut in line, just do it. Don’t look to me to validate your rudeness, because I won’t. And don’t try to make me feel bad for your rudeness, because I won’t. But most of all, don’t ask dumb questions. Because I’m sure as shit not going to give you a dumb answer.
I hear joyful squeals and giggles as the woman in front of me greats her friend who has just come through the side door. And the latecomer turns to me as she joins her friend in line in front of me and asks – asks?, who is she kidding, this really isn’t a question – “do you mind if I join my friend and cut in front of you?”
And it’s the way I say it, I guess. Because I’m running late and because I just don’t have the energy to be a very good liar and also because this really isn’t a question.
“Sure,” I say, in a voice filled with contempt.
In a voice filled with something that makes her say, “that’s O.K., it doesn’t seem like it’s O.K. with you.”
And I’m supposed to feel rotten, horrible really, because I was supposed to say,“Oh no of course! Go right ahead!” in a voice displaying my glee for their little friendly outing. But actually, I feel pretty happy with myself. Especially after her friend turns to her and says, “here, I’ll pay for you, what do you want?” No lady, you’re not going to make me feel bad.
Here’s the thing. If you’re going to cut in line, just do it. Don’t look to me to validate your rudeness, because I won’t. And don’t try to make me feel bad for your rudeness, because I won’t. But most of all, don’t ask dumb questions. Because I’m sure as shit not going to give you a dumb answer.
18 September 2006
Herzliche Grüße aus dem schönen Nürnberg
“Warm greetings from the beautiful Nuremberg” reads the postcard from my mother: Die Hauptstadt Frankens, an der Pegnitz gelegen, ist als Stadt des Spielzeugs, der Meistersinger und als Dürerstadt weltweit bekannt. Something about a toy-like city known worldwide?
Lost in translation, again.
I just can’t believe the first postcard my mother sent me from one of her overseas trips came from Nuremberg.
Lost in translation, again.
I just can’t believe the first postcard my mother sent me from one of her overseas trips came from Nuremberg.
15 September 2006
a-b=bob?!?
Found this today in a journal from about four years ago:
Aside from having no idea what the hell that "math" was all about I was beside myself when I saw the
a-b=bob equation.
Either the twelve-hour shifts working pastry did something inexplicable to my brain or this is further evidence that watching Twin Peaks a few too many times does strange, strange things to a person.
Aside from having no idea what the hell that "math" was all about I was beside myself when I saw the
a-b=bob equation.
Either the twelve-hour shifts working pastry did something inexplicable to my brain or this is further evidence that watching Twin Peaks a few too many times does strange, strange things to a person.
13 September 2006
The first skipper of the term
Dear Professor So-And-So,
I regret to inform you that I will skip class tonight for the following reasons:
1. My thirty-minute hunt for parking on campus earlier today resulted in a lingering headache and homicidal urges.
2. I just learned that my favorite Italian restaurant has pulled gnocchi from the menu which I consider an insult to anyone with a reasonably decent palate.
3. The decided lack of cute guys in your class has foiled my ability to form a class crush which is the only motivational system I’ve found works to get my ass to classes. That, and even if I had pickings for a class crush it would be really hard to think about anything lurid while you went on and on about old people.
4. It’s just about to really rain in Portland for the first time this almost fall. And, it would just be too dramatic and emotionally charged to walk out of class, see the rain, get in my car, hear some Tom Waits song and deal with the sudden onset of Fall. I’d much rather eat second string Italian food and watch the rain from my porch.
Yours ever truly,
The first skipper of the term.
I regret to inform you that I will skip class tonight for the following reasons:
1. My thirty-minute hunt for parking on campus earlier today resulted in a lingering headache and homicidal urges.
2. I just learned that my favorite Italian restaurant has pulled gnocchi from the menu which I consider an insult to anyone with a reasonably decent palate.
3. The decided lack of cute guys in your class has foiled my ability to form a class crush which is the only motivational system I’ve found works to get my ass to classes. That, and even if I had pickings for a class crush it would be really hard to think about anything lurid while you went on and on about old people.
4. It’s just about to really rain in Portland for the first time this almost fall. And, it would just be too dramatic and emotionally charged to walk out of class, see the rain, get in my car, hear some Tom Waits song and deal with the sudden onset of Fall. I’d much rather eat second string Italian food and watch the rain from my porch.
Yours ever truly,
The first skipper of the term.
12 September 2006
11 September 2006
Dear George Whatthefuck Bush,
thanks for turning your 9/11 presidential address into a ginourmous vomit inducing sell for the war in Iraq (within days of the report admitting no link between Al Qaeda and Iraq, no less) and adding yet another inch of icing on the rhetoric cake on this day of "memorial" (not an anniversary, not a celebration either)because, really, seeing three Hillary Clinton interviews in the last three hours and hearing endless debate on the "freedom" tower just wasn't enough.
Fucktard.
Fucktard.
Play. List.
1. “This Magic Moment.” Lou Reed. Still the only notable part of Lost Highway.
2. “Out of My Head.” Fastball. In case you didn’t get the memo; Oakland, summer of 99.
3. “Back On the Chain Gang.” The Pretenders. The grind, the chain gang, “circumstance beyond our control” = never sounded so good.
4. “Here Comes Your Man.” The Pixies. I’m a big fan of comparing relationships to trains, boxcars, whathaveyou.
5. “Someone Has to Die.” Maritime. This song rules: “I don’t care if it happens in Argentina, or way up North, off the coast of Norway on an island with no name…all I know is someone has to die to make room for you and I, our love goes crazy all the time.”
6. “Beautiful Girl.” INXS. If I were living in I Heart Huckabees I’d be having a Michael Hutchence coincidence of epic proportions. First, I hear “Never Tear Us Apart” in a bar. Then, someone mentioned his death at a party. Then, my friend Kevin brought him up the next day. And then, Lucas brought him up in a blog. Oh my.
7. “Gravity Rides Everything.” Modest Mouse. Good Song.
8. “In Your Eyes.” Peter Gabriel. A college radio station played this for River Pheonix when he ODed. Did you know that the only Enquirer I ever bought was for River Pheonix’s funeral coverage?
9. “Cannonball.” Damien Rice. I got nothing.
10. “Questions.” Old 97’s. Just a sweet little song.
11. “Good Feeling.” Violent Femmes. Just time traveling.
12. “Yesterdays.” G’N’R. I love me some Guns’n’Roses.
13. “The Scientist.” Coldplay. Got stuck in my head on a dog walk and I’m trying to unstick it.
14. “Pain In My Heart.” Otis Fucking Redding. I have it on good authority his middle name really is Fucking.
2. “Out of My Head.” Fastball. In case you didn’t get the memo; Oakland, summer of 99.
3. “Back On the Chain Gang.” The Pretenders. The grind, the chain gang, “circumstance beyond our control” = never sounded so good.
4. “Here Comes Your Man.” The Pixies. I’m a big fan of comparing relationships to trains, boxcars, whathaveyou.
5. “Someone Has to Die.” Maritime. This song rules: “I don’t care if it happens in Argentina, or way up North, off the coast of Norway on an island with no name…all I know is someone has to die to make room for you and I, our love goes crazy all the time.”
6. “Beautiful Girl.” INXS. If I were living in I Heart Huckabees I’d be having a Michael Hutchence coincidence of epic proportions. First, I hear “Never Tear Us Apart” in a bar. Then, someone mentioned his death at a party. Then, my friend Kevin brought him up the next day. And then, Lucas brought him up in a blog. Oh my.
7. “Gravity Rides Everything.” Modest Mouse. Good Song.
8. “In Your Eyes.” Peter Gabriel. A college radio station played this for River Pheonix when he ODed. Did you know that the only Enquirer I ever bought was for River Pheonix’s funeral coverage?
9. “Cannonball.” Damien Rice. I got nothing.
10. “Questions.” Old 97’s. Just a sweet little song.
11. “Good Feeling.” Violent Femmes. Just time traveling.
12. “Yesterdays.” G’N’R. I love me some Guns’n’Roses.
13. “The Scientist.” Coldplay. Got stuck in my head on a dog walk and I’m trying to unstick it.
14. “Pain In My Heart.” Otis Fucking Redding. I have it on good authority his middle name really is Fucking.
10 September 2006
Downtown Drive
I drove Shelley to work at the Art Museum today on the ruse that I needed to pick up my contacts in NW. In all truth, I knew the odds they’d be open on a Sunday were slim to none. I just wanted an excuse to drive around Downtown: I miss it.
