I Hated The Inaugural Poem. Hated It.

I am filled with things to say. But I'm not going to say all of them because I must go out for celebratory drinksing. Yes, it's a word.

First, I loved today despite a horrible half hour between 8:00 and 8:30 am. And I didn't even have any candy. Or baked goods. Wait, I had some coffeecake. But it was low fat.

Second, how much I loved today keeps crashing hard against the fact that this country is heartbreaking at the moment. Example: Every day for 5 years I've walked by a architectural firm called Sienna. It's about a block from my building and takes up the entire ground floor of this high rise. All along the windows there are always models of every type of structure imaginable, some for living, some for playing, some for...I don't know what. I love walking by that firm. I love the little buildings. I love envying people who get to imagine and create for a living.

Monday I walked by and all the cubicles were empty. They looked ransacked. Most of the models were gone except for some sad little half broken ones. The place had closed after something like 45 years. It broke my heart. I'm filled with wary optimism for the immediate future of this country. But I'm trying to brace for the possibility of disappointment as well.

Third, I fucking hate tights. This morning, a half hour of my life was eaten up by 3 pairs of tights. The first pair were new. Just got them for Christmas. They were kind of a crochet sort of white type of thing. Really cute. But I went to put them on and they wouldn't go all the way up my legs. They stopped mid-thigh and began cutting off my circulation. I checked the box and they were my size, but my god...they didn't stretch at all! You know what tights look like when they come out of the box, like sticks. So if they don't stretch...you can only wear them if you're Amy Winehouse. Thankfully I am not. But boo, there goes a cute pair of tights to the Waif.

The second pair were hastily purchased on New Years Eve for $8 to go with a blue outfit when I ripped a hole in my last white pair (timeline seems off, but just ignore it). So I'd gotten one good wear out of them. And as I pulled them on, my left thumb went right through. My nails aren't even that long, damnit!

So then I go digging through my skivvies drawer and pull out grey ones. They didn't match a blue outfit, but I didn't have any more time to care. So that's what I'm wearing now. They're bunching around my ankles like a granny. I don't get it. They have ONE function. To stay on my fucking legs and keep them warm and shaved-looking. Why is it so hard to find a pair in every desired color to do just that? Why? And I've tried them all...cheap, spendy, designer, etc. I've gone for thigh high and knee high and chin high. It's easiest just to use a garter, but they don't often make tights for them...just nylons (which are NOT the same thing).

Well this turned in to quite a rant.

I have more that I'm pissed about but like I said...it's a day of celebration so I'll shut my yap long enough to get a couple cocktails in it.

I love you all.

Really.

Even the ones who I don't love. Right now, I love you too.

Kara out.

You Ask Me ONE More Time...

Everybody’s pushing me to vote. Don’t fucking rush me! I do my voting like I do my taxes…at the last possible second. I thrive under pressure.

Oregon may “decide” the democratic candidate. I may decide it by pushing over one of those Hillary Clinton sign holding crazies standing in the bike lane on the Burnside bridge. Up until now I’ve just been narrowing my eyes at them as I pass. I doubt this has much of an effect as I’ve also been wearing sunglasses. But I like to think they can feel the steely gaze. But we have something like 200 super delegates, so “they say” that by the time we have our primary…if Obamyomama wins Oregon, whatever unimportant states that are left won’t have enough super delegates to make a difference. That makes us awesome. And not to be fucked with. If only for the fact that we have killer beavers here that can devour your face in two seconds flat if you look at them funnilly. Saw it happen once. Still have nightmares.

But enough about politics. This shit bores me.

It doesn’t actually, but I like to wear nonchalance like an accessory.

The Waif, ty and the Face move out this weekend. I’ll miss them. I’m sure they won’t miss my cramped little place but it’s been fun having them here. Quality time with the Face is always appreciated…especially since I taught him the In Living Color Men on Film snap and he’s freakishly adorable when he does it. But now that they’re leaving, I’ll be missing out on these kinds of little precious moments brought to you by the letter W, the number 8 and my sister feeding the Face olives:

theWaif: My god, Beckett…you’re just an olive whore, aren’t you ?
Me: Laura, you just called your son a whore.
theWaif: Well he IS!

Precious fucking moments.

And in case you don't know the snap I am referring to because you're either too young or living in a box in the middle of the Gobi: