And now for something more depressing than depression...

And that is Love.

I've been milling around the topic for a few days, for a myriad of reasons, but didn't really know what framework I wanted to put it in. 

I have been dating fairly actively since becoming abruptly single in February, and I haven't found that thing.  I've met lots of very cool people that I enjoy spending time with (sometimes even without clothing!)  And if that was all it took to foster love I'd have a preponderance of love, but there's something else.  If love were daisies, then I have sun and water and seeds... but I need some fertilizer. Ha.  I'm literally asking for shit.

I want distraction of the best kind, and surreptitious, constant texts of little import.  I want kisses that steal my breath, and discussion about nothing in particular, that are actually about everything.

I want to feel safe enough to storm about, throwing my things this way and that, knowing that person can and will weather it, without a second thought.  I want to weather the storms they birth, without wondering if they are miserable and on the verge of leaving.  I want safety in a battered harbor.

I want a religious experience.  I want to silently pray using our huge emotions, all entangled limbs in a dark room, to a god that exists in the space that our breath fills.  I want the kind of utter faith I can surrender to, that makes me believe not only in it's ability to make miracles, but makes me believe that I am capable of miracles too. 

I want a mirror that doesn't look like me.  I want to ask and receive.  I want to be asked of and give.  I want to be valued, pursued, dragged out of my own brain... not because it allows easy access to my underpants, but because it allows easy access to my soul.

It's fucking cheesy, I know, and I wonder if it really exists, or if I'm just describing the chemically pleasing state that pheromones and novelty produce when two people haven't tired of each other's fertilizer yet.

I need love.  But the last thing I need is another person who loves me without knowing how.

In Numbers, or Not

(This blog was originally posted 12/28/2008.  I liked it enough to rehash it here. m)

“Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature.”- Helen Keller

In these times, when three or four of my friends have been laid off, and when it isn't inconceivable for me to be worried about my position, I do have to wonder about this illusion of safety we all live under...

Sure, there's the old adage that most of us are one paycheck away from being homeless....
But even worse, we are all really on the precipice of life and death every single day.  We climb into giant hurdling machines and up the ante by eating or talking on the phone, or turning radio stations.  We eat food that we would not be able to identify if it were broken down to it's alien simple particles.  We do things every day that are likely to make us targets of random violence or victims of hapless accidents. 

I answered a meme-ish survey about the last time I was close to dying.  I answered truthfully, "right now... and right now... and right now."

That tingle in my spine could be a brain tumor, the pain in my thigh could be blood clot making its way towards my heart.  I could be dead by morning and not ever have known what hit me.  Unlikely sure, but unlikelier things happen all the time.  My best friend in high school had the same first and middle name as me.  I'd say the odds of me dying on any given day of any given thing are at least as good as that.

So before you check out and say to yourself, "Oh she's going to get all morbid again," I do have a real point.  And that is that maybe most of us should stop living with the illusion that we are safe.  Maybe we need to stop avoiding risk in the hopes that we will live far into our golden years.. when if you think about it, the years you have now have the potential to be so much greater than your "golden" years... if you just let them.

Pet that snake
Jump off that cliff
Date that guy
Make that trip

And yes, face that goddamned whale.

Carpe that fucking diem my friends, because when we go, we might as well leave a bunch of puzzled on-lookers staring at our corpse and saying, "what the hell was THAT?!"

A Tip for all the fab Missed Connection posters

(I posted this on Craigslist, Missed Connections.  I read them religiously, and it sates my nosy little heart like no celebrity gossip rag ever could.  Certain trends, however, were getting on my nerves.  As I am 104% sure it will be flagged and removed, I've posted it here for posterity as well. Enjoy.)

I'm sure this will be flagged shortly, as anything that isn't a photo of a penis or a scam usually is... but here goes.

You saw that hottie on the train? You wanted to say hi, but chickened out? It's cool, post a missed connection!
Who knows, they may read it and contact you!

I've had one hit (a conversation in a grocery store turned into an awkward first date... is that a hit?) and one miss (I pined after a bartender, and was informed promptly that EVERYONE pines over said bartender. Oh well) on my own- it could happen to you!

Here are some tips I've formulated from reading these things obsessively every night...

1. You posted a pic? Great! Is it relevant? For reals, that could mean a penis pic if that's the only way your MC would recognize you... is it a cat picture, when your post has nothing to do with cats? Fail.

2. You have an eye for a cute waitress at IHOP, and want to tell her how she warms your syrup? Post it, describe her so she knows it is her... don't describe YOU, unless you had, like, three eyes. If you add, "Tell me what shirt I was wearing" to your post, it's only revealing that you think a whole lot of yourself, that she would remember your no-tipping ass after a long hard day at work (actually, if you didn't tip- better not to post at all. She WILL remember you. And not fondly.) How bout, in order to weed out ravenous waitress-imposters, ask her to comment on something about herself that you noticed.) She'll probably remember that.

3. M4M- no tips, gentlemen, keep doing what you do. Seriously, the lovely gay men of the bay area have more fabulous sex then any other population, anywhere, ever. Keep posting and making me smile, darlings.

4. Initials. You realize there are only 26 letters in the english alphabet, don't you? While it may weed things down a wee bit, posting a vague note to "J" is unlikely to produce results you'd like... Unless of course the object of your affection is named Quincy. or Xavier. In those cases, carry on. Why not try a descriptor with your initial? A zodiac sign? Anything?

5. For the most effectiveness, if your goal is to actually re-connect with that MC, put something specific in your title, and choose your location wisely and specifically. A title of "Beautiful" in the general SF Bay area is unlikely to catch the person you are jonesin' for. Try, "You accidently brushed against my butt at the Hillsdale Starbucks today. And I liked it."

6. Prepare to be flagged for absolutely no reason. What's up with that?

7. Gentlemen. This actually transcends CL- MC-land, and covers a piece of advice in the real world.... We ladies are not vehicles for our rockin' boobies. Therefore, addressing posts to our boobies alone is unlikely to garner a response. As our boobies can't type. (Well, mine can't anyway... if you happen to be that talented, let me know.)

8. Ladies. It's okay to let him go. Call up your best friend and read that poem to her. If she's a good friend, she'll tell you not to post it- after she regains her composure from laughing so hard. If she says post it- THEN post it. And move on. You are lovely and wonderful and deserve someone who thinks so too.

9. Pretty please don't flag me. Please? With a cherry on top?

10. Keep on doing what you do, and letting it all hang out. I love love love reading these things. For reals.

Don't Even Get Me Started on the Almonds...

Someone in the cafeteria where I work has pissed off God.

That's the only explanation I can come up with for the TWO floods that have plagued the good people who work there. I mean, even Noah only got one flood.  I don't know what that person did, but they should probably work it out with their personal savior so that we can get our "special eggs" on.  I suspect the offense had something to do with Turkey Thursday, but I can't prove it.

Anyway, being that our normal lunch spot was underwater, we meandered over to a smaller cafe with a sandwich bar. While we waited in line, we saw a sign.  I have seen similar signs to this, but not ever with this wording.  I have seen numerous nut warning signs that say things like:

"May contain nuts."
"This area contains products that may contain trace amounts of nuts."
And even: "Cannot guarantee that this product is nut-free"- a label that I think applies to more than just allergies...

But recently, at our small contingency sandwich shop, we saw a sign that said,

MADE IN THE PRESENCE OF PEANUTS AND WALNUTS.

Which of course my brain translated to:

A Short Excerpt of a Domestic Conversation

The boyfriend and I are lounging, discussing his text message traffic (homeboy maintains a large, chatty posse.)  One of his friends is discussing a current potential paramour...

He: He's a German... furniture maker?
Me: Must be a hipster.

This is when he shoots me an "explain" look...

Me: Furniture makers are all hipsters. Or the Amish. Or people who do it because their father gave them a store, that was given to him by his father.  That's it.

He:  You should draw that.

And so I did- See?

I don't know why I imagine the Amish are so angry. But I do.

Mad props to the iPad app Paper by 53, for helping me draw this.
Also mad props to Karmin, because every time I drew something today in Paper, I sang, "I'm makin' paper!"

Accidentally Domesticated, or a Recipe for Strawberry Ginger Chicken

So I can't cook.  I've burned water.  My ramen always comes out looking less like Justin Timberlake's hair, mid- N'Sync, ane more like Anna Nicole Smith's towards the end there... (too soon?)

I digress.

I've been telling the boyfriend this secret, me not cooking, for months- a loud and clear disclaimer to warn him of impending foodborne pathogens. 