I drove past our old terrorist attack meeting spot, remember:
We all agreed to meet on top of the circle. And then abscond to some bar or coffee shop. Now, I think we’ve all moved to SE, actually. I still want to be in a bar with you guys if anything happens. Kind of like election nights.
Anyhow. This is why I have to drive through Downtown now and then.
I drove past our old terrorist attack meeting spot, remember:
We all agreed to meet on top of the circle. And then abscond to some bar or coffee shop. Now, I think we’ve all moved to SE, actually. I still want to be in a bar with you guys if anything happens. Kind of like election nights.
Anyhow. This is why I have to drive through Downtown now and then.
09 September 2006
08 September 2006
Five Years
Five years since the day Lyman died. He may be one of the few people who have really, truly seen me, understood me. He saw me long before I wanted to be seen.
They sent me down to visit him when I was maybe twelve, long after my Grandma died. On the first day of my visit, at the sandwich shop, the only one he probably ever went to, he sat across the booth and said something that really pissed me off. “My father left me too,” he said. And by day three he sat across from me at the dinner table telling me I was really, really smart and I stood across from him screaming “NO I’M NOT!!!” And by night three I laid on the guest bed hating him to the sound of Poison blaring on my headphones.
There’s the last time I saw him and the last time he saw me.
The last time I saw him, he was lying on the couch after we got him out of the hospital to die. He woke and asked, “where did the music go?” I turned the radio back on. He smiled and went back to sleep.
The last time he saw me, we went to his favorite Mexican restaurant, the only one he probably ever went to. He got progressively drunk and tried to get me drunk, typical of Lyman, given that I wasn’t yet legal and he always tried to get me into trouble. He told me he was considering suicide. Between him and I that was a pretty reasonable proposition. We went home, watched a movie, and he fell asleep about half way through.
We had to wait to hold a funeral after September 11th. I took a flight back down to California the first day the airports opened. Got into a car accident on the way to the airport. And as I walked through the terminal I thought I didn’t really give a fuck if anyone blew up the plane. Did anyone flying to a funeral that day care?
They sent me down to visit him when I was maybe twelve, long after my Grandma died. On the first day of my visit, at the sandwich shop, the only one he probably ever went to, he sat across the booth and said something that really pissed me off. “My father left me too,” he said. And by day three he sat across from me at the dinner table telling me I was really, really smart and I stood across from him screaming “NO I’M NOT!!!” And by night three I laid on the guest bed hating him to the sound of Poison blaring on my headphones.
There’s the last time I saw him and the last time he saw me.
The last time I saw him, he was lying on the couch after we got him out of the hospital to die. He woke and asked, “where did the music go?” I turned the radio back on. He smiled and went back to sleep.
The last time he saw me, we went to his favorite Mexican restaurant, the only one he probably ever went to. He got progressively drunk and tried to get me drunk, typical of Lyman, given that I wasn’t yet legal and he always tried to get me into trouble. He told me he was considering suicide. Between him and I that was a pretty reasonable proposition. We went home, watched a movie, and he fell asleep about half way through.
We had to wait to hold a funeral after September 11th. I took a flight back down to California the first day the airports opened. Got into a car accident on the way to the airport. And as I walked through the terminal I thought I didn’t really give a fuck if anyone blew up the plane. Did anyone flying to a funeral that day care?
Musicgasm
Blissful happiness; this is all I need today. I have happened upon two songs I haven’t been able to find because I didn’t know their names and lumped them with the wrong artists. Love ‘em or hate ‘em, I am in love:
1. Out of My Head, Fastball. Came out the summer of 1999. I’ve always thought this was an Elvis Costello song, even though I know he went the piano bar route by then. Why do I love this song? I just remember driving around Oakland, my first summer in Oakland. I don’t think I’ve heard it since then.
2. Question, Old 97’s. Carla played this at Wimpy’s one night about a year and a half ago when Wimpy’s was still Wimpy’s. Stuck in my head since. I thought it sounded like Evan Dando or the Lemonheads. And I’ve found it!
1. Out of My Head, Fastball. Came out the summer of 1999. I’ve always thought this was an Elvis Costello song, even though I know he went the piano bar route by then. Why do I love this song? I just remember driving around Oakland, my first summer in Oakland. I don’t think I’ve heard it since then.
