You're welcome.

I really like ricotta cheese.

It's like a combination of butter, cottage cheese, ice cream, and sour cream. And yet, it's not that bad for you. Thank you, Mother Nature, for this miraculous dairy product.

the worst karaoke song EVAH.

Actually, on further thought, this might be the best karaoke song ever. Major points for the stupendous 1970s fuzzy video, superimposed singing action, ridiculously long hair, and soft focus all around. I love 70s film! How many times must I sing its praises? I heard this song on the radio this morning and instantly knew all the words. It's just one of those things, I guess. And I have brown eyes. It's like the song was written for me! And now this wondrous tune is stuck in my head for the next twenty-four hours. Thank you, Crystal Gayle. Like Debby Boone, you truly light up my life. Oh, god. No. No! THAT song is the most amazingly awkward karaoke ever. EVER. Now I have to show that...

Mincemeat pie, did you say?

I have always been fascinated by mincemeat pie. I like to eat weird things that are no longer fashionable or discussed in high society. Like, say, pickled eggs. Cracklins. McDonald's McGriddles. Mayonnaise. Soooo the other weekend I discovered six jars of this stuff at my Grammy's. Yes, Grammy is a hoarder. Good to know that's genetic. So I've always wanted to get on this mincemeat train. I like meat. I like fruit. I like things filled with preservatives. Stuff that will outlast nuclear fallout. These jars could have been a day old or six years old. The mystery was what made it so fun!

It was all I could do not to open the jar and scoop out a spoonful to taste-test it. Unfortunately, I knew Grammy would notice. I held back, and was richly rewarded this Thanksgiving with a mincemeat pie. Just for me. No one else would eat it. The verdict: it didn't blow my mind. To be honest, I kind of wanted it to be meatier. It was a little too potpourri-ish. Yup, it tasted like spices and old fruit and perfume. I wanted a more savory experience. But I'm not giving up on this. I know mincemeat pie can be amazing. I'm gonna bring it back, so help me Lawd. Now it's off to the kitchen to experiment.

This can only end badly.

Thank yewww, Discovery Channel.

I just made this glorious chunk of man meat my desktop background, thanks to new Mike Rowe Wallpaper on the Discovery Channel's website. Yes, that's right, I visit the Dirty Jobs' website. To look for pictures of Mike. Often. I also play the "Meet Mike" sweepstakes game weekly. I WILL WIN. I WILL MEET MIKE, so help me Lord. If anyone can meet Mike with just the right combination of awe, fanaticism, and suaveness--it's me. This is getting pathetic and slightly stalker-ish, so I'm going to minimize this window and gaze adoringly into Mike's thoughtful, intelligent blue eyes. And delicious furrowed brow. Love that brow. So Cro-Magnon.

I need to learn this dance move by next weekend.

An awkward interaction.

You know when you're watching a live broadcast of a TV talk show and you're just like, ummm, okay, this is awkward! Such is this interaction between Bill Maher and Puff Daddy on Real Time with Bill Maher. Never call out a black rapper for his belief in God. It ain't none of yo bidness.

Sweatin' like a fat girl writing her first love letter.

I wish I could claim that line as my own, but alas, it is from the glossy lips of Miz Paula Deen herself. Paula and I go way back, at least we do in my imagination. I found her memoir It Ain't All About the Cookin' to be inspiring and honest and a pleasurable read all around.

Unfortunately, I just can't get into Paula's Party, her talk show-inspired thang on the Food Network. It's slightly uncomfortable to watch her flirt with all the male guests, including RuPaul. It's slightly awkward to watch excruciatingly thin actresses pretend like they are going to eat the mayonaise-laden potato salad, and then desperately hope the camera cuts away so they can discreetly spit it into the trash. Give me Paula in a beautiful country kitchen any day, by herself, with only some dogs and butter for company. Maybe the Cap'n can stop by for dessert. But I did learn one very important fact, and that is the grand opening of the Paula Deen Buffet at the Harrah's Casino in Tunica, MS!!! Slap my mama, this is exciting. And they have Paula Deen Getaway Packages. For like $98 a night. Mississippi is cheap, y'all. Mississippi casinos are even cheaper.

I have a new love affair with that state. My previous experience consisted of Biloxi (gross beach town) and just driving through it to get to Disney World. Well, my friends, the interior is just plain pretty. Oxford, MS (home of Ole Miss) is my idealized version of a quaint, idyllic town. The gently rolling hillsides, fall color, and roadside stands with Vidalia onions and boiled peanuts fill my heart with joy. I sometimes toy with the idea of going to law school there, just so I can have the Ole Miss experience. They have chandeliers and high heels and catered food at their tailgate parties in The Grove! The men wear Yale blue blazers, Harvard red ties, and white oxfords. Sure, these are people I have nothing in common with, and they would probably look down their Southern blue-blooded noses at me, but that's not the point. I'm speaking in idealized terms. I want my name to be Sue Ellen and my slightly abusive boyfriend's name to be Chip.

Why every fellow should keep their fridge well-stocked.

All I really want...

Is to drive to Jellyroll Pug Farm tomorrow and pick up THIS. And name her Hattie Mae. And make her wear sunbonnets. And buy her a yellow polka dot pram. And gently force her to wear bee costumes occasionally. And feed her chicken patties every day. And then get her a Brussels Griffon friend and name him Professor Laughypants. And then they can frolic together on my farm in West Virginia. The farm also has a Jersey dairy cow, two goats, a hive of bees, honeysuckle, a winding road, and a pond. That's all I really want. Is that so much to ask?

(yesterday was) the best day ever.

Thrift Town, USA

It's interesting what you can learn about yourself while pawing through leftovers in a somewhat seedy thrift store in the Oak Cliff neighborhood of Dallas, TX. The chain of Thrift Town stores is my newest obsession. I randomly discovered one in Arlington while driving to the DFW Pug Rescue's annual Pug-O-Ween event (another story for another time.) Went in and promptly snatched up a Nancy Sinatra record and gold anchor earrings. Yesterday I delved into the Oak Cliff location to find a gorgeous 1960s Pyrex gold-rimmed pitcher, vintage stationery, a vintage Neiman Marcus cardigan, a spoon rest, and a Le Creuset casserole dish. I had struck gold yet again.

And yet, as I wept with a joy over a set of Depression-era glassware, I realized what I really wanted to do with my life. I want to thrift. Non-stop. Every day. I want to rise at 5 am, throw my coffee in a thermos, climb in some hybrid pick-up truck, and hit every garage sale in a 25-mile radius before breakfast. Nothing makes me happier than combing through junk and finding treasure. Now, my idea of treasure is different than most people's. I realize not everyone wants to collect colorized portraits of no-longer-with-us relatives--actually, I use the term "relatives" loosely, as I know none of these people.

And not everyone shrieks with joy at old paint-by-number wilderness scenes, or black velvet Elvis paintings, or hideously tacky floral loveseats. But I do. I love all this junky stuff some grandmother in 1964 refused to let go of. I want to honor her memory and buy every single thing in her house. I want my home to be a shrine to an idealized time, the Eisenhower era, a place of manicured lawns and lipsticked housewives and well-behaved children named Chip and green Jell-O casseroles and four TV stations. Unfortunately, I can't buy every single amazing Pyrex houseware I find. Not only for monetary reasons, but because I'm simply running out room to put all this stuff. So what can I do? I can open my own store. I'll fill it to the brim with stuff I adore, stuff with no rhyme or reason, pink poodle lamps next to Lucite handbags next to fox-trimmed hats. If I can't buy it all for me, at least I can rescue it from Thrift Town and restore its dignity. These objects are all worthy of a museum exhibit, but if I can't provide that, I will offer them a place in my store--as yet untitled.