Unfortunately, everything I've made so far has turned out decent, by some fabulous fluke, so that I maybe actually started taking an interest in this cooking thing.  The people at Taco Bell started missing me, I am pretty sure.

So anyways, this fabulous luck with cooking for the boyfriend, coincided with my discovery of the best time-wasting site on the planet- Pinterest.

I found that there was a mess of stuff I wanted to try, and if I liked it, I could pin recipes to a board, with my modifications in the comments, so that I could repeat.  This seemed like a decent system, and a good excuse to feed my innernets addiction.  Wendy's called and begged me to return.

So, I was getting a repertoire, when today, I noticed that I had defrosted chicken, and had no recipe to use on it.  Being in a rank mood, I threw the chicken in a bowl to figure out some sort of marinade, and re-opened the last glass of chardonnay in a bottle that had been sitting in my fridge, so I could drink and cook, like it was the fifties or some such thing.

Alas, the wine had moved into vinegar territory, so I tossed it into the bowl with the unsuspecting chicken.  Figuring that wine is beigey-yellow, and ginger is beigey-yellow, and I had to use some more of that fresh ginger before it went bad, and remembering that the boyfriend goes kind of nuts for ginger, I grated a whole mess of it on top of the chicken. 

And then I saw them.  The motherflippin' strawberries. 

So, the boyfriend and I live mostly alone.  A small tornado in the shape of a twelve year old boy descends on the weekends.  We don't hold dinner parties.  And yet, for some reason, the boyfriend bought a container of strawberries the size of a Prius.  Of course, at Costco.  Besides endlessly snacking, I thought about this amazing blackberry barbecue chicken sandwich I have for lunch sometimes. If blackberries go well with chicken, why not strawberries?  So I grated the strawberries (is that even a thing?  Do people grate strawberries??) into the chicken next. 

I figured I might need some real ingredients after this, so I added enough soy sauce to make the dish look legit, and some oregano, chili pepper, black pepper and a whole mess of garlic powder, in case it turned out bad, I could blame the garlic.  I let that sit for about two hours, while the boyfriend whipped up some completely nomming yellow potatoes and broccoli (because unlike me, he CAN cook.) and thought about whether or not to open more wine....

Eventually, the timing was right to put the chicken in, so I turned the broiler onto high, and put the two breasts on a drip pan, dusted a fine layer of parmesan cheese (because everything is better with cheese) over the top of the chicken and put them into the oven. After they started to brown, I flipped them, sprinkled parmesan on the bottom, surfed the innernets (did I mention I'm an addict?), and then after I cut into the biggest one (maybe 20 minutes?) and saw that it was cooked all the way through, I yanked those bad boys out.

And then I went to post my revisions to the recipe on pinterest.... and realized I had nothing to pin, because I made the whole thing up.  So here I am, munching on strawberries and posting this so I can pin it.

The End?  Or maybe I should post this in recipe format?

Strawberry Ginger Chicken

Ingredients:
2 chicken breasts- defrosted
1 glass worth of old chardonnay, prolly a Central Valley wine
Grated ginger, grate until you don't feel like grating any more (maybe half a cup?)
Grated strawberries (again, is this a thing?), four or five really big ones, not the green parts.
Soy sauce- a few good shakes (perhaps a cup? 3/4 cup- definitely enough so the chicken is still visible, but like, doing a breast stroke in it...)

A whole mess of:
Oregano
Black pepper
Garlic powder (or salt? crap- one second....nope, definitely powder)
Ground chili powder
Enough parmesan cheese to sprinkle over both sides.

To Do:

1. Combine everything but the parmesan in a big pink bowl. Mix well and let sit for about two hours.
2. Set Broiler to High, place chicken breasts on broiler pan, and dust with parmesan cheese.
3. Cook for about 20 minutes, or when the middles don't scream "SALMONELLA!" at you.  About halfway through, flip and dust the reverse side with parmesan cheese.
4. Do something with the leftover chicken sludge.  I guess some people might use this to baste, but is this not introducing raw chicken to cooked chicken? That seems wrong somehow, so I dumped it.
5. Con your significant other into making a side dish by being cute and appealing to his very expansive generous nature.

This served me and the boyfriend, with leftovers, because I wasn't very hungry.

On Copy Machine Tyranny

Ordering Copier Toner- Old Regime:

I call, I say my six digit serial number VERY CLEARLY.

They transfer me to Tiffany in Jamaica (no joke.)