2. Question, Old 97’s. Carla played this at Wimpy’s one night about a year and a half ago when Wimpy’s was still Wimpy’s. Stuck in my head since. I thought it sounded like Evan Dando or the Lemonheads. And I’ve found it!
06 September 2006
Deep Thoughts de Tine
1. Occurred to me tonight that salsa should really either be categorized as a vegetable or a food group upon itself. A good salsa surely surpasses the “condiment” label. Although, condiments do make me happy. Salsa though, when doesn’t salsa make a meal better? Mac’n’cheese, tamales, quesadillas, eggs, potatoes. Some of my best friendships are founded around the mutual appreciation of hot sauce. Thank God for the Texas friends. They know the meaning of a good plate of juevos. And the holiness of salsa.
2. Also occurred to me that walking the dog every night is the most reliable high point of the day. Dusk. We walk just to the river and turn back. He does the most genius things. Digs, digs, digs. Kicks the ground like crazy. Charms the pants off everyone and makes me worry I’ll have to talk to people. You have to love someone a lot to handle their shit. Dear Dylan, still crazy after all these years.
3. Shelley returns tomorrow and Portland will feel a bit less “like a dumb baby some jock knocked me up with right before I got into a really good school.”
4. Finally. To the girl in the class I won’t name: I hope for your husband’s sake you shut your fucking pie-hole at home forsaking the rare times you perform certain conjugal duties because if you don’t I swear to God the poor guy's gonna end up pulling a double Van Gogh by your first anniversary.
2. Also occurred to me that walking the dog every night is the most reliable high point of the day. Dusk. We walk just to the river and turn back. He does the most genius things. Digs, digs, digs. Kicks the ground like crazy. Charms the pants off everyone and makes me worry I’ll have to talk to people. You have to love someone a lot to handle their shit. Dear Dylan, still crazy after all these years.
3. Shelley returns tomorrow and Portland will feel a bit less “like a dumb baby some jock knocked me up with right before I got into a really good school.”
4. Finally. To the girl in the class I won’t name: I hope for your husband’s sake you shut your fucking pie-hole at home forsaking the rare times you perform certain conjugal duties because if you don’t I swear to God the poor guy's gonna end up pulling a double Van Gogh by your first anniversary.
05 September 2006
"Don't Think Twice, It's All Right"
Ever lose something you never really had? Right now I feel I’m on both sides of that equation. There’s someone who never really had me. There’s someone I never really had. One ended terribly: one never really had a chance to begin.
This week I listen to all the goodbye songs. All the songs that should move me on. “Don’t think twice, it’s all right.” Reminders that we all get but a window to say the things we should’ve said and those words don’t usually work outside that window. Reminders also that it’s not fair to sit outside a shut window trying to read lips.
I need the one who never had me to let me go. And I’m having a hard time letting go of the one I never really had.
I like to leave my windows open. Even in the coldest stretch of winter, I need to know the cats will not spend the night in the rain except by choice. Once I open a window, I rarely shut it. Even for the cat who rarely sleeps at home.
This week I listen to all the goodbye songs. All the songs that should move me on. “Don’t think twice, it’s all right.” Reminders that we all get but a window to say the things we should’ve said and those words don’t usually work outside that window. Reminders also that it’s not fair to sit outside a shut window trying to read lips.
I need the one who never had me to let me go. And I’m having a hard time letting go of the one I never really had.
I like to leave my windows open. Even in the coldest stretch of winter, I need to know the cats will not spend the night in the rain except by choice. Once I open a window, I rarely shut it. Even for the cat who rarely sleeps at home.
04 September 2006
Don't even pretend to care. I wouldn't read this either.
Flatter me into believing you actually read these play lists because they’re just a hell of a lot more indicative of how I’m feeling than anything you’ll hear from me:
1. Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right/Bob Dylan. I’m not going to cheapen any of the Dylan songs by saying a damn thing about what they mean to me. I’ll just clarify that my dog is not named after Bob Dylan. My dog is named after Dylan Thomas. And so is Bob.
2. Had Ma a Girl/Tom Waits. Pretty particular about my Waits. Used to listen to him on the drive home from the bakery in West Seattle, watching the sun set over the industrial sky line. Exhausted. That was a good year in the sense that I took a break from knowing just about anyone. And I can do that for about a year.