Chatty Kathy, she ain't.

A goldmine of words.

For some obscure reason I ended up on the Tyra Banks show's website...embarrassing, I know. But then I quickly became intrigued by the comments left by Tyra fans. They are Uh-May-Zing! I could read them all day. It's really fun to read them out loud to your friends in a completely normal, monotone voice. Below is a sampling of what they had to say about T.I. the rapper. I agree, T.I. is attractive. Unfortunately, he will be in a jail cell for the next year, due to some very unfortunate circumstances...

note: trying to buy machine guns in Atlanta is never a good idea.

Comments (5) | Post a comment now »

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THAT MAN SEXXI HE 2 DAMN FINE 2 BE SITTIN IN A JAIL CELL LAWD LAWD!!!!!!!!

Posted by TANIA | 10/28/08 11:19 AM

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hey t.i,im luvin diz pic!!!!!!!!!!

Posted by Anonymous | 10/28/08 9:31 AM

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t.i i love you iam so so so soooooooooooooo sorry but i love that much you would never understand............maybe one day you would....:)u dig:)

Posted by kyria jerseygirl | 10/28/08 7:15 AM

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Do U, T.I...b different!! That's wut I'm talkin bout!!! OMG!! Start the trend...do the thang!

Posted by Shanda | 10/28/08 5:11 AM

This makes me weep.

My life's ambition is to one day make something like

THIS.

And then sell it to fellow maple bacon lovers and rejoice in the miracle that is sugary meat goodness.

Biff, you are my hero.

Biff Schmurr is a character from the 1980s young adult novel Is Kissing a Girl Who Smokes Like Licking an Ashtray? It was given to me by a dear friend who promised it would not disappoint. It did not. In fact, it exceeded my expectations. I went in expecting a generic, whitewashed take on teen love, teen awkwardness and teen cliches. Instead I got truly tender moments, excellent stream-of-consciousness writing, delightful inner monologues, and a fresh take on the age-old story of a young waif winning over a jaded 18-year-old man child. I identified with all the characters in the story: sassy Heidi, overbearing Willa, despondent Lynn, the lost dad--heck, even the grouchy old landlord. I might have even guffawed out loud a couple times--truly embarrassing, even when you are alone. This is how all teen novels should be. As a recently former teen, I should know.

I wish Maureen Dowd was my life mentor.

She's a feisty redhead who eloquently says what I mumbly jumbly think in my head. Here's her thoughts (just a smidge) on Sarah Palin:

A political jukebox, she drowned out Biden’s specifics, offering lifestyle as substance. “In the middle class of America, which is where Todd and I have been, you know, all our lives,” she said, making the middle class sound like it has its own ZIP code, superior to 90210 because “real” rules.

Sometimes, her sentences have a Yoda-like — “When 900 years old you reach, look as good you will not” — splendor. When she was asked by Couric if she’d ever negotiated with the Russians, the governor replied that when Putin “rears his head” he is headed for Alaska. Then she uttered yet another sentence that defies diagramming: “It is from Alaska that we send those out to make sure that an eye is being kept on this very powerful nation, Russia, because they are right there.”

Reared heads reared themselves again at the debate, when she said that Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac “were starting to really kind of rear the head of abuse.”

She dangles gerunds, mangles prepositions, randomly exiles nouns and verbs and also — “also” is her favorite vamping word — uses verbs better left as nouns, as in, “If Americans so bless us and privilege us with the opportunity of serving them,” or how she tried to “progress the agenda.”

Poppy Bush dropped personal pronouns and launched straight into verbs because he was minding his mother’s admonition against “the big I.” Palin, by contrast, uses a heck of a lot of language to praise herself as a fresh face with new ideas who has “joined this team that is a team of mavericks.” True mavericks don’t brand themselves.

One day Maureen and I will have lively lunch discussion al fresco. Then we'll braid each other's hair, drink chai milkshakes, and have a pillow fight in our Donna Karan cashmere pajamas!

Bacon grease-infused donuts.

I cooked Luther Burger sliders last night. It. Was. Amazing. And so easy. Dangerously easy. Like you could make one in thirty minutes if you had all the ingredients. Like so:

Tillamook cheddar cheese slices
Small lean beef patties
Krispy Kreme glazed donuts cut in half lengthwise
Bacon (I used turkey, which I know is so lame)

First, cook your beef. Then cook the bacon in the beef juice. THEN lightly grill the donut buns in the beef/bacon juice. Melt that cheese on top. Bite into the flaky, sticky, salty, sweet goodness that is an LB slider. Serve 'em up hot. My friends almost passed out. I had heart palpitations. I don't think I can ever make them again unless it's a special occasion. Like, say, a brist! But I was inspired to start a catering company. It shall be called Fingers. So obviously, all the food will be finger food. Small, compact, delicious, and not at all nutritious. Imagine LB finger sandwiches on little cellophane-wrapped toothpicks! So chic. The housewives would love it.

Quality Family Time.

It's pretty rare for a full nuclear family reunion (Mum, Dad, Big Brother, and Me) are all together. This cross-country reunion came about quite unexpectedly this week, thanks to my quarter-life crisis and my brother's pilot friend's Buddy Pass. After spending a good week of time eating out/errand-running/grandma-visiting, how did we choose to spend our last hours together? A picnic? Hot chocolate 'round the olde yule log? Singing show tunes while I pound away at the old grand piano?

Close. We went to a liquor store! Granted, there is a back story. And we had a gift card to spend that we won in a raffle. And we bought some classy stuff: almond tequila, Belgian beers, locally distilled vodka. But I couldn't help but think how fitting it was that we were wandering around like kids in a candy store at this gourmet food/wine/booze center on our last night together. I mean, we'd already had cocktail hour and watched Mad Men. It was fitting. I guess what I'm trying to say is, the family that drinks together, stays together!

the simple joys of suburbia.

It's embarrassing to admit, but I had never mowed a lawn until yesterday. Yes, I was rather sheltered as a child, but now I'm making up for lost time. And I was guilted into it by my parents. I must say, these new battery-operated lawnmowers are quite a delight. They are quiet, smooth, less greasy, and non-intimidating. Within two lanes of grass I was huffing and puffing like an old pro. I waved cheerfully at the neighbors, chomped on my cigar, and glugged away at my can of Schlitz.

Mowing a lawn carefully and slowly is really a Zen-like task. I fell into the zone of perfectly shredding circles in the lawn (my own take on crop circles, if you will) and found myself thinking about all sorts of deep thoughts. I thought about starting my own environmentally friendly landscaping business. I thought about taking some classes in xeroscaping. I thought about how I really should be wearing sunscreen at this time of day.

I was sad when the battery died and the lawn was not yet trimmed to perfection. One of the fallbacks to owning this Prius of lawnmowers. I went to charge it and then settled down into the iciness that is central air-conditioning. Another can of Schlitz soon followed.

word of the day: foppish.

The best glasses worn by a leading man in a mid-90s British romantic comedy can be found on Hugh Grant's perky nose in Four Weddings and a Funeral. I know that's a narrow cateogy, but these roundish black-rimmed glasses are just precious. They say, "I enjoy dusty old bookstores, Fair Isle sweaters, quiet walks at night, and intellectual conversation." I feel there is a certain amount of self-hatred in Hugh Grant's acting. If you look at his body at work, he is obviously typecast as the fumbling, adorable Brit who somehow wins over the ladies with his stammering, earnest appeals at affection. Hugh knows this and accepts this. After all, living in London ain't cheap, and one must have a house in the country for entertaining lady guests on the weekends. So he continues to allow himslf to be cast in frothy light comedies with other veterans of this genre: Sandra Bullock, Drew Barrymoore, Julia Roberts. But as I watch him utter these cheesy lines, I can see this smirking twinkle in the back of his eyes.