She confirms my name, location and number, while saying the  phrase, "by the way" far too often. I don't have the heart to explain that "by the way" isn't a lead-in phrase.

One minute later, I have a confirmation that cyan/magenta/yellow toner is zooming towards me... within three days.

Ordering Copier Toner- New Regime:

Call 800 number. Follow several prompts until I reach a human. Give the human my serial number. Human tells me I need to call my local office. Gives me local office, and representatives name.

Call local office, which disavows any knowledge of said representative, and also my machine. Offers to take a message. I leave a message.

TWO WEEKS LATER...

I call again, and get processed through a phone tree, which directs me to a website.

I try to order toner through the website, which directs me to the same 800 number.

I call the 800 number again and get the following-

PRESS 1 for for supplies under a contract

1

If you have an all-inclusive contract, press 1

1

If you would like supplies, press 1

1

Press 1 for supplies under a contract

1

To order supplies, please see our website.......

At which point, my head exploded.  Luckily, my brains are cyan, magenta, and yellow, so my co-workers were able to restock the machine with them nicely.

New Digs- A List!

You know how some people say, "Out with the old, in with the new," when January rolls around?

I decided to take that to the max, because I'm hardcore like that and say, "Eff my old apartment and my hometown- I'm out!"**

**which really sounded more like "I love you" "I love you too" "let's live together!" "hell yeah!" "Yay" "SMOOCHSMOOCHSMOOCH"... but you get the picture...

Soooo, I'm moving. My last few moves consisted of:


- Hey, we have no stuff. Let's put our clothes on the carpet and search craigslist!
- Hi Mormons! we have no one to help move our stuff... Hey, THANKS, Mormons!
- Um, I'm 8 months pregnant and need help moving... oh, you have a videogame to play? Cool, I'll just be out here throwing my back out...
- Hey, thanks Marine Corps, for moving all our crap.
- Hey, thanks Marine Corps, for moving all our crap.
- Hey, thanks Marine Corps, for moving all our crap.

So I find that with my limited experience moving, I am thinking all sorts of thoughts and finding out new things about the process all day.  Things like:

1. My mom can probably carry a water buffalo on one shoulder.
2. I own more jackets than one human being should.
3. There is nothing quite so satisfying as laying on your new carpet for the first time, before koolaid and hair balls have a chance to sully the experience.
4. If two people are moving to the same place- they should get walkie-talkies. Sure, it would prolly make communication smoother... but also FREAKING walkie-talkies!
5. This:

6. I am now 98% certain that while I sleep, mischievous gnomes come into my place, and leave belongings. What else would explain how I amassed as many belongings as an entombed Egyptian king, in only a mere 34 years?
7. I am now co-owner of a Costco account. I'm pretty sure that's more legally binding than marriage.
8. I am already plotting pillow fights and hide and go seek bouts and art nights in and bad movie night and drunken Trivial Pursuit matches... and we'll have fun when the boychild is there too.
9. I can already imagine how we'll decorate for next Christmas, and hope we get Trick or Treaters on Halloween.
10. It's an adventure that I'm glad I have such an amazing partner to share it with.

Adventures in the Digital Realm

or On Being a Gen-X'er, Raising a Millenial

Boychild found a disposable camera in my junk drawer. It's there in case of emergencies. What kind of emergencies might necessitate a disposable camera? I have no idea, but I feel better with it there.

After a weekend of teaching him to sew, and then watching him operate on every single stuffed animal in the house (seriously, one poor kitty cat has zero in the way of guts now), I figured he was done making mischief.

I clearly am unschooled in the ways of eleven year old boys.

As I said, he found the disposable camera, and delighted in flashing my eyeballs blind, taking the requisite Myspace arm photo and then shooting randomness in the house. I wish I had cleaned up more.

Now let it be known that I have an entire Flickr set devoted to pictures that boychild takes. He is not new to the idea of photography. He is, however, new to the idea of "old-fashioned photography."

After showing him how a manual flash works, and after he gleefully blinded me repeatedly, and shot avante-garde shots of the coffee table (I kept warning him he had finite amounts of shots...) he turned to me, with about 13 shots left, and asked (while trying to pry the camera body open),

"Okay, how do I see what I shot?"
"Umm, well, you finish the roll, and then we go down to Walgreens, where they process it over a week or so, then you pay for the prints. Also, if you open that case, all your shots are ruined."
"Like ACTUAL prints?!"
"Actual prints."
"But then I have no idea if I took good shots!"
"Welcome to my childhood, son."
"Your childhood was CRAZY!"

