Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Bossy N. & Mean JB

Alter egos were out and about last week, spurred on by my post about a certain family member making a specific request for a particular type of herb. N. did supply some of this natural substance and though it's hardly a part of my regime - it's happened like 3 or 4xs in the last 2 years, it was quite relaxing. So relaxing I fell asleep on my couch. Until a certain person - N.! - woke me from the back room, my office, to make me watch a video. I was told I would watch it, and though I'd slipped into the most relaxed state I've been in, aside from actual sleep, in perhaps years, I watched it. Then I was told I'd watch another one, which I did. Bossy N. was in the house. Bossy N. eats a lot of cereal.

The next dangerous step, literally, was taking the little monster for a walk. During the walk, I tripped over the edge of a lawn. More precisely, some person had edged a lawn and left the curly long, muddy bit on the sidewalk. This is what caused me to fly in the air. I kept repeating to N. that I hurt myself, my finger really tingled, but I didn't think he understood fully enough. I said, "I'm in pain." But he has a sufficient excuse, oh I mean reason, for being quiet: humiliation. Earlier in our walk he announced, "I can't understand why I haven't been laid in so long!"

Just when you think you're alone in Portland on a sleepy street in a dead neighborhood, you will always find a sneaky little person hidden by wisteria, bamboo, or both. Uncontrollable giggles escaped from a porch nearby. N and I did what any self-respecting, not getting laid bunch of friends would do: we increased our pace, pretended to have no peripheral vision, and didn't look back.

So what if they're my neighbors? People, apparently, are concerned about the health of the city. I read this nearby a rather phallic art project at Mt. Tabor. But my argument is that N.'s dilemma, and really, mine is a much more pressing issue.

Check it out, the Portland Acupuncture Project public installation. Might I suggest clicking on the bottom picture?

I Just Like This Quote

"The writer is something of a shape-changer and trickster, someone a little more treacherous, eccentric, and unpredictable than she at first appears, because she is continually buffeted and transformed by an inner life invisible from the outside. She may speak to you in complete sentences about what her day was like, but inside another life is being lived, one full of beauties and monstrosities, upheavals and transgressions." ~ Eric Maisel

Monday, April 19, 2010


Below is a friend's cousin's post on craigslist. He gets full credit for the text below as well as the term Homance. I just may love him!

Read on and enjoy. Women are not alone in our frustration!

LT Bromance / F wo B - m4w - 36 (Hollywood)

looking for a long-term bromance / friend without benefits after having given up on girls.

girls, seriously?! more on you later.

anyway, i'm looking for a good, solid wingman. we'll go to bars and share knowing glances as the girls go wild for the dog brothers / larger male monkey. we'll be on the sidelines, enjoying our own company. we won't be bitter, just realistic. like robert deniro at the end of the deer hunter: we've just decided not to shoot anymore...leave that to the Situation.

forget about how we got here. consider, instead, the future. we'll give up working out. shaving stuff. the purchase on credit of items of clothing for male plumage display. no more masking of our true, kind nature with pathetic look-at-me-i’m-a-cock stunts just to trick the girls into liking us.

we know nice guys don't necessarily finish last. but you and i, these two nice guys, won't even be in the race! our preference, bartleby, will be not to. ok, too precious. but whatever.

let the incarcerated murderers get the proposal letters from the ladies. let the dongs bang away and face paint in their debt-financed bmws and benzes. the footprint on your back the match for the one on mine?

me: single white male, college educated, burned to a crisp by a past relationship.

you: any race, one sex, all else negotiable.

NO WOMEN. NO COUPLES. well, i guess stud lesbians can apply. i think i can relate...they seem pretty useless around here too. NO GAY MEN. this is bromance. i know you promote a sexual spectrum, and while i believe "the worm of my passion” has some kinks, i'm not into dudes. sexually. i'm just not. really.

NO WOMEN. really. one or two of you might discern in my post a plaintive tone or a passive-aggressive beta male attempt to attract a smart girl with my tight prose, proper use of commas, and ability to distinguish "it's" from "its" and "you’re" from "your." don't do that. the more darwinian of you girls may even conjecture that such a male, if he can conjugate verbs competently, probably could be a good provider. don't do that either. again, this is bromance. perhaps we can meet informally on one of your "girls' night outs." compare notes: homance, bromance. but that's all.

good luck.