He's thinking, "God, what rubbish. I bet Meg hasn't brushed her teeth after lunch today. That'll be a splendid close-up: me grimacing at her horrid garlic breath. I wonder if I should buy that Aston or not? It's obscene, to be sure, but I very well deserve a treat of some sort after today's shooting. 'Whoopsidaisies?' What kind of bluthering idiot talks like this?"

And there you have it.

Voodoo Doughnuuuuutsssss.

God, I love doughnuts. I could eat them at every meal with a big glass of cold milk. I could spend a whole day sitting in a squad car at a stakeout with my partner Ronnie munching on a big fat glazed one. I will miss Portland's Voodoo Doughnuts more than I will miss my friends here. Is that so wrong? Just look at that centerfold of a Cap'n Crunch doughnut. And admire this sampling of their gluttonous goodies...

Grape Ape
(raised doughnut with vanilla frosting and grape powder)

Dirt
(raised doughnut covered with vanilla glaze and oreo cookies)

Arnold Palmer
(cake doughnut covered with lemon and tea powder)

Dirty Snowball
(chocolate cake doughnut covered with pink marshmallow glaze and surprise filling)

Apple Fritter
(apple/glaze/doughnut as big as your head)

The Memphis Mafia
(chocolate chips/banana/ peanut butter glaze)

Snot, boogers, nutria, and swamps.

You know those dorky people that half snort/half laugh while they're reading a book? I've always been really embarrassed for them...until I caught myself doing it the other day. But in my defense, I was in the privacy of my own room. I wasn't in a coffee shop delicately sipping my vanilla soy latte and generally being a tool. So the defense rests. BUT 'tis a rare thing indeed when a book makes me crack a smile, let alone utter a hearty guffaw.

Dark at the Roots by Sarah Thyre is amazing. A-MAY-zing. It's her memoir of growing up in the Louisiana bayou just outside of New Orleans. She holds nothing back: bodily fluids, abusive father, puberty, and sexual awakening are all juicy chapters in the book. And I'm jealous of how wittily and wonderfully she writes. Need I add she played the dykey coach in my favorite TV show Strangers with Candy? I want this woman to be my best friend. We could eat crawfish together and reminisce about the snotty days of youth. Here's a sampling of her pure poetry:

I still wasn't entirely clear about exactly how many holes were between my legs, but I got the feeling one of them was up to no good.
A few days later, while digging through the plastic bag Mom used as a purse, I came across a scrap of paper with a date and a curious-sounding name scribbled on it.
"Sooooo, who's this Pap Smear?" I asked Mom, sure I was catching her having an affair. Pap would be an older man: bearded, courtly, possibly a jazz musician, definitely with a swimming pool.
"That's not a who," Mom said, "that's when they take a spatula and scrape out your vagina to see if you have cancer."
"Ucchhh!" I said, disappointed that I wouldn't be swimming at Pap's mansion and entertaining friends in his gazebo.

Words fail me.

I tried to watch Sarah Palin's speech at the Republican National Convention last night. It made my stomach hurt. I'm not as eloquent as Gloria Steinem, so I'll let her op-ed in the LA Times speak for me. It expresses perfectly how I feel about the whole shebang.

Damn straight, Gloria.

Rip Torn is a dirty old man.

I've loved Rip ever since I watched "The Larry Sanders Show." His booming voice, shit-eating slanted grin, maniacal eyes, and smile wrinkles really get to me. He's like the crazy alcoholic uncle I wish would come to my family reunions to liven things up. And he was born in Temple, Texas and went to UT; we're practically related! I was curious to see what a young Rip Torn was like, so I rented the 1973 film Payday. He plays a boozing, pill-popping, amoral country-western singer. I have to wonder if it was a stretch.

Apparently country singers on the road in the 60s and 70s popped a lot of pills. Uppers, downers, bennies, and ludes...it was all for the takin'! Good times until you black out on the road going 90 mph in your Caddy. Anyways. The film was shot beautifully in that classic, dirty 1970s way I love so well. The eyeglasses men wore back then can never be replicated. Nor can their greasy, slicked-back hair and polyester double-knit pants. They all had that creepy substitute teacher look that I just love!

Soul-crushing disappointment.

Sometimes in life, the universe is against you. Whether you missed the winning kickball shot, received your third DUI in a month, or spilled hot maple syrup all over your fleecy white robe...well, Life just isn't working out for you. I had this experience during Labor Day weekend in Atlanta. The weather was bearable; just a touch of sweltering heat and enough humidity to keep me ever-perspiring. I had a lovely host. I ate at Ria's Bluebird cafe, which the N.Y. Times proclaimed had the best pancakes in the U.S.

But then a dark storm of foreboding passed over. The weekend was almost up, and I still had not gotten my Luther Burger. Now, I had come to Atlanta a year ago for this very reason. Surely I would not fall from grace again. Understandably, my friend was not enthused about this quest for excellence, as she is a vegetarian. But on our last full day in Atlanta, she granted permission for us to seek forth the Gravity Pub in East Atlanta and for me to receive that most holy of communion: a bacon cheeseburger delicately perched upon a grilled, oozing, greasy Krispy Kreme bun. We drive. We walk. We see a sign: "The Gravity Pub is closed for Labor Day weekend. We will re-open on September 2nd."

Defeat. Thoughts of suicide flit through my head. I question the universe and my role in it. Why dost thou not wish me to receive such bounty, O Lord? No matter. Like the phoenix, I will rise again from the ashes. And the ashes will taste like bacon. As soon as I get back to civilization (meaning Texas, of course) I will seek forth the nearest Krispy Kreme and I shall make my own goddamn Luther Burger. And it will be the sweetest nectar of the gods. And I shall find peace within my soul once more.

Hotlanta is my Mecca.

I am going to the ATL for Labor Day Weekend. I am beyond excited. This marks my second visit to the city of peaches, soul food, Margaret Mitchell, and T.I. My mother and I did a Georgia Ladies Only trip last August and it was fantastic. Hot as a pig wallerin' in the mud. But fantastic. And of course, I must return in late August again. A mistake, but a wonderful mistake at that. This time I'll be going (well, let's be honest, I invited myself) with a friend who is an Atlanta native. I predict this weekend will not be as innocent as Mother and I's.

I want rockabilly, I want Dirty South, I want pimped-out Cadillac Eldorados with spinning rims. But most importantly, I want food. And not just any food. Last year I went with the intention of getting a Luther Burger. This intention was not met. A Luther Burger (named after Luther Vandross, who died of a heart attack) is a bacon cheeseburger with a KRISPY KREME BUN. This is not repulsive, as some people may argue. This is a God-given work of art. It is pure poetry. If the burger could talk, it would softly whisper, "Doest thou love me, dearest? Then pluck me from this scalding griddle and allow to embrace your northernmost orifice of desire." Actually, that is kind of creepy talk for a burger. No matter. I will meet this burger, we will fall in love, and I will quite possibly never return to the land of chard and fresh fruits and soy milk again.

Workin' in a coal mine/goin' down down down...

There is something to be said about a physically demanding, laborious day. Especially when you are working and getting paid for it. For the first time in my sheltered, bookworm life, I worked at a farmer's market. Maybe that doesn't sound too physically demanding. But let me take you through my past twelve hours.