Remember That Time I Tried to Write That Novel?

Sometimes, I tell people I am a writer.

This is true in a really literal way, sure. I am a writer in the same way I am a breather, or a blinker, or a walker. I have written things. Countless things.  Diaries, emails, grocery lists, to-do's, and yes- sometimes poems and short stories. I have long held this teensy little dream of being a novelist, but have never been able to get farther than 120 pages into a story, and have certainly never come to any conclusion with any of them. Either plot-wise, nor public-wise.

I always described my dad as a poet by heart and a housepainter/firefighter by trade. I suppose his daughter is a storyteller by heart and a residency coordinator by trade.  I have a small library of books intended to motivate someone to finish a book. They have all succeeded... in reminding me how hard I fail at finishing this seemingly simple task.

Even right now, I am 20,000 words behind a writing challenge. That's a literary fuck-ton of words, right there. Am I working to rectify this? Um, unless you have inabilities to put concepts together (and my apologies to those with that disorder...), you have figured out that I am writing a blog, instead of catching up on my 20,000 words. Halfway through the challenge, I believe this is what one calls, "giving up." Or rather, "giving up again." Because I've been here before. Three times, in fact.

In 2005, I checked out Chris Baty's book, "No Plot, No Problem."  I was intrigued by it's claim that I could write a stress-free 50,000 word novel in 30 days. It seemed insane, yet doable. After reading it, I decided to take the the next 30 days, and try it. It wasn't November, but April, 2005, and I got about 11,000 words into it before a work change, a kindergartener, and a crushing bout of writer's block brought on by forgetting where I was in the story and growing tired of my main character forced my hand into committing literary infanticide.

For the next few years, I was busy writing my own story by way of living it, but by 2009, I had heard that Baty had started an online crew of writers, who were doing this whole, "One novel, one month" thing together, under the name NaNoWriMo.  which is a completely silly break down of National Novel Writing Month. Which occurs in November. You know, when we all spend all of our time Christmas shopping. Or personally, when my work kicks into overdrive. Also of note in November, it gets dark and cold. These things make it hard for me to write a novel.

Recognizing a "begging-off" excuse when I hear one (even from myself!), I jumped into the fray in 2009. And tanked about halfway through. I had a killer novel that I actually loved. I got 27,000 words into it, and then I missed a week due to random busy-ness. Realizing that I could never catch up from there, I gave up. I started turning on my story, deciding that zombies were passe (of course they're passe- they were only new in the 60's when first introduced.)

In 2010, newly single, I decided to give it another shot. I logged on to the NaNo site and registered. I loved the little progress meter and the ability to see where my friends were with their projects.  I also started with a plan this time. To avoid the forgetting characters, and to fool myself into writing many short stories, I decided to have a main story that unfolded via several smaller, seemingly unrelated vignettes. I got about 12,000 words into it, before my dating life shot into gear and I gave up writing for socializing. Fail number 3.

This year, I started with no idea what I would write. I had a strategy that I would keep track of characters with an ingenious system using Flickr's ability to tag and cross-reference. I assigned each character a picture, and tagged them with words that I could call upon if I needed a refresher. It was a brilliant system. I revived the "Several short story in a bigger novel" structure, in the hopes that that would keep me able to bite up chunks of wordage. The new boyfriend was fully recruited as a cheerleader and even found me awesome spots to write, and drove me to the midnight write-in on November 1st. I started carrying my laptop with me, in case I found myself somewhere I could chill for a few hours and bang out a story. I typed and typed, not giving a second thought to what I was even typing. Plot? Who needs a plot?!  Characters? Does it matter that they are poorly fleshed out and have no discernible reason to exist? Psh!

And then week two happened to me. Sudden, total brain lock. A dark cloud the likes that I hadn't seem in years rolled over and prevented me from even desiring to work on anything- not brushing my teeth, or feeding myself, or even opening my eyes more than a slit. I had just enough energy to go to work, come home, climb under my blanket on my couch and console myself with Rachel Maddow and uber-liberal political discourse. I am currently at 5,000 words, halfway through the month. And I think, waving my white flag.

There's always 2012....

Because What Would The Innernets Be Without Random Ranting?

