Can Hair Deflate?

It's 89 degrees in my bedroom at 9:00 PM and I hate everything. I put off coming home as long as I could for the last few days but after a while, you just run out of places to go and you remember that the tomatoes must be watered. And so must the cat.

"Degrees" mean different things to different people. To some people, "100 degrees" promises salmonella poisoning from undercooked chicken. To others, it's an object that is only mostly turned halfway around. For me and all other Portlanders, 100 degrees means we abandon any and all fashion sense (if one may call it that) in an attempt to clad ourselves in the least amount of clothing possible without getting arrested for public indecency (on all but Naked Bike Ride day).

It's the clothing normally reserved for wear only on laundry day in one's own home with the shades drawn. The back up clothing. The Tae-bo in your living room, but only when you're single clothing. You know what I'm talking about. We put it on and we go OUT. We go out because it's too fucking hot to stay IN. Because we don't have air conditioning. This state, collectively, is like those women who profess to forget how painful childbirth is as they prepare to push out their 8th mouth to feed. The hot days of summer fade quickly into shitty, gloomy rain and we go another year without installing AC. Imbeciles.

Which is how I end up out in public in a hand-me-down patchy jeanskirt that is so short, when I sit in a chair...it's straight cheek to vinyl. I sound like velcro when I come back up. Walking down the street I do that preggo waddle to prevent my thighs from touching as they pass to keep the friction from starting a small fire. My tank top is 10 years old and the cotton has become so thin, it's misshapen and see-through. The outfit belongs in a lawn chair at a trailer park. But I wear it, dragging my burning feet along in sandals so thin I can feel the pavement. I wear it and I'm thankful for it. When it goes back to 80 degrees, maybe I'll shudder at my knotted up hairstyle and my lack of makeup, my giant Elton John sunglasses that cover half of my face, les tout ensemble. Maybe then I'll care.

But right now...I want to crawl into my refrigerator and learn to speak Inuit.

A Survival's Guide to...Survival.

**Updated to contain 50% less spelling/grammatical errors. And toothpicks**

There are certain things in this world that a person should just never be without. And I don't mean stored in their garage or included in their stock portfolio...I mean in a fucking fannypack attached to the waistline at all times. They are:

Chapstick.
Key chain bottle opener.
Matches.
Reading matter.
Toothpick.
Collapsible flask.
Bobby Pins (full pckg).
TSA-approved nail file.

Without this survival grouping of goods, I fear for your welfare. And I can't help you when, as a result, you are in danger. I'm just too far away.

I feel as though you may have questions...let me break the list down:

Chapstick - 200,000 Americans die ever year from chapped lip poisoning. The global numbers are hair-raising. Scientists haven't announced exactly how the poison is secreted through the dried lip skin, but that isn't because they don't know. It's because they know we couldn't handle the truth. And they're right. I recommend Burt's Bees.

Keychain bottle opener - 200,000 Americans have to not drink something in a glass bottle every day due to unpreparedness. Strike that - I'm fairly certain the number is much, much, much higher. These are statistics, people. No one wants to be one of those. That's why I vote no on the census.

Matches - the second half of this is...NEVER pay for them. They are placed in bars for you to take. You'll never know when you might find yourself in the dark. And needing approximately 10 seconds of light.

Reading matter - I can't emphasize this one enough. There are only two things that really keep public transit/park/sidewalk crazy at bay and they are reading matter and earphones. The difference between the two is that reading matter can also be used as a weapon. Think about it.

Collapsible flask - I just discovered these in New Orleans. They are the greatest invention since the olive extractor. Talk about always being prepared...you carry this around and you'll be the POSTER child for preparedness. And then you can sign autographs. While beating up boy scouts. Totally pissed. After you actually fill the flask.

Bobby pins - Perhaps an entire package is excessive. That's only for the hard-core hair putter-uppers, like myself. They also pick locks and take out eyes right from the socket in a dirty dirty street fight. Note: you will lose on average 3 or 4 a week. So really, it's just a matter of planning. I have a usage issue. I find bobby pins everywhere in the house. By the bed, on the floor, in the kitchen, in the key candy dish. Everywhere. Don't be like me. Contain your usage.

TSA-approved nail file - and that means those rounded ones that they can't take away from you at the airport. I've never actually purchased one of these, The Future does a wonderful job of making sure I have one in my Christmas stocking every year. And it's a good thing, because I always need one. And it doubles as a torture device for anyone who thinks they sound like fingernails scraping a blackboard. Shudder. I believe they are an Obama-endorsed interrogation technique. And they'll keep your shit from being all jagged. And I'm not even joking.

Toothpicks - if you don't know how important these are, then I can't help you. And neither can anyone else. Go live alone in a tent on a precipice.


I could throw testimonials in here about how my survival kit has saved lives, marriages, sanities and souls. I could trademark and patent and guarantee the hellfire out of it. But I'm not going to. You'll just have to see for yourself. Statistics.




And this is what you get when I draw a creative blank. And only eat a single Reeses peanut butter cup for dinner. If you don't want this to happen again then you need to help me out. Tell me what you want my opinion on. Do it or I'll send the Wheelies after you.

Half-Assed Review: Twilight. You Know...For Kids!

Two weekends back B-rock was in Seattle for a nerdstock thing. Seeing as I was going to have the house to myself and I needed to save money, I netflixed some chick flicks and purchased several yards of wine. And cherries.

