The Last Time I Stopped Breathing...

...occurred with this conversation yesterday:


Me: Do you think Al Gore will run again?
Jen: Hotwire?



I then laughed for 20 straight minutes. And therefore, stopped breathing.

True story.

Stylish Portlanders

My birthday was lovely...thanks for asking. I forgot to bring a camera to any of it, though. Oh well.

On Sunday I saw a man crossing the street wearing a cowboy hat...plaid shirt...jeans...and Dansko clogs. Only in Portland, friends...only in Portland.

I was reading an article in Portland Monthly Magazine...a delightful publication with pretty pictures manufactured and printed in the building next to my office...way too much back story...when I noticed something. Something profound. Well not really, but it was something nonetheless. It was an article about Local bars. I have no idea why I just capitalized "Local", but there you have it.

Anyway...in describing each bar scene, the author of the article, whose name I did not take the time to note, made sure to completely ridicule what the average patron was wearing and then labeled them as Young Professional, Bike Messenger, Hipster, etc. It occurred to me that you really have no choice but to be put into one of these categories if you go to a bar. It really doesn't matter what you wear. You're one of the above.

For my part, I'm a different one every time I go out. And I guess I get mildly offended that this writer thinks you can accurately describe the atmosphere of a certain establishment by telling the readers that all they see are trucker hats and Peter Sellers' glasses. Well I have something to say about that.

Fie on you, Portland Monthly! We live in a city where a man can walk around a popular part of town in a cowboy hat and clogs and feel perfectly at home! And if he walks into a bar...he will defy all your conventions and blow your minds! And that's why this city is almost tolerable! That's why!

Now leave me before I begin to cry! I'm just so passionate about this! And exclamation points! Those too! Damnit!

That's, Like, My Specialty And Junk.

I keep watching this at random intervals today. It's cracking me up. And keeping me sane. Unusual.



Comic genius.

Where To Go, Where To Go

So it's my birthday on Saturday (hold for applause) and I'm trying to figure out where to drag my friends for the mass consumption of celebratory alcohol Friday night. Or consolation alcohol...however you want to look at it.

This year, I don't seem to give a shit about my birthday. Usually I'm excited about everyone celebrating the fact that I walk the earth...but this year, I'm too distracted...and not all that happy with the path I'm currently walking. So I don't really feel like making anyone else celebrate it.

And I don't want to wear heels. This will be a beat-up-mint-green-so-faded-they're-almost-yellow-so-it's-
actually-kind-of-gross Converse birthday.

And I don't want to go to a fancy dinner or club. I want to go the the bar down the street that serves chicken and waffles. Shut up. It's good. So maybe I will celebrate it. I'll celebrate NOT celebrating it.

Alls I can say is...27 better show me SOMETHIN'. Or I will destroy it.

Wait...that doesn't work.

Whatevs. This post sucks rope.What the fuck is a 'rainbow birthday'? How will I know if I have one? Stupid Care Bears. I don't need their philosophical bullshit. My toe hurts.

The Power of a "Hi!"

The Simpsons - 5 minutes ago:

Marge: Lisa, you're never going to get a husband by being sarcastic.
Lisa: Alright...no husband.
Marge: You're getting a husband!

Some staff writer in Hollywood owes me some money. That's all I have to say about that.

I did a little shopping this afternoon...so many birthdays this month, and I was crossing a little side street to enter The Gold Door (junk/jewelry shop) when I hear a "Hi!".

I look around and see a guy lounging in the kitchen doorway of Oasis (pizza place) smoking a cigarette (ew). He smiles at me. He's gorgeous. I just kind of look at him. Stunned is the word, I think. Finally I smile sheepishly, blush furiously and say "hi" back. He chuckles and I book it into the shop. He's gone when I come back out. I'd just eaten, so going in to order a slice of pizza would've been slightly obvious. Don't think I could've worked up the gumption to do it anyway.

The point of this story, my friends, is this...I wanna go out with HIM! Gorgeous hipster boy who can throw pizza dough in the air. But those boys don't ask me out. They just say "Hi". And I'm too big of a pansy to do anything about it. So I keep going out with tall but boring boys who I will never end up adopting orphans from Africa with.