4 am: Woke up. Had gone to sleep at midnight, so am operating at a low level.
5:15 am: Was picked up by crunchy granola girl who was also heading to farmer's market.
5:30 am: Arrive at Beaverton Farmer's Market. It is dark, cold, and slightly scary.
5:35 am: Immediately climb into huge truck to begin unloading a shitload of heavy Tupperware tubs full of produce, tarps, tents, baskets, tables, table tops, and other heavy awkward things.
6:00 am: Produce tubs are covered with water, which is repeatedly spilled on shoes and personage.
It takes altogether 2.75 hours to set up the Sugar Hill Farm tent, which is 3x larger than any other stand there. It is held together in a variety of idiosyncratic and possibly unsafe ways.
8:30 am: Market opens. Bell rings. Fear strikes into my heart. I am beyond exhausted, want to sit down, have to pee, and am covered with dirt. And the day hasn't even started.
9:05 am: Apparently the coffee and pastry tent next to us deals in trade! Once I am handed a (free) hot coffee and flaky peachy croissant, I revive.
9:15 am: Then I am shoved in front of the cash register with 3 seconds of training that consisted of "Use this calculator. Here is the scale. Memorize all 35 varieties of produce prices."
10:00 am: Begin to enjoy smiling cheesily at senior citizens and weighing their red bell peppers. Feel like I am bonding with my fellow humanity and doing good in the world.
11:20 am: Want to sit down. Want to sit down. Feet throbbing. Back throbbing. Flashbacks of tenth grade choir class and why I quit. Because I hate standing more than five minutes. Start to drool as people walk by cramming kettle corn and strawberry shortbread into their mouths.
12:05 pm: Thirty minute break. Don't know what to do with myself. Buy a bratwurst, then regret it, as the sun is barreling down and burning through my retinas. Hot, spicy meat. Mustard most likely smeared on face. Could possibly look like immigrant worker right now, as am sitting in grass and bleary-eyed and smelling of carrots and dirt.
1:14 pm: This shit needs to end. I want gelato. Why is no one in that stand watching me watch them and giving me free Nutella gelato?!
1:39 pm: Last-minute buyers. No, we're all out of heirloom tomatoes you stupid sun-baked bourgeoisie!
1:43 pm: Begin packing up. As arduous as unpacking, but with freedom in sight.
2:00 pm: Euphoria sets in as am given free rein to take home as much produce as my fat little hands can carry. I will be eating roasted beets and fresh basil for the next two months.
3:15 pm: Am paid cold, hard cash. Get in crunchy granola girl's car. Pass out.

So I feel like a farmer. I feel proud of myself. I earned every cent of that $10/hr. I have dirt under my nails. My body aches. My fridge is stuffed with rainbow chard. I don't even like chard. So there is something to be said for good, honest, hard labor. For a self-described Indoor person, I think I did okay. There should be a national Do Hard Manual Labor Day in America. It would solve a lot of aggression problems.

His business is pleasure!

First off, that is a great tagline. Secondly, someone needs to make a musical of American Gigolo. And for some reason, I see Mark Wahlberg as the lead this time around. Maybe Mark is a little old. Maybe James Franco. Or Patrick Wilson? Or Mario Lopez? (That would be a little too campy. But you know he would have no problem with the nude scenes.) It has the potential to be amazing.

Him Her Him Again The End of Him

Him Her Him Again The End of Him by Patricia Marx is aMAYzing. I only checked it out from the library because it had a houndstooth bind and I love me a good houndstooth bind! But yes, I would now like Patricia to be my new godmother/Life Mentor/book club friend/Sunday Brunch partner. She's funny and smart and apparently was the first woman elected to the Harvard Lampoon. And she's friends with Steve Martin. At least he recommended her book on the front cover. But I could see them being friends. So for anyone who has ever quit Cambridge grad school and didn't finish their thesis and mooned over a married blowhard nimcompoop for ten years and is secretly flattered when the author talks to the reader...this book is for you.

"I love to watch you dance, Tony."

I'd really like someone to explain the "Disco Sucks" movement in the late 70s. What happened? Why did people become so jaded, so cynical, so eager to kill something so fun and flashy and polyester? It makes me sad. There are many time periods I wished I lived in instead of the one now, but New York (really like Staten Island or Brooklyn to be precise) in the mid 70s would be great. Just a good two years of disco at its heyday is all I need. I can live without the drugs or the sleaziness (well, a little is okay) but I need the feathered hair and the stacked shoes and the off-the-shoulder gauzy gowns. I think the hustle is just amazing. One day I'm going to learn it. Either through YouTube or forcing my mom to recall her glory disco days in Lubbock, Texas.

You know how everyone who was a dork in high school secretly wants to have that scene in a movie where the stage floor empties out (or you're performing in a Neil Simon play or singing an operetta or kicking the winning goal) and you just knock their socks off? My secret fantasy is to perform John Travolta's solo dance in Saturday Night Fever. I'd probably want to wear the same white suit, too. And lots of gold chains. But no hairy chest. Now, I'm not sure if I'd want to perform it at a high school reunion, because I'd like to have people besides my fellow Class of 2003'ers there. I mean, if I'm gonna dance to impress, let's do everyone I've ever met. And I want it to be totally casual and off-the-cuff. Like, oh, there's a light-up floor? Everyone is in a circle? My favorite Bee Gees song just came on? Looks like it's time for me to do a little shoe shufflin'. And then BAM! I blow everyone's minds with my amazing moves. I'll even do the splits. And then at the end I'll just casually dance off and everyone will be rendered speechless. And then cheer and clap and scream my name and carry me on their shoulders and I'll have tears of happiness streaming down my face and then FREEZE FRAME. The End.

the bottomless pit of hell.

There is no worse feeling than waking up with a vodka soda-induced hangover at 8 am to the sound of garbage trucks, to the realization you slept in your clothes, to the fan blowing hot air on you, to smeared makeup all over your pillowcase, to a table full of dirty dishes from food you don't remember eating (yogurt with honey and jam and Chex Mix?), to cursing the fact that your city is currently in the midst of a heat wave and you have no AC and live on the top floor. And it's only 8 am. And it's just going to get hotter. And you're just going to feel worse. And there is no escape.

fat actress.

You know, if I'd been on a hit 80s sitcom, starred in a semi-successful 90s sitcom, had a couple failed marriages, two assistants, was once considered a sex symbol, and lived in a ginormous Los Angeles mansion...I could see myself being like Kirstie Alley. Lying in bed and eating Little Debbie snacks. Owning lots of dogs. Willing to try a parasite in my stomach over a diet. Ballooning up to two hundred pounds. Wearing lingerie as an all-day outfit. Hiding food in nooks and crannies throughout my house. Watching this Showtime series makes me uncomfortable, because I relate to Kirstie Alley a little too well.

books, books, books!

I love going to the library. I love smelling books. I love book cover design. Here is what I recently checked out:

Anchored in Love: an intimate portrait of June Carter Cash by John Carter Cash (It can get a little too Jesus-y, but she was a remarkable woman. Now I'm ready for my Appalachian road trip.)

Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell (looooved this book. Like going back to my AP U.S. History class with the fantastic Mr. Thomas, except now I am not an impatient, bratty high schooler and am actually eager to learn.)

Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by in America by Barbara Ehrenreich. (Really difficult to read when you are currently unemployed in the Bush economy.)

The Girls of Huntington House by Blossom Elfman. (No idea what this is about, but I hope it's about boarding schools. I love boarding school memoirs, especially New England ones with ivy-wrapped brick buildings and poet societies.)