I'm disturbed. My father just asked me to procure some drugs for his trip to Portland in June. "But don't get caught," he warned. "I won't stick up for you."

It began with his question: you don't smoke pot, do you? DAD! I thought we'd been over this before. I have smoked pot, so has my mother and brother but never my dad. Poor dad. At a family party years ago my mother admitted dating some guy at the hospital she worked at - before meeting my dad of course. There was pot on their date or something like that. I was in my 20s, ran to find my brother at said family party to report this scandalous news. His reply was that this was; So? Hello? Of course he knew my mother had smoked marijuana. He'd found a joint so old it crumpled to dust in his palm, when he'd been about 12. At that time Nancy Reagan was telling us, Just Say No, so it must have been a little disturbing for my brother to know he was dealing with serious addicts. Like a nice Jewish boy, he questioned our mom.

The story was that Judy Levitch had attached it to the bow on a gift for some occasion. How much do I love this Judy Levitch? Mom, being mom, had forgotten about it because it was out-of-sight. All the way in a drawer. Would any normal person be so forgetful?

Anyway, I have a few friends with connections in Portland. So, okay dad. I'll see what I can do.

In other startling news...

With T. in from Seattle this weekend for L.'s bridal shower, we needed to stop by Trader Joe's. At the lovely shower (FYI, L: I already placed my lavender sachet in my underthings drawer!) at Equinox (on Mississippi) we ate scrumptious eggs and an amazing carrot cake with faux butterflies. Because T. and I thought we might cook dinner and stay in, keeping A. company, we needed to get, what else? More food. We needed salad and blackberries and wine and tart yogurt.


Since my daytime routine includes work, the gym, and Trader Joe's, it makes sense that there might be potential suitors in these spots. I have shared my theory with others that I often require repeated exposures, like toxic chemicals only different.

Anyway, long story short, T. and I a find ourselves at TJ's, still dressed up, near the free coffee, samples, and chewy oatmeal cookies. I tell T. about TJ's guy. Just a person, happens to be male, who is particularly friendly toward me, asked for my ID when buying alcohol (at 35, this is a shiny moment) and should we get married could get me discounts. I spy him him just as he disappears into the back room through the bendy swinging doors. When he returns, T. casually booms out, "Where? Where is he?"

This isn't a bar. I can't swig my shirley temple, make a fool of myself here and never return. I need to be able to come back - this TJ's is on my route! It's a part of my routine! Run, I think to myself, run away! Instead, I casually saunter, blush and visit the wine aisle, all in an effort to look casual which never works. Green Fin, Coastal Merlot, Whatever. When TJ's Guy hears our giggling, he smiles, catches my eye and turns crimson. Fast forward to the parking lot, where he is collecting the carts.

As we drive off, I wave, he waves; it is true love in the parking lot. And I'm still wondering about discounts.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Where in the World is Carlo Rossi?

I'll tell you where Carlo is. He's at Cookie-roke! Although Carlo is wine in a box, he is delicious! How can I begin to describe this party? It begins at 2 and goes until 9, however with this group I suspect it will last longer. A friend, S., has been gracious enough to invite me and K. The idea is that the girl hosting the party, G., is continuing a family tradition. For years her parents would arrive at her dorm room after driving halfway across the country with a karaoke machine. Because karaoke with your rents and your friends is not enough for a good time, garbage plates and (literally) 1,000s of cookies are baked. By the way, I instantly adore her parents. Who doesn't like a brushed out mullet on a dad?

FYI, a garbage plate begins with a slightly burnt hot dog, preferably sliced down the middle. It continues its journey with a topping of "hot sauce" which is really a chili spice concoction - when I looked in all I saw was a vat of orange oil. Once the hot dog is properly doused in the hot sauce, one applies fried potatoes and a condiment of choice, like yellow mustard or ketchup. Since cookies are the focal point here, there are bowls of ice with milk cartons instead of champagne.

