Thursday, January 10, 2013

It's snowing in Portland this morning. I'm learning that the word snow means something different here. At home it's snow, but here it's just a jumbo sized raindrop with a consistency only slightly thicker than regular water.

A woman gets on the bus with a ton of luggage. She's wearing flowery capri pants over what appears to be ten pairs of socks followed by huge white sneakers. Once she's settled in she glances around for a moment before her eyes settle on the woman a few seats to her right. She smiles and leans towards the woman in a sort of conspiratory way and all I can think is ” Ohhh this should be good.”
” What happened to your face?” She asks. I can't see the other woman's face but I assume she's wearing a sort of shocked, unsure expression.
” Your face.” She says, louder this time, and then mimes punching herself in the eye. ” Did your boyfriend punch you?” She continues to mock punch herself. I can't hear the response but a minute later she lowers her fist and laughs. ” Oh,” she says, ” you're just tired, huh?” Afterwards she rambles on for a minute or two about getting smacked around and the show is over. As far as random involvement in the public transit performance of one of Portland's ”eccentrics” goes, this lady got off pretty easy.
It makes me wonder if I've ever been so tired that I looked like I got socked in the face plate.

When I get off the bus the woman with the luggage is very carefully and lovingly putting infant sized winter pj's and several layers of colorful socks on a dingy white teddy bear.

It was pretty adorable.

Monday, October 15, 2012

October.

Just checking in for a minute friends. There has been so much going on these past few months between school and breaking up and moving and other things that I'm not really ready to talk about it. I will. Just give me a couple more weeks. All will be revealed.

What I can tell you about is how I moved out of the apartment that ex-boy and I shared and into a new place. I have these two wonderful friends who own a condo in this really cool old building, and their neighbor was looking for a roommate. So I got a sweet apartment with an awesome roommate, two adorable dogs that I love, and I get to be literally steps away from two of my most favorite people!

This is Corey (in front) and Holly (the other one). They are married and in the love... it's super gross. But they are my lesbian moms and I love them. They let me do laundry at their house, and they feed me dinner, and Corey occasionally tries to get me to drink myself to death... but we don't need to talk about that.


Pretty, aint they?

And these are my (rented) puppies. Puck (the dark one) and Miranda (the little white one). They are a brother and sister duo of unholy cuteness that my roommate rescued from the shelter.






I do not have a picture of my roommate, but he's pretty awesome too.

So things are good, in case you were wondering. I've been doing alright. This whole broken heart thing is sort of new to me. It's funny how you always think you know what it feels like, but then it's different every time.

In situations like these I'm always reintroduced to that part of myself that is eternally capable of just picking up the pieces and powering forward. The ability to hit the ground running is something I'm grateful to have. It's not that it doesn't suck, and it's not that it doesn't hurt like nothing has ever hurt before... but what are the other options here? You just walk around holding your guts in with your own hands until they learn to stay in on their own again.

 


Friday, August 17, 2012

Don't Take This The Wrong Way But...

I really want to read other people's blogs, the problem is that the majority of them are boring.

That's a little harsh don't you think? I mean, it's not like your blog is 100% Bruce Willis movie level exciting all the time.

Of course it isn't, voice in my head, but I don't have to read my own blog for entertainment I have to read other people's. And there are several problems getting in the way of this venture.

- By the time I usually get around to reading other people's stuff it is late in the day and my adderall has pretty much worn off which leaves me capable of pretty much only two things:
  1. Staring at things and every once in a while being like, "Wait....what was I doing?"
  2. Watching Dawson's Creek or Battlestar Galactica on my laptop while I try and follow a recipe to make dinner, but really just end up losing interest in reading the recipe and just winging it.
  3. Finding new and clever ways to rub my butt on boyfriend while he tries to do other things.



- There are too many words and not enough amusing pictures/illustrations.This rotted out, ADHD brain of mine sees a big pile of words and pretty much does this:


 And then this:




What I'm trying to say here is that words are boring. Also, perhaps I should consider upping my dosage.

And that your brain pukes rainbows...?

...and that my brain pukes rainbows...

yeah....









Monday, August 13, 2012

The Magic's In The Mustache

This is my friend Shaun.



We have been (for lack of a better term) besties for many moons.
When he is gone it makes me sad, and he lives in Portland Oregon right now.... so you know... with the sadness and all that.

So in order to cope with the great mustache shaped hole in my life I devised a plan. I took this picture that he sent to me and I made it the background on my phone, and now, whenever I feel lonely I look at his picture and send him text messages as if he were there with me. It's the Best Friend App, except I lack the technology skills to make it into an actual app, so this one works by looking at someone's picture, and then sending them random text messages that they will probably be confused about.... unless of course you're Shaun, and then you just get things.

For example:

*me doing laundry by myself <heavy sigh>, look at phone, text Shaun*
Me: We're hanging out at the laundromat together. It's fun.
Shaun: We make a good team. You fold the laundry and I just sit there.

That's my Shaun. He took me to my prom. Gives the best hugs. And he flew down to Florida just to be with me because I called him crying once a million years ago.

I even made a comic starring us.

http://Pixton.com/ic:szcm5jyu

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Senor Magic Fingers and A Surprisingly Foreign Penis

I'm broken. We've covered this before. Screwed up foot, osteoarthritis of the lower spine, and crazy problems with the muscles in my shoulders and neck.

No I don't know why. If I absolutely had to say I'd blame it on my gigantic knockers.

But I'm not a doctor.

So anyways, I've been going to acupuncture...




It was interesting and it hurt. The lady put a pin in a spot on the top of my foot that's supposedly directly connected to your liver... and a bunch of tequila came out.
Ok, not really, but it was the only one that hurt bad enough where I had to ask her to take it out after about two minutes. Does that mean something maybe?

Acupuncture was interesting but I have to say that I didn't see any immediate results, aside from an oddly heightened sense of smell that lasted a few days. If you know me at all you know that this won't do. I'm pretty much all about instant gratification. I don't have time for this waiting around crap... I'm going to die someday you know, and that day might be tomorrow. So let's get on with it.

That being said I made an appointment at the massage school that's three minutes from my apartment, and this is where I met *him*, Senor Magic Fingers. I have to admit that the only other massage I've ever gotten was from a girl probably about my age, so when he came up to me all late 30's to early 40's with a heavy Spanish accent I was a little thrown. It occurred to me that there was now going to be a penis inside my little curtain room with me... a foreign penis.

No, not foreign like "not American", but foreign like "not my boyfriend's". That's all I meant. Jeez! I'm not a racist or anything. I mean not really.... Except for a little bit on the inside. You know, where everyone is a little racist.

Senor Magic Fingers was extremely friendly and seemed to have a good grasp on what he was talking about during the consultation, and I'm not afraid of anything** so I said, "Okay foreign guy whose name I've already forgotten because I'm a terrible stupid racist, let's do this thing!"

Since I was getting my massage at a school I didn't get my own private room, I got a private cubicle with curtain walls and a nice view of the alley out back. Old Magic Fingers gave me the usual run down and then left our little soft walled cubicle of love to let me prepare. Before a massage they tell you to get as undressed as you feel comfortable with, so the word PREPARE for me in this scenario basically means that I stare suspiciously at the curtain that's about to be the only thing separating my naked yabbos from complete humiliation and then I undress as quickly as possible and jump under the sheet.

Now, if you don't have titanically large honkers, or if you're a boy, maybe you don't know about side-boob. Chances are you've heard of it and you've seen it on E! Entertainment Television... this is not the same kind of side-boob my friends. The side boob that I am talking about is me trying desperately to corral the twins so that they are located in as much of a central location underneath me as possible. The reason being that during a massage the masseuse will inevitably lift one of your arms  to do some work on it. If you are not properly prepared for this to happen you risk one of two things: (1) having one of the girls come flying out and possibly slapping the unsuspecting masseuse across the face, or (2) your arm is lifted and your carelessly positioned teeter is flattened under your body weight and being squished out under your arm like some really sick version of the play dough spaghetti factory, and then that's all you can think about for the rest of the massage. Not so much relaxing... not so much.

So I rearranged the Olson twins and Senor Magic Fingers came back. I was lying on my stomach with my face in that little hemmorrhoid donut thing repeating over and over in my head, "Okay, now relax, but don't drool. Relax. Do not, under any circumstances, drool." Senor Magic Fingers pulled the sheet down so that I'm now naked from the waste up (boobage safely secured in an overhead compartment) and that's when I heard it. It was the sound of something being vigorously lubed. You know the sound... it's that wet, uncomfortable, sound that means something bad is about to happen, and it went on for so comically long that it sounded like ten different things were being vigorously lubed one at a time.

At this point, instead of thinking about not drooling through the hole in the center of the donut ass pillow that is currently cradling my face, I'm thinking, "Oh my god. Am I about to get the dick?"

Don't worry Kev, we'll get through this together.