The Yiddish Policemen's Union by Michael Chabon. (Love the Chabon. Wonder Boys was amazing. I'm sure this will be, too.)

Run with the Hunted: A Charles Bukowski Reader, edited by John Martin. (I like Bukowski's simple and direct and oftentimes raw language.)

Dermot Mulroney in long johns.

There are many reasons to watch the 2004 film Undertow, but Dermot Mulroney in slightly dirty long johns is the main reason. He is a hottie with a body. He also has a Southern accent in this. Two points! Other reasons? It is directed by David Gordon Green, a director I am simultaneously fascinated/annoyed by. I liked All the Real Girls but not George Washington. I like that his films are about the South, but I bet you he lives in Brooklyn. He's the guy that likes to talk about the South in his brownstone apartment and then goes to his local used bookstore and buys first editions of John Fante. Maybe this was his version of Deliverance meets Stand by Me. I'm allowed to stereotype because I know nothing about him.

But I liked this film. It reminded me of The King. You have no idea where it's going, and there's three really attractive, dirty, soiled men in it. (Even though one of them gets killed early on.) Josh Lucas...daaaamn. He looks good in cowboy boots. Jamie Bell, even though you are British, you have an acceptable Southern accent. And look good in tighty-whities. All of this is completely irrelevant.

I want to be a casting director.

I watched a documentary on Charles Bukowski last night. It made me never want to drink again. I wonder what his liver looked like at the end. Probably like a charbroiled steak with A-1 steak sauce. The point is, at some point someone will try to make a movie about his life (Barfly not included. Mickey Rourke sucks.) And I thought it could be really amazing if they did it like Todd Haynes did Bob Dylan in I'm Not There. Yeah, that movie confused the shit out of me and I had no idea what was going on and Richard Gere sucked nuts, but I thoroughly enjoyed Cate Blanchett and Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams in it.

So far the people I think should play Bukowski are Willem Dafoe, Tom Waits, Crispin Glover, and for some reason...Gabriel Byrne. And maybe Kathy Bates. Just throwing that out there. So Mr. Haynes, let me know when you're ready to start pre-production.

lookin' for love in all the wrong places.

One should not watch Urban Cowboy when one is homesick for Texas. Sounds silly, but it's true. I loved how this film looked. It's that late 70s feel--people's skin, their sweat, the sky, the dirty trucks--it all looks so fantastic.

I go back and forth about John Travolta. Today, I think he's a joke what with his Scientology and private jet and bloated-ness. But he is in Saturday Night Fever and Grease...two movies I hold very dear to my heart. I actually thought he looked a lot like Thoreau in the beginning when he was rocking that fabulous thick dark beard. It was a good look for him.

Of course, I think Debra Winger can do wrong. I love her voice: it's kind of hoarse, like she's been crying/laughing all night. And I love that Robert Evans wanted Michelle Pfeiffer to play Sissy instead of her; he didn't think Debra was attractive enough. Robert Evans was such a slimeball--although he did produce a lot of my favorite movies. Him and his hairy chest and gold chains. Only Debra can pull off no bra and high-waisted jeans and cowboy boots and mechanical bull-riding. And don't get me started on Terms of Endearment!

Of course the soundtrack is amazing. I can't stop humming those Charlie Daniels' tunes. I feel like such a bad Texan. I need to go back home and learn the two step and go to the new Gilley's in Dallas (the original one in Pasadena burned down) and just get my Lone Star drank on. Sigh. I'll never be able to leave that damn state. It has a hold on me. And you don't realize how much you'll miss it until you leave.

peeing in the woods.

I have lived in Portland for only two months, and yet I have peed in the woods three times here. How is that possible? I have peed outside more in this city than at any other time in my life. Does this mean my bladder is shrinking? Am I in a higher-density of wilderness more often? Do I secretly enjoy getting in touch with nature? Perhaps all of the above are true. But it's not exactly pleasant, and I've only had toilet paper with me once. Let's go over the three situations that have caused me to pop a squat in the clover.

1. Driving to the Oregon coast in a Zipcar MiniCoop convertible. It was one of the most beautiful drives I've ever done, also enhanced by the fact that I was in a convertible (for the first time!) and blasting R. Kelly loudly, and without mercy. There are little to few gas stations on this somewhat treacherous climb through the forest, and when I came to a "scenic overlook", I put it in park and scampered away to a heavily wooded area. Almost fell into the ravine, but a successful attempt nonetheless. Also helped that I was wearing a dress.

2. Hiking in Multnomah Falls. This was a given. I knew it would be a two-hour hike, knew I would be hydrating frequently from my Nalgene bottle, and knew looking at waterfalls in the gorge would only enhance my need to pee. People did seem to pop up on the hiking trail without warning, so this was a little scarier, but I got through it with nary a poison oak rash!

3. Washington Park in kinda sorta downtown Portland. It's an oasis of woods that houses the Rose Garden, the Japanese Garden, and a Holocaust Museum of sorts. This was a low point for me, as it was not in the wilderness, and I had drunk half a bottle of white wine with a friend in a clearing. As we somewhat clumsily made our way back to the city, I had a panic attack to pee that only alcoholic beverages can bring on. I clambered up a steep hill and tried to hide between a big fir tree. At any moment a homeless man (most likely) or happy couple (also likely) could have seen me. But apparently, this was a good hiding area, as I spotted several condom wrappers and blankets as I peed. Well done, me!

I hope to not urinate in the woods for the next six months. Seeing how fall is coming, I predict lowering one's pants in the woods in a chilly climate will be that much more unpleasant. And breezy!

51 Birch Street

What I wouldn't give right now to go to a bar mitzvah in upstate New York. I'd get really tipsy and dance with 13-year-old boys and eat lots of sheet cake. I love that area of the U.S.--well, in the summer at least. I picked cherries there when I was fifteen. It's so classically American country; I picture boys on horse-drawn sleds gliding through the snow and Christmas carolers and summer carnivals with caramel apples.

So I've always felt that I am an inner Jew. Meaning, though I have a Protestant Scottish/German background, I relate more to Judaism. I love the culture, the deli foods, the acceptance, the attitude, the challah bread...I just want to meet a nice Jewish doctor, is that too much to ask? I'll gladly convert. I went to a Saturday Shabbat service by myself last weekend and it was lovely.

Where am I going with this? Well, I watched the documentary 51 Birch Street. A guy's mother dies and he tapes his family's reaction and going through their mother's stuff and finding thirty years of her diaries. It made me sad. We never really know our parents as people. And there's probably some stuff we would rather not know. But I think I would read my mother's diaries if I found them after she passed. I'd want to know her thoughts. I don't like this hypothetical situation, but there it is. What hurt the most watching this was when the son asked his dad if he missed Mom. And Dad said, "Not really." Not really? Fifty years of marriage? Oh yeah, Dad got married to his former secretary three months after the mom's death. I understand it was not a happy marriage, but spending that much time with someone has to count for something, doesn't it? And his poor mother...extremely bright and articulate and passionate and frustrated with her suburban housewife existence.

As much as I love the 1950s, I'm thankful that that repressive period for women and marriage is over. As much as divorce sucks, at least they are socially acceptable now and people get them if necessary. Now if we could just stop teenagers from having babies and people getting married too young...

I wonder if anyone will ever read my journals when I die. It's horribly embarrassing for me myself to read them. Some of the stuff I've written is so eye-rollingly corny and self-pitying. And don't get me started on my ninth grade poetry! I'd obviously read too much Sylvia Plath. Anyways. Shabbat Shalom.

stand by your man.