Have I been remiss in mentioning the air guitar, two mics, and people singing in the corner with so much emotion that I felt like a boring tool? I wasn't really able to get into it until The Boss was played. With my Jersey roots, this made me happy and ultimately, his songs are just better than Avril Lavine or whatever her name is. As I looked around the room, there were lovely, warm people. And yet, it dawned on my (again) why I might be single. Most of the guests were in their 20s, women, lesbians, and as K. said, we both had more make up on together than everyone in the room. I think it's great to be a lesbian, to be a straight person. Be who you are. Yes! But, could you be who you are and brush your hair a little? A dab of lip gloss? A touch of mascara? Is it cool to look like a sloth? Or as my mom would say: a shlump?

This can only mean I am now old.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

The Illusion of Space

"She'd smoked less than half a joint, but that was more than enough. At first she was thinking that pot didn't really do anything, but a minute or two later she found herself reflecting on the idea of how exciting it is to be a person, to be a self, to have a self. To be a person in the middle of a life."

-"A Window Across the River" by Brian Morton

I just had to share this excerpt from a little known novel that I'm re-reading. It's about two people in NYC who dated five years ago, lost touch and re-connect via a random phone call one night. She calls him and right away he recognizes her silence on the line. This is not to say that I'm smoking pot (mom) or that I wouldn't try some if some were to be randomly left on my doorstep (N.), but just to say that life is interesting. It's also not a shout out to exes or past lives. Just a few sentences that touched me.

A sense of wonder.

Last weekend I moved furniture around in my living room. A. did not like it because one of her ten million spots no longer existed. A couch had been partially covering a beautiful, old window. She liked to sit on top of that cushion and gaze outside so much so that the cushion was permanently flattened. She has another gazing spot at the other front window, that is perfectly positioned, with a footstool just for her. Often she'll fall asleep with her chin on the window's ledge. But should a small child amble by or an old lady with a walker she'll bust out in a storm of barks. She has adjusted now, but have I?

Each time I step into the living room I feel light and this morning sun poured through all five windows. This feeling of space prompted me to clear "my piles" in my office. Anyone who has lived with me (or my father) knows about said piles. Long story short, piles have been weeded and mini-piles remain. I won't worry about it too much. There's an orange globe in the sky. A foreign object.

Living in Oregon I want to shout out: what is that thing?

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

At Least Sex Has an X in It

What's more exciting than two dates a week? Why peppermint hot chocolate, of course. Over brunch on Sunday with three male friends at Bumblekiss, over scrambles, neon, freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee with milk (why not half and half?), sourdough toast, new potatoes with rosemary, roasted garlic and sea salt, pancakes, chicken apple sausage, I heard the story of how my friend, K. met his beau, L. N., being the bon vivant that he is, was very sweet about this whole thing and provided much comic relief and his general silly self. L. and K. met at a Starbuck's. L. works behind the counter, K. came in regularly to order his very adult, very manly Peppermint Hot Chocolate. Thus, soon enough it was, "Peppermint Hot Chocolate just walked in the door!" This molted into Mister Peppermint Hot Chocolate.

Why add such a fascinating tale to my blog? Because:

1) Not dating now myself, so no date reports
2) I enjoy hearing how people meet & this story made me laugh
3) I get to hang out with my gay boyfriends and feel no need to explain it to any real or semi-boyfriend
4) I finally got an answer to a question I have had for years: Is the pumpkin spice latte really just seasonal or is there syrup stored up at undisclosed locations and could I possibly search this out and find a Starbuck's with some leftover?
5) I enjoy outing myself as a person who frequents Starbuck's. People in Portland can get over it.

On an entirely different note, I met with my friend, D. at Lucky Lab for drinks last week. Tidbit: the outside tables have heat lamps. He had invited a bunch of friends out. One couple told me the story of how they met. Apparently, T. did the on-line dating thing for a little while, decided it was not for her. She was a regular at a neighborhood bar and that is where she met her now boyfriend, who she owns real estate with. Said boyfriend was quick to let me know they had friends in common and also, "We did not have intercourse that first night." Frankly, I hate the word intercourse. At least sex has an X in it. I appreciated their story too. More importantly, how was that night different from all other nights?

That was the night I heard of taxoplasma! You must read this article at once and imagine, if you will, a rat all googly-eyed, swooning toward your feline friend. Taxoplasma? Just another reason I got a dog and not a cat.