I have about three other topics I wanted to blog about, but instead, because Flickr decided to tweak some stuff mid-middle of the night, I'm feeling ranty...

(As a sidenote, Flickr initiated a project for those of us who were getting aggressive to chew on. Here's my entry.)

And now on to my set of random rants, in list form- because listifying rants makes them less random, right? Right??

 1. Pandora Radio. I recognize I don't pay for Pandora (and actually as an addendum to this rant, I do love the way the new Pandora looks, and that they did away with the 40 hour listening cap...buuuut....) One of my favorite things about Pandora was the ability to move songs from station to station. When Usher "Nice and Slow" plays on my Wispy Ladies station (a station that is supposed to host willowy lady voices singing angsty things) I shouldn't have to thumbs down it. I like "Nice and Slow." It should go on my Panty Droppers station. There doesn't seem to be a way to do that any more. That's lame. Spotify and last.fm are looking better and better to me.

SIDE ANECDOTE: Moral quandary- I was recently in Pandora's hometown of Oakland, at a bar, and there was a Pandora gathering occurring. When it came time to pay for my drink, the bartender asked if I was charging to the Pandora party. Given that I was already peeved about the track moving thing, I was tempted to answer in the affirmative. I didn't, I behaved. What would you have done?

2. Twitter. Hey twits, if you find a trending topic offensive, tweeting that you find it offensive and using the topic hashtag only helps the popularity of said topic. As with everthing offensive on the innernets, it's always better to ignore it...(recent examples include #Aaliyahsfinalplaylist and #reasonstobeatyourgirlfriend) On a related topic, Why come Twitter you block some trending topics (recent example that comes to mind are the NYC protests and the Troy Davis fiasco...) Do you not remember the impact and cultural relevance of the Iran protests on Twitter?  It makes the medium less "of the people" and more "just another media outlet."  Super sad.

3. iVillage email updates. iVillage, you asked me if this "email doesn't look right." I should say so, but not for the reason you think. I suspect you mean to ask if the format is correct, and it's fine. What I take issue with is that you pretend to be news and articles tailored to women, but in actuality, you are nothing more than a trashy, patronizing women's mag set to bytes. "10 Tips to Keep Your Man"? For reals?

4. The bleak future. Hey teenagers, those seats at the front of the bus? Those are for the elderly and the disabled. You know, just like the sign says? I weep for the health and education of our future if modern teenagers can't read a sign, or can't walk to the back of the bus. I'm about two years away from perfecting my upturned shaking fist...

5. I don't know why it incenses me, but I can NOT abide by people who open a new product before the old one has run out. You know who you are. You were cute enough to get away with it this time-- but next time, you lose a pinky.

6. And last but not least, the incident which is responsible for my elevated blood pressure... for the last, like month. I was standing at a crosswalk with my cutie boyfriend, waiting for the light to change in our favor. The light changed for the cars moving in our direction, even though the walk crosslight hadn't changed. I took that as a cue to walk (I frequently watch for the cars going in my direction rather than the "Walk" light. California lights can be wonky...)

Unfortunately, a car was turning, and almost hit me, but cutie boyfriend pulled me back in time. As we discussed the incident, chuckling at it, I said the phrase, "but it was green!" (meaning the streetlight) to the cutie boyfriend. At that moment, we passed a restaurant with a security guard policing the entrance (why the hell?). I guess he felt the power of his authority swell up inside him and he C'd his way into our A and B conversation with, "Actually it wasn't, actually."

Yup, he both started and ended the interruption with "Actually."
I don't know what made me want to scratch his eyes out more, the interruption, the presumption that because he wears a uniform he deserves to interject into our conversation, or the absolute fumbling with my native tongue. Actually-actually? ACTUALLY-ACTUALLY?! To be fair, I like to play with words, but I consider it a flirtation with my favorite things, rather then an utter disregard for how things sound, or how to make word usage sound mindful. Actually actually.

I'm done here, yo.

Press "FLARGH" For English

Over the past few months, I am rapidly learning that I do not speak my native language.
It began with relative strangers, so naturally, I assumed it was their terrible comprehending skills.

Now even those closest to me hear, "I'm going to take a nap," as "Garffllapppfgrpsshhhh?"

My very best friend and I had the following discussion via text, for example:

ME: You ever feel like you are about to make an epic mistake, but are powerless to do anything but make it, so you can learn?

J: Whatcha up to, babygirl?