This story isn't making me sound good. Maybe I should make one thing clear about Portland. Portland is the kind of town where there's nothing socially unacceptable about being a barista at the age of 32. Or slinging pizza at 29. Or waiting tables at 35. Being in the food/service industry as a career is a totally acceptable and often lucrative lifestyle. That is...if where you're slinging beans, or tossing dough or corking bottles is hip, local, and located in the right parts of town (suburbia is completely out), and you dress each day like you're heading out to see Modest Mouse directly after work. I don't know if it's this way anywhere else, but there you have it.

So my lusting after a hot pizza guy isn't that kind of dirty jonesing after a 18-year-old pimpled delivery boy...oh no...it's more like jonesing after a 30-year-old hipster who's probably a performance artist on the weekends but owns a portion of Oasis and works there during the week kind of situation.

Fat lot of good all this explaining does since he didn't ask me out anyway. But, you know, for future reference.

Ahoy hoy, Team Zissou!

My basement flooded with sewage water on Valentine's Day.

I know.

So why am I smiling today?

Because who couldn't smile at this face.

Cap'n Becks and his simian feet reporting for duty.

Braces, Mushrooms, Old People, Sharks & Light Blue Jeans

All things I hate...for future reference.

I mean, I'm not going to refer to them, but you might. Who knows why you do the things you do.

It's Valentine's Day. VD. Coincidence? I think not.

The office is having a chocolate party. Sometimes...it's ok to work here. Susan, (heretofore to be known as Tiny Sneezer) and I brought in a velveteen box of chocolates with a spin thing on top. You can spin to "foot massage" or "butterfly kisses" or "ear nibble" or (my favorite) "ladies choice". It's perfectly appropriate for the office. One must always be appropriate. And we are. Always.

Christ I'm bored. And a little hungover, to be completely honest. That must be why I'm longing for bacon. Normally I don't long for bacon ever. In fact, I didn't eat bacon for years and years...and then Marie introduced it to me as a hangover cure. Now it's like going to a chiropractor...I'm hooked. That's kind of a stupid comparison. Nobody use it. But I probably shouldn't have bacon for lunch if I'm going to a chocolate party. Mmmmm, lunch. It's not even noon yet. And I've already had a cookie. What the fuck is wrong with me?

My grandma was telling me a story the other day, about how during the depression she used to come to a lunch counter downtown and have lunch...which consisted of buttermilk. All you could drink for a nickel. For you foreigners, that's 5 cents. That was lunch. And I'm sitting here salivating over the thought of bacon. Glutton. Sinning, sinning glutton. I tried buttermilk for the first time at her retirement home, or as I like to call it...The Lion's Den (evil evil old people EVERYWHERE). It was yellow and she puts pepper in it. Pepper in milk. Yellow milk. Anyone else gagging yet?

Fuck this, I'm going to get bacon.

Thar She Blows!

No. The title will have nothing to do with this post. But I was saying it to myself as I crossed the river this morning and it was amusing to me.

Valentine's Day is coming. It will be here soon. Everybody ready? I'm ready. It's easy to be ready when you don't have any plans. Or anyone to plan them with. Or any desire to find someone to plan having a plan with for a day that really means nothing to anyone worth their salt. That's a silly saying..."worth their salt"...I don't recall salt being worth that much the last time I purchased it. And it lasts forever. Funny, that.

What's happened since the last time I posted? Actually, why am I asking you? You don't know.

Saturday was date # 3 with Web Designer. He's nice. He's tall. He's nice and tall. But he's pretty much a vegetarian and for some reason, that makes me want to bathe in beef bouillon before going out and ordering rare meats for dinner...then tear them apart and eat them with my hands. It's nothing personal, it's just the way I get around Veggies. It's like poking a potentially dangerous animal...you're bigger than they are so you feel justified in antagonizing them until they attack you and maul your face off. It's how I react to all of them. Except maybe for Fro...I seem to have developed a soft spot for her due to her often surprising obsession with cheese. I can appreciate that kind of obsession.

But I digress...

