Portion Control Can Suck It

I think at this point I'm a good ten pounds heavier than I want to be. I'm still technically in the same size I've been in for years...but there are some unsightly bulges where before there were none. Well...fewer. According to the Waif (TM), the key to weight loss is portion control. And the key word in that phrase is "control"...of which I have none.

Part of the issue is that I'm a glutton, it's true. If something tasty is before me...I have a hard time not finishing it (hello creme brulee). The other part of the issue is that having been dirt poor through most of college, I have a hard time wasting food...even if I don't like it. Throwing it away just makes me sad. Not Hotel Rwanda sad...but like just-missed-the-bus-and-now-I-have-to-wait-1/2-hour-for-the-next one sad. Sad.

Now, I ride my bike to work almost every day, and it's a fantastical workout...for my lower half. But it doesn't seem to be doing enough. And I'm wondering if it has anything to do with the fact that I'm having a small but kind of largish love affair with Twixes. Yes, Kansas knows. Apparently he doesn't mind sharing me. And now we're back to that fucking word of the day, "control".

Tiny Sneezer doesn't like chocolate. I can't wrap my head around that. It's up there with Creationism for me. How can anyone not love the chocolaty, chocoriffic, smooth heaven that IS chocolate? And how can anyone believe that the world is only 6,000 years old and that dinosaurs are myths? It's like contemplating the size of the universe...my head internally explodes.

So I haven't decided yet how I'm going to lose these ten pounds. It has to be something that doesn't require too much space or effort. I haven't much of either. We bought too much 70's funk furniture for our little living room and now there's no space left for any pilates or yogaing. That and I'm lazy.

Kansas wants to take some sort of martial art together. I feel as though I need to get back into ballet, if I'm going to pay for any sort of class. I really liked it until my teacher went all russian-battleaxe on me. Then there's walking. People in Portland are big on this whole "hiking" thing. I don't know if it's for me...driving somewhere just so you can get out of the car and walk for miles. I mean...I went without a car for a long time and was forced to walk everywhere...and I can pretty much tell you, there's nothing glamorous about the endeavor. So the idea of making it a past time is less than...well...ideal. Plus there's the whole being-out-in-nature aspect. We have bears here, people.

So what does that leave? Anything? I think not. Guess I'm going to have to learn to love those ten pounds. Maybe I'll sleep with my arms wrapped around them tonight to see if we bond. Who knows...as time goes on they may just become part of the family. They'll probably want their own room at some point. Lord.

This Post Is Waaaaay Late

Yesterday (which was Monday when I first started writing this) was a big day. First, I chipped a molar with a ten year old tongue piercing and an onion ring. CRUNCH. Grossest sound ever. There goes my "you have beautiful teeth" exclamation from the dentist. Rats. I was due for an uninsured visit anyway. It's been years since these pearly-yellows had a going over. And now they'll have to have a thorough going over...all because I'm nostalgic for that year when I was an exchange student in high school when we all got something pierced and am an apparently voracious chewer. Alas.

Second...it was the third (month) anniversary in the household of Kara and Kansas. I arrived slightly buzzed from drinks with amy g. and yowling my despair at having lost my precious tooth only to be stopped short by a jar (yes, we're classy people) full of gorgeous orange roses and gerbera daisies. Then amy g. and danny left and we had a small fight...probably about nothing...just to make sure the spice was still there.

I suck at this stuff. I forget birthdays all the time. So this anniversary business is hopeless. Maybe I should take to tying a string around my finger. Does that actually work for anyone?

Isn't it lovely? Isn't he lovely?

Work is shitty. They're trying to get me to become an Account Manager. Or, as I like to call it, A Professional Ass Kisser (sorry marie). I've been in my non-client facing position for several years for a reason. I don't like the clients. I don't like having to make them happy. I enjoy keeping my cynical face on ALL DAY LONG. But, it could be more money...and something pretty for the resume, so I'm thinking about it. The fact is...I'm really freaking bored. This job doesn't challenge anything but my patience. And I need my patience. I have very little of it and what I have I need to conserve for the protection of the general public (old people). So if this other position offers me something more than boredom...shoot, I might just take it.

Going to the beach with a portion of The Crew and Kansas this weekend. There will be go-cart racing and bumper boating and driftwood burning...and a whole hell of a lot of drinking.

Thank you for the commenting...oh my little commenters. I know some of you were/are missing still...and I smite you...but now I have a general idea of how many lives I touch in a negative way. You know, besides the unlucky people who have to interact with me in person on a daily basis. Poor sots.

Ok, I need to go back to work. I don't have time for this nonsense. Kansas got his way, so we have Internet at home. I'll start maybe sorta blogging at home and see if that makes any of this shit more worthwhile reading material. That didn't even make sense. Awesome.

Happy Long Weekend Friday, people. Don't forget to remember somebody who's dead on Memorial Day. I've decided to remember Eli Whitney. I will raise my glass to him every hour upon the hour starting at 12:01 AM Monday. A fitting tribute for a man who's given us so much. So much.

Comment Or Die

(yes, I ate some of this)

THAT, my friends, is a bacon maple bar from Voodoo Doughnuts here in P-town. I think my point is made.

So here's what. I'm trying to get a feel for how many people actually read this stupid ass blog. And since I'm technologically retarded and all I have for a tracking device is that stupid free counter thing that has tragedy attached to it, I'm going to figure it out the old fashioned way...by making you all comment.