I frickin' love Tammy Wynette.

It's poetry in motion.

It Happens Like This
by James Tate

I was outside St. Cecelia's Rectory
smoking a cigarette when a goat appeared beside me.
It was mostly black and white, with a little reddish
brown here and there. When I started to walk away,
it followed. I was amused and delighted, but wondered
what the laws were on this kind of thing. There's
a leash law for dogs, but what about goats? People
smiled at me and admired the goat. "It's not my goat,"
I explained. "It's the town's goat. I'm just taking
my turn caring for it." "I didn't know we had a goat,"
one of them said. "I wonder when my turn is." "Soon,"
I said. "Be patient. Your time is coming." The goat
stayed by my side. It stopped when I stopped. It looked
up at me and I stared into its eyes. I felt he knew
everything essential about me. We walked on. A police-
man on his beat looked us over. "That's a mighty
fine goat you got there," he said, stopping to admire.
"It's the town's goat," I said. "His family goes back
three-hundred years with us," I said, "from the beginning."
The officer leaned forward to touch him, then stopped
and looked up at me. "Mind if I pat him?" he asked.
"Touching this goat will change your life," I said.
"It's your decision." He thought real hard for a minute,
and then stood up and said, "What's his name?" "He's
called the Prince of Peace," I said. "God! This town
is like a fairy tale. Everywhere you turn there's mystery
and wonder. And I'm just a child playing cops and robbers
forever. Please forgive me if I cry." "We forgive you,
Officer," I said. "And we understand why you, more than
anybody, should never touch the Prince." The goat and
I walked on. It was getting dark and we were beginning
to wonder where we would spend the night.

From Lost River by James Tate, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. Copyright © 2003 by James Tate.

When I was in ninth grade I got really into poetry. I wrote something like five poems a day, bought Sylvia Plath anthologies, and was generally a dark and gloomy adolescent. Then I guess I joined theater and started goofing around with fellow thespians and making inappropriate jokes and didn't have time for poetry anymore. The point is, I miss my poetry days. But I'm trying to bring them back. A friend of mine introduced me to James Tate and I think he's just fanatstic. His writing is so surreal and sad and funny and winsome and makes me feel all introspective and melancholy and alone when I read them. Good rainy day/by yourself/time to stare out the window and ponder kind of reading. I couldn't pick a favorite, but I like this one a lot. Is there a better feeling than walking out of the public library with your arm full of smelly old books and knowing that you get to read them all?

No seriously, I want to marry Mike Rowe.

How often do you turn on the Discovery Channel and see the man you're going to marry? Not that often, my friends. Not that often. And I'm not talking about The Deadliest Catch. Sure there's an age difference. Sure he hosts a show on the Discovery Channel and lives in San Francisco. Sure he probably has a Swedish neurosurgeon girlfriend. Sure the odds we will ever meet are slim to none.

Sometimes you just know. And when I'm eating Kashi 'Good Friends' cereal in the morning and watching Mike get seasick on a shrimp boat in the Louisiana bayou, I know he's the one for me. I love his deep, deadpan voice. His barrel chest. His craggy handsomeness. Those forehead wrinkles! His humor. The fact that he looks like he could fix anything in my house. So what if he can't fix my dripping kitchen sink. He looks like he can. Good enough for me!

"Oh my God, that's my daughter."

I really love 1970s films. They have a look, feel, color, taste, and sound all specific to that decade. Take for example the film Hardcore starring George C. Scott. First of all, the title sequence is absolutely amazing. An old country song plays while idyllic scenes from Christmas in Grand Rapids, MI roll by--the perfect set-up for a film about the underground pornography industry. As much as I love my 1940s and 50s musicals, I get a special kind of inspiration when I watch films from the 70s. I think it was the most innovative decade in film for sure. And I don't understand why films can't still have that gritty, brownish, tangible look to them still. It's absolutely fabulous. It makes me want to go to England and train to be a colorist (at least I think that's what they're called) in the entertainment industry.

And the music! Lord, it's just perfect when George the Calvinist is driving around the seedy parts of LA looking for his lost daughter. It just seems like such a dirty time in our country. Drugs, sex, tight pants, thick ties, more drugs, greasy hair...delightful!

I need an investor, quick!

Okay, so I have this amazing idea for a restaurant. Two actually. The first one is called Picnic. And basically, it's all about the picnic experience. It will feature:

1. classic picnic foods: broccoli salad, carrot salad, corn on the cob, hot dogs, ants on a log, iced tea in a thermos, sugar cookies, pasta salad...
2. the floor will be Astro Turf.
3. Similar to a tatami room in a Japanese restaurant, we will have the Blanket Room. Yes, you will sit on a freakin' blanket on the floor.
4. Separating the tatami rooms will be a wall that is...AN ANT FARM.
5. The tables will be picnic tables, covered with the classic red and white gingham tablecloth.

The sister restaurant will be called Sides. And the food is all sides, no entrees. You can order a one-sider, a two-sider, up to a six-sider! Think of the possibilities...baked potato, mac'n'cheese, mashed potato, sweet potato fries, collard greens, biscuits, cornbread, stuffing, corn casserole...
The decor will be Southern charm, with a bit of Dirty South. Pine floors, white cotton curtains, ceiling fans, rocking chairs, perhaps a front porch to sit on.

My friends also helped to brainstorm on this and I thought, aren't restaurants started by a bunch of friends with one rich friend? Where is our rich friend? We need an investor. I think I've found my true calling...now I needs to make it happen!

I went to a nude beach today.

Well, technically it was a "clothing optional" beach. It was my first time getting out of the city in a month, and I was just happy to be in lush, green nature--even if that nature involved aged genitalia. My friends and I didn't know what to expect. We figured we'd see the token, chubby, lone naked guy sitting quietly on a towel, reading "1001 Kama Sutra positions" or something of the sort. Oh no. It was a nonstop naked parade. Men, women, couples, swinging couples, mothers, lesbian lovers. I mean, I felt out of place having clothes on.

It did ruin my appetite seeing all that wrinkled flesh waggling around. Getting old plus gravity just doesn't look good on anyone. Who knew your butt could sag that much? I must admit, I admire the sheer courage and, for lack of a better word, balls to walk around blatantly naked. As long as you're not creepy and taking pictures, but just "Being one with your body"--then more power to you. Although it'd be nice if the naked people were like thirty years younger and thirty times more attractive...well, one can dream, can't they?

why I love R. Kelly

No matter what kind of mood I'm in (shitty, stinky, happy, introspective, melancholy, remorseful, overjoyed) R. Kelly satisfies it. When I'm running up a hill and I can't breathe and sweat is dripping into my eyes, R. Kelly keeps me going. When it's late at night and I can't sleep and I'm eating a bowl of Kix, R. sings me to sleep. I find his voice truly beautiful. It soothes my troubled spirit. And every song tells a story. I'll be honest, I don't really listen to lyrics most of the time. If there's a unique voice and a good drum beat and maybe some synth up in there, I'm happy. If you told me the Clientele has been singing about Chinese food and Seinfeld reruns for ten years, I'd probably believe you. But R. Kelly's lyrics are so amazing that I can't help but listen to them. They all weave a magical yarn. For example, look at these lyrics from "Havin' a Baby":

"Wow, I can't believe I'm going to be a father
In nine months a child will be born
Baby you're pregnant in April
Which means we're having a Capricorn"

"Havin' a Baby" is from his latest album, "Double Up." There is not a bad song on this album. Whether you be rollin' up to the club or chillin' with your friends or preparing for fatherhood, you are set. I also highly recommend watching the "Light it Up" tour, available to watch instantly on Netflix. Now, I know that Robert (his close friends call him Robin) has some personal sexual issues, but that's another story. Doesn't make me love him less, I just don't think about it. I do the same thing with Bill Clinton.

the glory of grownup-ness.