That last bit was irrelevant.

Of the two movies, one was Twilight. In case you're not a 12-year-old girl, someone who has been around a 12-year-old girl or someone who has been suckered into reading all 55 of the books at gunpoint by a 12-year-old girl, let me enlighten you. Twilight is a movie made from one of a series of books for tweenies about a vampire named Edward who sparkles in the sunlight and a teenager named Bella (subtle) who wears flannel, going against everything her name stands for.

The first thing I will say about the movie - nothing at all occurs at twilight. So the title is filled with lies.

Secondly - you may be wondering why I watched the movie of a book I didn't read. Two reasons. One - it was mostly filmed in Portland and the Portland area (we can't seem to beat the film crews off with a stick lately). I enjoy trying to recognize places. Two - the dude from the movie is getting attacked everywhere he goes by fans on that physical Elvis-level, so I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Especially since Portland's small enough that I probably passed his pasty British ass on the street before anyone cared that he was once Cedric Diggory.

After viewing the film - I do not understand the obsession. With any of it. And I'm totally typing this with a straight face knowing there will be another of the Sunday True Blood soirees tomorrow night. Judge not lest blah blah blah. Still, at least those vampires have FANGS!

Yes, what I'm telling you here, people, is that I watched a vampire film with no fangs. They're fangless, sparkle in the sunlight and for funsies - play baseball.

You know what? That's it. That's all you need to know about this movie. Consider it reviewed.





And then, at the grocery store today I saw this: It may be that camera phones are not the greatest - but if you look closely, you'll see that it's a special US Weekly magazine starring The Sexy Stars of Twilight. And if you purchase the piece of piss, you'll get a free gift. Luckily, the internet can do justice to what my cell phone couldn't. Behold the free gift below. Lip. Venom. V.



Yeah.

My lips ached to know the venom. Good thing New Orleans left me on a ramen budget til the Europe trip. Stopped me just in time.

Vacay, Bitches.

Going down south to play chicken with skin cancer. I may pop in when I can no longer move from eating too much crawfish...but don't hold your breath.

Or hold it...whatever.

Simplicty is Subjective...And So's Your Face

I don't know if you know anything about Scandanavian design, but let me tell you right now, having been to Ikea doesn't count. With Scandinavian design, the goal is to achieve both minimalism and complexity with a hint of functionality drizzed over the top. And at the end of the process, what you're left with is housewares.






Like this:


I'm not sure what this is.






Arlie, one of my oldest and bestest friends from way back in the ten years when we were exchange students together asked me to be his plus one to a wine and cheese thing at some fancy pants home store in the Pearl. I can't say no to free wine.



We wandered about the place for a good half hour or more, picking things up and putting them back down, sometimes dropping them because minimalist housewares are often slippery.





There were a lot of conversations that started with him handing a thing to me with a:






"What do you think this is?"

I hold it up. Turn it back and forth.

"I think it's a bottle opener. See, you open it with the metal part."

"Ok, now turn it over."

The little tag on the underside said door stop. No joke. That's it. To
the left there. Door stop.



And it went on and on. Because the keys for the keyrings aren't actually in the store. No. In the store, it's just a hunk of rounded silver just sitting there. Expensive, with no apparent function. Except to make me crazy.




It's like a puzzle. Only once you solve it, there's something right next to it that's just as puzzling.

Of course, it's all cool looking as hell. But the mental capacity required for shopping in such an establishment is completely lacking in someone like me. Even with wine.

But I have to love the Scans with their wacky language and odd pickled fishes. It's a love Arlie and I share. And you know what else Arlie and I share? Awesome blogs.

Isn't that a lovely segue? Into THIS...a gorgeous blog about eating good food affordably. Of course, there's a distinct Portlandly slant since that's where he lives, but food knows no borders so go to it already. You'll never have to menu plan again (as Brendan is soon to find out when I inform him). Eat well friends. But only from functional tablewear.

Foodie for Less

And if you feel like solving puzzles. Here's the store with the door stop.

What can brown do for you?

Surprise!!! Didn't think I'd be back again this year, did you? I didn't either. But today was a very special day. A momentous, blog-worthy, mark-your-calendar kind of day and I feel the need to share the news with the world at large. No, I didn't win a contest to meet Johnny Depp at his villa in the South of France, but something equally as exciting has occurred -- my little boy went poo on the potty. I KNOW! I am so freaking proud of him I could just burst. I feel like Gob when he got on the cover of POOF magazine... it's that kind of joy.

Seriously, up until today this kid had zero interest in using the potty, this is even after bribing him with a Thomas train set (yes, I pulled out the big guns here). We got the little red potty seat, the cute designer kid underpants, we made a whole sticker chart -- the whole nine yards. He was totally into the concept at first, but it just wasn't clicking and frustration was setting in. So I gave up, resigned myself to another year+ of changing giant poo diapers. Then, lo and behold, out of the blue and in the middle of chicken nugget dinner tonight he says, "I wanna go poo-poo." I quickly picked my jaw up off the floor, hauled him off to the bathroom and he sat there and did his business. It was magical. I almost cried.

So there you go, people. A heartwarming tale the whole family can enjoy. You're welcome. And as a bonus, I wrote a little song about it that goes something like this...

Who knew a poo could make me feel the way I do?

I'm still working on it.