Now we get to the part where it becomes clear why I've been calling my masseuse Senor Magic Fingers. Reason (1) I forgot his name and he was foreign, probably Spanish- and I'm a racist. Reason (2) OH....MY.....GOD.... the massage! It was a seriously magical experience where he did his very best to work out the mess that is my left shoulder, and in doing so won my heart.

Also, there was no penis involved.... foreign or otherwise.



Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Redecorating.

I went through this phase for... oh I don't know, about 20 years maybe, where I dyed my hair a lot. I've been literally every color from black to blonde, and onward into crazy crazy land of orange, blue, green, and purple.



So now, for some reason, the past year and half or so I've been sticking pretty close to what I think might have been my natural color. It just happened, I'm not sure why.

Anyways, yesterday I suddenly felt the greatest urge to do something really drastic. I've been growing out my hair for a really long time… pretty much since I chopped it all off one day during my senior year of high school. So I’ve been trying to grow it back since then and I can’t seem to get past this terrible shoulder length thing. So right now it looks like this:


Not the douchey looking blonde in the polo, the unhappy looking brunette with the guitar. The chick who is mere moments away from shoving a box of donut holes in her face and tearfully playing a song about how the rain is just an acoustic accompaniment to the lyrics of her tears. That girl is what my hair feels like.

Mousy.
And lame.

When I realized this I started to sort of freak out. I mean, I did turn 30 this year. Maybe that was it. Maybe I've peaked and my days of being sort of daring and fun in the fashion department are behind me..... Maybe from now on it's just a slow spiral into mom jeans and themed Christmas sweaters.

I don't like it any more than you do lady...

Alright, so I just totally bummed myself out and now I have to put my head down and take a break. Please Hold.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Okay. 
It’s not even the length that’s the problem really, it’s the fact that I get bored with it. Now, being that about 80% of my decisions are barely a glimmer of a thought in my head before I’m beginning to act on them, I guess you could say that I'm a bit impulsive. So when you take my natural inability to control myself and add a decent bout of boredom you get things like this:


and this:




and occasionally this:



  My point is that I randomly got the urge to have bright ass red hair. And then I hated my haircut, so I decided to cut it. So I dyed it, and then I cut it.
And I didn't like it.
So I bought a razor.
And then I cut it some more.
And I still don't really like it.
Not that there's anything specifically wrong with it.
Nothing aside from the fact that I do everything on a whim without bothering to really think it through. If I had just been able to see that I hated my hair because it was in that final stage of awkward where it's about to go from being medium length to just about long, I'd have just used my stupid hands to do other things. Things that didn't involve hacking away at my hair in an attempt to remedy what was obviously some sort of psychological problem.

I have decided that from now on instead of cutting my hair I am going to experiment with extensions. You want long hair? Presto bango! You got it.
If I ever find the time to actually do it I'll post pictures.
Until then please enjoy this....






















Friday, July 6, 2012

A Letter to You, My blog.


I haven't posted in a long time. I could say I felt bad, or that I was sorry, but we'd all know it was a lie. The lie would lead to an awkward silence that I'd try to alleviate with some sort of terrible joke or a pun and then maybe you'd laugh a little, but it would be polite laughter. Please don't polite laugh for my sake. It will only leave us both feeling empty and alone.
My dearest Blog, during our time apart I've contemplated many things. Things like, “Why does all Greek yogurt taste like lemons?” and “Why couldn't Mulder and Scully just MAKE IT WORK GOD DAMMIT?!?!?!”, but I have also contemplated you and your future. You were started as a companion to a weight loss challenge, and now I'm at a loss over what I should do with you. The challenges are over, and my ability/desire to diet is circling the drain. I thought about just getting rid of you but I couldn't do it. The thought actually made me a little anxious and sad. Leave it to me to form an emotional connection to something that isn't even real.
So it was decided that I would not be able to delete you or, as I like to think of it, murder you in cold blood. What now? I've been reading other blogs for inspiration. Maybe I could get you up and running again, like in the beginning when I was posting consistently and accomplishing things. Maybe it wouldn't have to be all about weight loss, or really any one particular thing, maybe it could just be a dumping ground for the toxic waste of my brain. Is that a little dramatic? Maybe it could just be my place to tell stories and entertain myself, and possibly other people if they cared enough to read it. And even if they didn't, fuck them! I don't need their approval. I'm my own person, a lone kangaroo** roaming wild and free.
I'm going to give it a try. So prepare yourself for some changes around here.

** During a recent conversation about sexual fetishism Boyfriend asked me what animal I would be if I was a Furry (Google it), and it occurred to me that my animal most definitely would have to be a kangaroo. Don't ask me why, you don't want to know.