Sometimes I fear getting old. I worry about not being able to run without fearing my knee will pop out, not having regular bowel movements, not tasting my food anymore without dumping a mountain of salt on it... But then I watch the show Weeds and I feel okay. They make getting old look fun. Especially if you're dealing drugs! I'm torn between which one is my favorite character. I love the sleazy sassiness of Uncle Andy. I adore Celia and her ball-busting ways and her terrible relationship with her daughter. But Doug also floats my boat as the lazy yet conniving City Councilman. It looks like so much fun to live in a manufactured home in the California suburbs and drink wine spritzers and sleep with the pool boy and take prescription pills like candy. So there's hope out there.

eloquent, simple, honest words.

“Fuck Soulja Boy! Eat a dick! This nigga single-handedly killed Hip Hop. That shit is such garbage, man. We came all the way from Rakim, we came all the way from Das EFX, we came all the way from motherfuckers flowing like Big Daddy Kane and Ice Cube, and you come with that Superman shit? That shit is garbage. Hurricane (Chris) take them fucking beads out of your hair nigga! Man up. You niggas is making me feel real fucking mad about this shit.”

- Ice T on the sad state of rap music

no seriously, why do the crazies love me?

Is it my red hair? The fact that I look younger than I really am? My trusting, naive, unsuspecting face? The fact that I was raised a good Texan and automatically smile at people when I make eye contact, whether I want to or not?

Yesterday was a picture-perfect summer day. Sunny, breezy, not a cloud in the sky. I was downtown in the Pearl and decided to find a park, spread out, and read my Jacqueline Susann novel. Everything was going swimmingly. I even approached a lady with two pugs and we had a nice chat about their shedding habits. While engrossed in my trashy novel, I felt a man's presence looming above me. I look up--shit! Eye contact. I quickly look back down and pray he goes away. But no. He says loudly, "Hey, red. Red! Rosie!"

Ignore. Ignore. Nope, doesn't work. He keeps on. Rather than get involved in an awkward conversation that would end with him asking for change, I decided to grab my stuff and walk away. Quiet park moment of reverie is officially over. I make eye contact with two other young women also reading by themselves. They give me a "that sucks the crazy guy is picking on you" smile. Why me? Why didn't he go for the skinny one eating crackers ten feet over? Who knows how the crazy's mind works?

So I start walking down the street, when to my horror I realize he's following me. This event just went from annoying to creepy to wow, I'm really creeped out. He follows me for about two blocks, keeping his distance, but yelling "Rosie!" all the same. Finally he says, "I'll stop following you, ma'am, if you're not who I think you are."

Without turning around I yell, "Nope! Not her!" And he says, "Okie dokie" and walks away. And that was that. Ughhhhh. Funny story to tell friends. Not funny at the moment. The homeless/crazies here are so much more forward than back home. It's one of my least favorite Portland trends here. Is it wrong that I want to taser them? Being a single young lady can really suck donkey balls sometimes.

an intriguing proposition.

This blog (god, I really hate the word blog)is slowly turning into my thoughts on Portland and its seedy subculture and its homeless. Which is fine. I have horrible long-term memory anyway, so this will help when I look back twenty years from now with waves of nostalgia. And most stories will begin with this line:

So I was waiting for the bus...
When a guy walked up to me, opened his wallet, looked at me and asked, "Are you under 18?"
I looked straight ahead and answered loudly, "Yup."
He shrugged and walked away. What does this mean? I'm genuinely curious. And I kind of wish I had said no just to see what his proposition was. Now I'll never know. Perhaps we'll meet again, on a foggy day, on bus #9, looking for love in all the wrong places...

get out of my personal space, please.

I don't know if you would call it OCD, but I have problems with people getting close to me. And touching most things grosses me out. So when I have to ride the city bus (and living in Portland without car, I do every day) I get really uncomfortable every time. Today there was a drooling toddler sitting in front of me. She felt the need to suck on a Ruffles BBQ-flavored chip, and then run the drool-y chip juice all over her seat and then reach out to me. I almost blacked out from the sheer terror. She babbled happily away, not understanding that I was not appreciative of her gookiness and high-pitched shrieks. Then the bus got full and I had like six slightly homeless-looking people all around me and I thought, it doesn't get any worse than this. Until I reached my stop and had to fight my way through the mob to get out.

I just can't deal with people in my personal space zone. I also hold my breath when people walk by because I'm afraid of what I'll smell. Also touching any kind of railing grosses me out. This doesn't mean I'm OCD, right? Just means I'm an uptight American. Excuse me, I have to wash my hands multiple times now.

seedy underbelly.

Austin and Portland have a lot in common. Cities on a river, nature-happy, hipsters in plaid, local businesses and brew pubs abound. But having been here over a week, I will draw the conclusion that there is a seedy underbelly in the Northwest unlike any other. Is it the weather that draws out this dirty, shameful side? Maybe because it's always cold and rainy and muddy you want to stay inside, go to a porn movie theater, and litter the floor with popcorn and shame. Maybe it's just too sunny and hot in Austin for this behavior. We swim, we drive everywhere, we BBQ, we sweat out all the toxins. I worry what effect this weather will have on my behavior. I don't want to turn into a porny shuffling along the streets begging for change. I also don't want to be a patchouli-slathering, hippie goddess who only uses muslin rags instead of tampons. I need to find my happy medium. Oh god, I see a patch of sunlight. Must soak up essential UV rays before they disappear in five minutes.

Craigslist, you have let me down.

Soooo. I'm never buying anything on Craigslist again. Furniture maybe. But used cars? Bikes? No no no no. Perhaps this is obvious to some people. Unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way. Call me naive, but I had no idea people were shady assholes trying to rip you off. They are! Last month I had a really bad experience trying to buy a 1999 Honda Civic. I paid a mechanic $130 to check it out, and he informed me that the car was a piece of poop and to immediately take it back to the owner. Thank god I hadn't paid for it yet. There goes $130, but at least I didn't buy a lemon.

Then I move to Portland. Without a car. I've been bike shopping on Craigslist, and it's been an absolutely hellish experience. I had one nasty lady curse me out for asking "to look at her bike." Apparently, the pictures are for looking. I shouldn't waste her time. So the correct thing to say is, "I want to buy your bike right now, no matter what it looks like." So today I travel forty minutes on the bus to shady town NE to look at some meth head dad's two vintage bikes. He recommends the 1970s cruiser. Says it's good to go, just needs a $5 screw somewhere. It's a little beat up, but it's cute. I buy it for $75. Take it to the bike place he recommends. The guy takes one look at my bike and says, "How much did you pay for it? Yeah, take it back."

I'm crushed. Apparently the bike has major boo boos. Apparently the tires are worth more than the bike. Apparently I'm a sucker and this meth head totally ripped me off. See? I'm naive. I call the guy, which is absolutely awkward. He says no go. I say I'm coming there anyway. He says I'm leaving. I say I'll sit on your front porch 'til you get back. I show up. He's there, with his his meth head wife and children. Three against one. He tells me there is nothing wrong with my bike, and this is Craigslist. There's no such thing as refunds. Have a nice day.