3. Wild World/Cat Stevens. Somehow I don’t believe that Cat Stevens has seen anything truly wild: did he write this? Nonetheless, this was a real heartbreakin’ song when I was about 15 discovering Cat Stevens. And it’s still a good one.
4. Tangled Up in Blue/Bob Dylan.
5. The Only Living Boy in New York/Simon & Garfunkel.
6. This Year’s Love/David Gray. I only feel this way after it’s too damn late to make a difference. As I realized a few years ago, for instance, that I should really get in touch with my high school sweetheart. You know? It’s a nice thought, that the game could be over.
7. I’m Your Late Evening Prostitute/Tom Waits. But ya know, the last song just kind of brings me here.
8. A Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall/Bob Dylan.
9. Something/The Beatles.
10. Danny’s Song/Kenny Loggins.
11. Long Way Home/Tom Waits. Maybe my favorite Waits song.
12. The Blower’s Daughter/Damien Rice. I always forget about this one. And it’s good.
1. Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right/Bob Dylan. I’m not going to cheapen any of the Dylan songs by saying a damn thing about what they mean to me. I’ll just clarify that my dog is not named after Bob Dylan. My dog is named after Dylan Thomas. And so is Bob.
2. Had Ma a Girl/Tom Waits. Pretty particular about my Waits. Used to listen to him on the drive home from the bakery in West Seattle, watching the sun set over the industrial sky line. Exhausted. That was a good year in the sense that I took a break from knowing just about anyone. And I can do that for about a year.
3. Wild World/Cat Stevens. Somehow I don’t believe that Cat Stevens has seen anything truly wild: did he write this? Nonetheless, this was a real heartbreakin’ song when I was about 15 discovering Cat Stevens. And it’s still a good one.
4. Tangled Up in Blue/Bob Dylan.
5. The Only Living Boy in New York/Simon & Garfunkel.
6. This Year’s Love/David Gray. I only feel this way after it’s too damn late to make a difference. As I realized a few years ago, for instance, that I should really get in touch with my high school sweetheart. You know? It’s a nice thought, that the game could be over.
7. I’m Your Late Evening Prostitute/Tom Waits. But ya know, the last song just kind of brings me here.
8. A Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall/Bob Dylan.
9. Something/The Beatles.
10. Danny’s Song/Kenny Loggins.
11. Long Way Home/Tom Waits. Maybe my favorite Waits song.
12. The Blower’s Daughter/Damien Rice. I always forget about this one. And it’s good.
03 September 2006
Housewife Seeks Placement
So, some of you have heard this before but I really think becoming a housewife is my true calling. Following is a list of my unique qualifications and rationale:
1. While some people may think housewifery would bore me, you’d be astonished at how much work maintaining a household can take! You’d also be astonished to learn how much I love mundane projects. For example:
2. I love cleaning! I love cleaning supplies! The sight of a janitorial supply store gets me oh-so-excited! Attacking the floor boards with a toothbrush; pure bliss! Cleanliness, oh, I won’t call it Godliness. Because honestly, it gets me too hot.
3. I make really yummy cookies! I genuinely love cooking. And I admit it, I love cooking for men! I pretend to resent doing it, but I love it.
4. Someone has to take care of the dog and kids. Yes, I put the dog before the kids. But the dog came first, didn’t he? I imagine the dog and kids will want walks and rides and food and entertainment. I can do that better than anyone we can hire.
5. I can run errands too! I love to drive!
6. Once I pop out kids it will take a lot of work to look good. Between the workout and the shower, I’ll need at least an hour and a half a day. I can’t work a 9-5 with those demands. And as between my ass and a job, well, that’s not even a debate.
6. There are a lot of important phone conversations I need to have everyday. My friends and family need to know that I am but a phone call away. This takes time, commitment.
7. I’m over educated and I can read! That means not only can I read to the kids I can impress your colleagues at the company parties! I can even play the piano. Nifty, eh?
8. I have the unique ability to become exhausted after completion of the most mundane tasks. Frankly, I’m not sure I need to do more than blog and walk the dog everyday. So I will feel like a fully actualized person if I do nothing more than pick up my husband’s dry-cleaning and wash the dishes on any given day. In fact, I can make that take at least six hours!
Ah, but therein lies the rub, the whole husband thing. Yeah, that’s kind of an issue. Especially since I’m fairly particular about holding out for someone I give a damn about. Damn principles.