SO...EVEN IF you're a non-commenting reader, I'm going to need you to suck it up and give me a little shout out. You can say as little or as much as you want, you can even be mean; I just want you to say something. Oh, and if you want to remain a pansy (that would be "Anonymous"), that's fine too. I just need to know the numbers, people.

So comment. Comment as though your life depended on it.

I will not post again until you do.

Thus spoke Zarathustra.

Keep Portland Weird!

Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

I read in the Sunday LA Time last week that Portland, Oregon is the most eccentric city in the land. I only know you there and already I'm convinced they're right.

11:34 PM

Sam left me that comment the other day. SAM...the one who has an unhealthy obsession with goats, but is a delightful volcano builder. We have a volcano up here, you know. Anyway, at first I was all, 'whatevs'. I mean, if you've ever been to LA, you'd know that people STILL rollerblade mostly naked there. And yet Portland is the eccentric one? Harumph.

But then I thought about it some more. I thought about the Volvo with the "Buy Local" sticker on it...the NAU store with their "environmental" clothing being sold for hundreds in the haughty Pearl District, the guy crossing the street that one time wearing Danskos and a cowboy hat. And then I went to Powell's to look for a book that the website said was there but it wasn't (god I hate that fucking labyrinth) and there was a car parked outside with this sticker upon it...it looked a little like this:

photo courtesy of portlandground.com

You have to muck through the visual assault that IS this person's anti-war stance, but I'm fairly certain you'll find it there in the lower right corner. Those bumper stickers are everywhere here. They sell them at Music Millenium (local High Fidelityesque music store) and you can't really count to 10 without seeing one stuck somewhere. And I guess I can see why. This can be a wacky place. I just didn't realize it was any more or less wacky than any other place (hello, New Orleans). Though the Zoo Bombers do instill some civic pride. Those crazy fuckers are cool.

After some masterful googling, I found the article Sam was referring to. Here it is. Read it if you must. And by "must" I mean are considering a jaunt to the grand Northwest or you have nothing better to do and your life is empty. But let me just warn you here...any of you fuckers consider a move that results in jacking up the house prices (Californians...I'm fucking talking to you) that are already threatening to keep me a renter til I've lost all my own natural teeth, I will tear your balls off. Even if you don't sport the man berries, I'll get them installed and then tear them off.
(current Californians that are already here and are personal and accepted acquaintances of mine may disregard disclaimer)

I will say this about the article. This is far from my favorite city in the world, but it's got some kick ass shit about it and NONE of it was mentioned in that article. He didn't even venture to the East side (S.E. RULES). So if you DO read his ramblings and think 'huh, Portland sounds like some place I'd like to visit'...read on before calling your travel agent.

There is only one decent guide to Portland out there in literary land. It is Fugitives and Refugees by Chuck Palahniuk. Not only is it the best guide there is to Portland, with the exception of the inclusion of the 24-Hour Church of Elvis, which is no longer there...it's written by the author of Fight Club...which rocks my socks off. But don't try to fucking find it at Powell's.


Word.

**update**: It is sheep that Sam is strangely drawn to in a literary sense...sheep. It is also very obvious that I am in some serious need of coffee. Which makes it all the more tragic that I don't drink coffee.

Dreams Are So Hot Right Now

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Ahhh, Zoolander.

Everyone's been talking about dreams lately...how weird they've been...what they mean, etc.

Yesterday I got this phone call from Kansas:

Kansas: I had a horrible nightmare last night
Me: Oh no...what about?
Kansas: Well, it's going to seem funny now, but it was really upsetting at the time.
Me: okaaaay....?
Kansas: It was my birthday and you were gone all day hanging out with other people. And when you got home, we fought about it and you didn't seem to care how hurt I was.
Me: Awwww, honey...
Kansas: So I got really angry and hit you across the face...with cornbread...and it somehow got stuck to your eyes...
Me: ...
Kansas: And I called you a " dirty cornbread eye havin' bitch".
Me: ... ... ...I think we just found my petname.

True story.

Three (Well...Fourish) Things Of Note

We took a break from loading the car for a moment to have a Rolling Rock on the front porch. It was 80 degrees yesterday and there were people to watch. Oregonians dressing for warm weather are often humorous to behold. Anyway, I glanced to the right of me and noticed a oldish Volvo station wagon parked nearby. And I cracked up. For, like, a full minute. There was a bumper sticker over the insignia that said "Buy Local". I know.

We didn't get home until 9ish, but not before stopping to buy a take 'n bake pizza (taco pizza, hello 8th grade). We got busy putting up curtains and the like so when it was done we realized there was suddenly nothing to eat it on. I opened up the dishwasher filled with dirty dishes and took out two plates. Hand washed them. And set the table (2 TV trays). What's the point of this vignette? Remember how excited I was about the dishwasher? Still hand washing. Blurgh.

Thirdly (yes, it is a word, suck it)...I may or may not have told you all long ago that I had broken up with the Belmont bus line number 15. Well...today I had to swallow my cud and make niceys. I live directly on the line now...and I hadn't moved my bike yet. So until I do...the bus I must take. But I don't have to like it. Maybe couple's counseling.

We had a debate the other day(ages ago), here in the office about what playing Voldemort will do to Ralph Fiennes' hotness. I maintain that any future fantasizing will be hindered by his lack of nose. For those who live in caves and don't know who he is...see below:

hot

not hot

A coworker came up with this...he thinks it will help. I give you...Mixed hotness.

You be the judge.