ME: Riding the bus. Writing bad poetry (I resisted the urge to follow that with, "With a crazy kind of urgency." In the hopes of not being confusing. I should've typed it.)

J: What kind of mistakes you getting ready to make?

ME: Just thinking. My brain is on hyperdrive. Everyone can spot a mistake in hindsight... what if you could see it coming and let it happen?

J: We do that all the time. We call it self-destruction, right?

ME: Nah, that's not what I mean... not like planned mistake making based on crazy brain. I mean I guess a solemn determination to test life.

J: That makes no sense to me!

ME: I apparently no longer speak english. No one understands what I say anymore.

J: Haha. Awww. rough Monday, babygirl?

ME: Nah, this shit has been going on for months. Pretty soon I'm just gonna babble and throw my own feces.

J: I'll still love you!

ME: You are required to, because I keel you otherwise.

On Fall (or Autumnal Woes)

Labor Day is over, and although Fall doesn't really begin until the 23rd of this month, everyone is in pretty solid agreement that Summer is over.  Our pool is officially closed, Halloween stuff abounds at the grocery store, and most kids are back in school. I have always been a staunch anti-autumnist... or so I thought.

Recently, it was brought to my attention that many things that are associated with Fall are things I claim to like.  This of course prompted me to make a list. (Who am I kidding- blowing my nose prompts me to make a list. Staring at linoleum prompts me to make a list.)

Reasons I LIKE Fall:

1. HALLOWEEN! The day of the year that adults get to play dress up (except you Furries. Hats off to you for making it Halloween, Game Day, and freaky all around all year long!). Halloween is about magic and mayhem and my favorite thing ever... CANDY. That is a win for Fall.

2. Good smelling stuff- I'm not much of a Suzy Homemaker. In fact, until recently, I thought the name was in reference to a bad-ass lady pimp (Suzy Hoe-maker). I do however, geek out tremendously at things that are scented cinnamon and apple, spiced pear, spiced fig, spiced anything really. Spiced marshmallow, spiced koala... I don't care. Let me sniff it.

3. Color palette- An icy blue is my favorite color (not to be confused with Icy Blu), but really, my favorite over-all palette consists of maroons and golds and deep, chocolate browns. Falls colors make me comfy and warm.

4. My Birthday- Most people would call me a winter baby, but being that my birthday falls in the first half of December... that makes me a fall baby. Ain't nothing wrong with that...and now....

Reasons I HATE Fall:

1. It's freaking cold.

2. It's freaking dark.Fer reals, the sun already spends all of it's time on the other side of the planet during fall, but then you factor in Daylight Savings Time, and it feels like we live in a planet of Darkness. And not awesome Charlie Murphy Darkness, either.

3. Did I mention the cold? Because that shit sucks.

4. I always think rats are hiding under piles of leaves- This could be my own neurosis (I really hate how many viable sentences I start off like that...) but every time I shuffle through a pile of fallen leaves, I imagine my booted foot connecting with something breathing and furry. This is something I can safely assume both I and the rodent world would like to avoid.

5. Traffic- Living in California, just thinking about the Christmas shopping rush and what it does to already aggravated commuters is enough to make my stomach churn. Not owning a car myself, I still have to contend with walking packages home in inclement weather. Sorry, grandma, your new doilies smell like dirty rain because Christmas is inconveniently in the fall.

Things that conflict me about Fall:
These are things I couldn't decide whether they were pros or cons. But still they exist. Bastard ambiguities!

1. I'm glad that it's not winter yet, but sad that summer is over.
2. The smell of fireplaces is comforting, but also a reminder that the year is almost done, causing me to reflect on shit. I get sad when I reflect on shit. But damn do those things smell awesome...
3. I love the anticipation of Christmas, but start panicking on how to afford it. Being a broke single mama is never more panic-inducing when I have to factor in affording stuff. And don't even get me started on the whole "Presents made with love are worth all the Legos in the world!" Because we both know that's a load of bull-honkey.

In conclusion: Yay, fall?

Um yeah... So there's this.

So I've been blogging in one forum or another since 2005.

From my humble beginnings on the ill-fated Yahoo 360! vehicle, to Multiply, to a half a dozen social networks...

It looks like it's time for a new forum- so here I am.

Hullo, guys.

Oh wait... I promised fart jokes.


Here you go, from none other than Mr. Leslie Nielsen.