My mom always says I should do what I’m passionate about though. And I’m passionate about staying home, cleaning, cooking, fucking and being a good wife and mother. So, I really think I need to go after my dream!
1. While some people may think housewifery would bore me, you’d be astonished at how much work maintaining a household can take! You’d also be astonished to learn how much I love mundane projects. For example:
2. I love cleaning! I love cleaning supplies! The sight of a janitorial supply store gets me oh-so-excited! Attacking the floor boards with a toothbrush; pure bliss! Cleanliness, oh, I won’t call it Godliness. Because honestly, it gets me too hot.
3. I make really yummy cookies! I genuinely love cooking. And I admit it, I love cooking for men! I pretend to resent doing it, but I love it.
4. Someone has to take care of the dog and kids. Yes, I put the dog before the kids. But the dog came first, didn’t he? I imagine the dog and kids will want walks and rides and food and entertainment. I can do that better than anyone we can hire.
5. I can run errands too! I love to drive!
6. Once I pop out kids it will take a lot of work to look good. Between the workout and the shower, I’ll need at least an hour and a half a day. I can’t work a 9-5 with those demands. And as between my ass and a job, well, that’s not even a debate.
6. There are a lot of important phone conversations I need to have everyday. My friends and family need to know that I am but a phone call away. This takes time, commitment.
7. I’m over educated and I can read! That means not only can I read to the kids I can impress your colleagues at the company parties! I can even play the piano. Nifty, eh?
8. I have the unique ability to become exhausted after completion of the most mundane tasks. Frankly, I’m not sure I need to do more than blog and walk the dog everyday. So I will feel like a fully actualized person if I do nothing more than pick up my husband’s dry-cleaning and wash the dishes on any given day. In fact, I can make that take at least six hours!
Ah, but therein lies the rub, the whole husband thing. Yeah, that’s kind of an issue. Especially since I’m fairly particular about holding out for someone I give a damn about. Damn principles.
My mom always says I should do what I’m passionate about though. And I’m passionate about staying home, cleaning, cooking, fucking and being a good wife and mother. So, I really think I need to go after my dream!
02 September 2006
What. Do. I. Want.
I feel bitter and uncharacteristically disenchanted with life of late. The closer I get to the end of law school the more I realize that I’ve been acting out of a sense of duty for longer than I care to admit. I gave up on the whole “what do I want” question a long time ago.
Christ, for over ten years of my life “they” acted like I should get a Nobel Prize just for waking up every day. I wanted nothing more than minimal, functional, happiness: it’s all I’ve felt entitled to.
And then I got into law school. And “they” seem to assume I became not only “functional” but super-functional overnight. Because, really, most functioning people don’t go to law school, much less the people that get Nobel Prizes just for waking up every day.
And how did I get here? Blind spite. Didn’t think I’d graduate from high school? Fuck you. Didn’t think I’d go to college? I’ll make the Dean’s List every fucking term. Didn’t think I’d get a job? I’ll get into law school.
Everyone loves a bastard*. Especially a bitter yet witty bastard. Shows the rest of the country club how compassionate “they” are. But when the bastard turns out alright? Well, there goes the tarnish on the silver spoon, no?
Bitterness, what is it good for (absolutely nothing). Got me through school, I guess. But now? What is it good for? What do I want, really?
Just admitting it. Because I’m usually so optimistic and I know it gets on everyone’s nerves. And the truth is, right now I could really give a fuck about…anything. Right now, I just want to get out of here. Go for a drive. Go for a trip. Move. The thing about being called “good” and “loyal” and “honest” and “strong” all the time is that sometimes I feel fucking invisible, driven by duty and honestly dishonest. The happy advocate. Finish school; it would be a shame to waste their money. Say what you should, not what you mean. When you laugh the world laughs with you, when you cry you cry alone. Etc.
Because what do I want? When is the last time I really thought about it? When is the last time I felt like I could say it without apologizing? When was the last time I felt like I could be expressive without someone wondering if it was my “disorder”? When was the last time I defined my happiness separate of what was best for someone else?
What. Do. I. Want.