Did I mention that he's tall? I've always had a thing for tall boys...with a few exceptions, that tends to be what I date. There's something romantic about having to stand up on a bed, or couch or stairwell to give someone a kiss. Of course a boy doesn't actually have to be that tall to be tall to me. I'm 5'2", in case some of you don't know. Or care. Or care to know.

Maybe I'm not making this sound exciting. But really, dating isn't exciting. You sit over drinks and tell the same stories you've told a million times before to Real Estate Agents, Actors, Law Students, Systems Administrators, Students, Cooks, Industrial Designers, Financial Planners and Bartenders. After a while, it's exhausting.

Do I think the Web Designer might be different than they all turned out to be? Of course, or he wouldn't have gotten to date # 3...but the cynic in me feels like adding "stay tuned for a post about whatever freakish personal flaw that will force me to dump him!"

I just know that at this very point, my mother is shaking her head in a defeated fashion and thinking to herself "there will be no grandchildren from her". Sorry, Mum.

Anyway, dates 1-3 were pleasant affairs. I'm hoping that date # 4 will not reveal that he worships Satan, or cross dresses or harbors secret delusions that he is the next American Idol. Regardless, he provides me with a continuous excuse to wear my highest, vampiest heels.

PS: New CondiCast is below. It is anything but interesting but you should listen anyway.

Condicast # 1 *UPDATED

Fooled you!

No really, Laura and I did the first official Condicast, but then we ran out of time to edit it...so the next time you check this post out...there will be another podcast on it that only people who do NOT use IE can hear! Hurray! Separate but equal!

In the meantime...I've just gotten a promotion...to SUPER SPAMMER! That's not my title...but you get the idea. Am I happy? Well...no. But I tell you people something...the minute I become a happy person, the minute this blog stops being entertaining...you know?

Oh. And I have a date tonight.


UPDATE:

Sorry for the delay, folks. Here's CondiCast #1 in all its glory for you non-IE'ers to behold. Enjoy!
- Laura

I Will Destroy You

I took the first of my three self defense classes last night. They're three hours one night a week for three weeks. I have finished one session and I now know how to break a man's kneecaps. Well, anyone's kneecaps...but you get the idea.

The class is supposed to make you feel empowered. I think it did for the other women. For the most part, though, it made me angry. A lot of the "situations" listed where these skills would be useful have pretty much occurred to me already in one variation or another. It just pissed me off. I looked around the room at the other 30-odd women and got angry on their behalf. It's ridiculous that we even need to take a class on how to simply exist in this world without getting victimized in some physical way. Stupid, evil men...you fuck with me, I will break your kneecaps!

You few non-evil exceptions better wear signs around your necks.

That's really all I can say about the class. I'm not supposed to talk about what I learned to any men, specifically significant others. Apparently 85% of attacks on women are by men who they know. Scary statistic...especially for us single gals who keep going out with odd and ill-suited men. So gotta keep the kneecap breakage know-how all secret-like.

Work has gotten turbulent. There are changes in the works that could affect me greatly and I'm scared of them. I should just get out...but I have nowhere to go. And being a hobo just doesn't appeal in this weather. I'm out enough in it at it is with my new bike riding fanaticism.

Did I tell you apathetic mofos that I got another bike? I know, it's an illness. Like the shoes. This bad boy is a late 80s Bianchi racing bike for shorties like yours truly. Anyone who knows about bikes should be impressed. The rest of us can just nod. It's amazingly small. When I'm riding, I can see that people in SUVs have NO idea that I'm there. But it also allows me to zip through small places and go up hills like they're NOTHIN'! Or, they will be when I figure out the whole gear dynamic. I know. I'm pathetic. Suck rope.

But this is good news all around 'cause I don't have to feel so bad about the Slow Bar cheese burger with the fried onion rings on top...or the fried chicken and baked mac 'n' cheese from the Delta Cafe...or the Voodoo doughnut with oreo on top that I ate for breakfast this morning (hey, I didn't buy it). And provided I don't get hit by a bus (almost happened this morning...apparently they need two lanes and not just one...assholes)...I should be in relatively acceptable shape in no time. A little time. Ok, at some point. Get off my back.

Happy Friday.