* In all fairness to my mother, I do not fit the technical definition of a bastard. I know who my father is, he knows of me. My mother married him, and while she occasionally refers to it as her “rebellious marriage”, 6 years is a long “rebellious marriage” I think. But bastard rolls off the tongue easier than “fatherless child” or “fatherless girls” as when my high school sweetheart’s mother said, “You know how fatherless girls are.” And she was right, you know, I did deflower her son. But, her son had a father and a mother and he deflowered me too, after all.
Christ, for over ten years of my life “they” acted like I should get a Nobel Prize just for waking up every day. I wanted nothing more than minimal, functional, happiness: it’s all I’ve felt entitled to.
And then I got into law school. And “they” seem to assume I became not only “functional” but super-functional overnight. Because, really, most functioning people don’t go to law school, much less the people that get Nobel Prizes just for waking up every day.
And how did I get here? Blind spite. Didn’t think I’d graduate from high school? Fuck you. Didn’t think I’d go to college? I’ll make the Dean’s List every fucking term. Didn’t think I’d get a job? I’ll get into law school.
Everyone loves a bastard*. Especially a bitter yet witty bastard. Shows the rest of the country club how compassionate “they” are. But when the bastard turns out alright? Well, there goes the tarnish on the silver spoon, no?
Bitterness, what is it good for (absolutely nothing). Got me through school, I guess. But now? What is it good for? What do I want, really?
Just admitting it. Because I’m usually so optimistic and I know it gets on everyone’s nerves. And the truth is, right now I could really give a fuck about…anything. Right now, I just want to get out of here. Go for a drive. Go for a trip. Move. The thing about being called “good” and “loyal” and “honest” and “strong” all the time is that sometimes I feel fucking invisible, driven by duty and honestly dishonest. The happy advocate. Finish school; it would be a shame to waste their money. Say what you should, not what you mean. When you laugh the world laughs with you, when you cry you cry alone. Etc.
Because what do I want? When is the last time I really thought about it? When is the last time I felt like I could say it without apologizing? When was the last time I felt like I could be expressive without someone wondering if it was my “disorder”? When was the last time I defined my happiness separate of what was best for someone else?
What. Do. I. Want.
* In all fairness to my mother, I do not fit the technical definition of a bastard. I know who my father is, he knows of me. My mother married him, and while she occasionally refers to it as her “rebellious marriage”, 6 years is a long “rebellious marriage” I think. But bastard rolls off the tongue easier than “fatherless child” or “fatherless girls” as when my high school sweetheart’s mother said, “You know how fatherless girls are.” And she was right, you know, I did deflower her son. But, her son had a father and a mother and he deflowered me too, after all.
why i moved back here
1. I have a number of issues with MySpace. Imagine I'll keep my profile up for awhile. Seems like a lot of energy to deal with it. If nothing else, I'll keep my fake Frenchie profile from that time we freaked out about trackers so I can continue to stalk people ("we" know who "we" are, no?). Don't even know if I still have the password for that account though.
2. The downside, the MySpace blog gets so damn many hits. There's definitly a convenience factor with the notification system. Makes me feel so ridiculously popular. But principles, principles. I do wish I could archive all the blogs I racked up there. But that too seems like a lot of energy.
3. I think what I'm saying is it's really just an audience issue. Get it, get it?
2. The downside, the MySpace blog gets so damn many hits. There's definitly a convenience factor with the notification system. Makes me feel so ridiculously popular. But principles, principles. I do wish I could archive all the blogs I racked up there. But that too seems like a lot of energy.
3. I think what I'm saying is it's really just an audience issue. Get it, get it?
01 September 2006
well, I'm an ISTJ
OK, since four people have brought up the Myers Briggs Personality Test in the last week I decided to take it. Im an ISTJ or Introverted/Sensing/Thinking/Judging. Most of the explanation seemed to fit. Particularly, the expectations of loyalty and honesty and the ability to commit and adherence to/need for facts and rationale. Supposedly this means once I say "I do" I'll really mean it and I'll be a good parent.
So. Everyone, hunt down a free test. Post your results. Etc. Does this stuff really tell people more about themselves or do we just do it so we can just walk around going, "well, I'm an ABCD" and then have just another way to justify our patterns? I dunno. Better than reading some casebook though
So. Everyone, hunt down a free test. Post your results. Etc. Does this stuff really tell people more about themselves or do we just do it so we can just walk around going, "well, I'm an ABCD" and then have just another way to justify our patterns? I dunno. Better than reading some casebook though
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