I'm not gonna lie, I felt the tears coming. So I dropped the f bomb, but it didn't make me feel any better. They just laughed and got into their shiny Land Rover. It's at times like this I wish I had Project Pat with me to drop shit on that fucker and roll him out. I don't know what that means, but it sounds good. I need to drink a bottle of wine now.

pug thoughts.

There's nothing sadder than having to look your obese pug in her bulging brown eyes and say, "No. I'm sorry, you can't have any more ice cream." It breaks my heart that I can't feed her hot dogs and buttered rolls and fried chicken skin. Pooky loves food as much as me, and I wish we could share that experience more.

I'm starting to freak out about leaving her with my parents when I move to Portland next week. I know Pooky would love the weather; half the time I can't walk her in Texas because it's too dang hot and she starts overheating and there is nothing worse than a panting pug in the middle of July. But moving a dog 2300 miles is no small matter. And she's used to having people around all day, none of this 9 to 5 business, because no one in my family has a real job. I'm worried she'll forget about me, and I'm worried she'll miss me. I wish I could just roll up her fatty self like a sleeping bag and stuff her in my carry-on. Having Pooky in Portland would be like having a fat, furry roll of Home.

bus rides.

There's something about riding the bus in the early morning that makes me introspective and wistful and nostalgic. Listening to Sun Kil Moon (the guy from Red House Painters) only makes matters worse. There was a guy on the bus today who looked exactly like Jeff Tweedy from Wilco. Now, never in my life have I found Jeff Tweedy attractive, but his doppelgänger was really growing on me. I think meeting someone on the bus would be kind of cute. As long as they're not homeless. Not that I'm discriminating! My friend met her former boyfriend on a plane ride to Portland. Granted, they broke up after a couple years, but it doesn't get any more romantical than randomly sitting next to someone on a plane and five hours later...kabloom! When I fly, I always end up sitting next to young moms with drooling, sticky-faced babies or alcoholic, red-faced business men getting back from "golf trips."

tender mercies

I never thought I'd say this, but, I find Robert Duvall attractive...only in this movie, of course. Tender Mercies was such a sweet, genuine, pure, raw film. Robert Duvall actually has a beautiful singing voice, and it made me want to be an alcoholic country singer in Waxahachie, Texas. I know I'm going to miss Texas when I move to Portland next week. It's the kind of thing you miss the most when you're far away. But Texas will live on in my heart, and my stomach, and I'll just eat a lot of chicken fried steak. Thank goodness I don't like Tex-Mex food.

What it feels like to own a pug.

I never planned on becoming one of those obsessed, slightly senile pug owners. You know the kind. They’re always covered in dog hair, dress their pooches in rain coats, and try to slip mentions of their darling pug into every conversation. Their median age hovers at around 75.

My pug ownership came about quite unexpectedly. I was fifteen years old and my brother had just left for college. I decided to use his absence as excellent reasoning for me to acquire a new friend—particularly, a new furry friend.

I coaxed and wheedled my parents for over a month; finally, their spirits were broken and they gave in. One summer afternoon, during an “antiques trip” to San Antonio, we randomly stopped at a pink stucco house on the way down. It turned out to be the happy home of a backyard breeder and her roly-poly pug puppies. I chose the runt, thinking she’d turn out petite. But it turned out to be a mistake. A very big mistake. Pookins Eloise (who answers only to Pooky) now weighs a whopping 32 pounds at the ripe old age of seven. She’s a barrel on toothpick legs, and moves as gracefully as that description sounds.

Including a pug in one’s life is no light matter (no pun intended), and should be taken very seriously. One can’t just leave their house for twelve hours and hope the pug is still content when you get back. My parents have an abject horror of leaving our pugs alone for more than five hours at a time. Pugs? As in plural? Ah yes, a second pug was acquired when Pooky was three. Our household had come to a mutual agreement that Pooky was lonely during the day and needed a playmate. Through Pug Rescue (a private animal shelter just for pugs) we found an older lady pug looking for a new home. It was a match made in heaven. Except for the small fact that Pooky and Macey (new/old pug) detested each other. After a few catfights in the beginning, the pugs agreed to mutually hate each other from afar.

Going out with a pug is an event in itself. People point, laugh, gawk, and generally make the pug either self-conscious or vain. I don’t dress my pugs in costumes, mostly because they don’t make pug jumpers in XXL. But I do take them to “pug play dates” in Bull Creek Park, which occur the first Saturday of every month. It’s a day of costumes, kiddie pools, and liver treats for the old and young alike. All pugs are welcome, even the mixed breeds and wheelchair-bound. During the pug parade this summer, upon spotting a pug in a luau costume (complete with coconut bra), I realized there’s only one breed of dog—and one kind of person—crazy enough to do this.

currently reading: Boomsday by Christopher Buckley. It's making me angry/fearful of when all the Baby Boomers retire and we young folks have to shoulder their Social Security golf-playing days. Oh god, the terror. The terror!

afternoon delight.

My grammy in DeSoto, TX called to inform me of a new Bluebell flavor called Southern Hospitality. Judging by the name alone, I knew it was going to be awesome. And it is. I'm going to quote from Bluebell's website now:

"Southern Hospitality will be produced by Blue Bell exactly as it was proposed by Hegley- a mixture of Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream with crushed pineapples, roasted pecans and a strawberry sauce swirl. It will be manufactured in half gallons by Blue Bell later this year or in early 2008.
Hegley was inspired by South Carolina’s tradition of displaying the pineapple as a symbol of hospitality, welcome, friendliness, conviviality and warmth. She says in her contest entry, “The Pineapple Fountain, a huge, tiered pineapple shaped fountain, is the centerpiece at Waterfront Park in Charleston. It is a welcoming symbol of hospitality to those visiting our charming city.”

No wonder I like it so much. I love the South. I love ice cream. I love not fitting into my pants!

my dream job.

First off, I don't want to work really hard. I want to sleep until 9, have a nice breakfast, go for leisurely run, long shower, get my hair and makeup did. Then I'll be ready for work. And I'd like to leave by 4. So, basically I'd like to work 11-4. And not on Fridays. I'm not asking for the world here, people. Just a European work ethic. Ahem. Here is my dream job: finding things to make ironic and cool again from the past. I will be paid to convince hipsters that certain things are cool again, and that they should pay three times the price for it. For example, my first task would be to bring back Zima. Zima is a clear malt liquor that frat boys used in part with their date rape drugs on unwitting sorority girls named Chelsea. I remember drinking it in tenth grade, and knowing with the first sip that I was going to feel like crappy shit the next day. This job does exist. I know it. I mean, someone brought back PBR. It didn't just magically reappear again and cost $3.75 at some stupid Brooklyn bar, did it? What else will I bring back?

1. Macramé art. This can be owls, fruit holders, Koozies. The tackier the better.
2. Dreamweavers
3. SAS shoes--"America's Favorite Comfort Shoes". I'm thinking the flesh-colored old lady ones from the 70s.
4. The Dorothy Hamill wedge cut. I've seen this style a couple times, but it's ready for a full-on comeback. It's the new Rachel!
5. Parachute pants
6. Grapenuts (Did they ever go away? Doesn't matter, it's now the cereal)
7. Hootie and the Blowfish
8. Ford Pinto (adds an element of danger)
9. Those clear plastic hair bows with candy in them. I wore them a lot in 1990-1993
10. The acid-washed, wilderness animal T-shirts

Let's get this ironic party started.

E! True Hollywood story.

I could have had a mail-order husband.

Last summer I was waiting to meet my friend at the entrance to Heathrow airport from the Piccadilly line. We’d gotten separated during our lengthy trip on the tube, and seeing as how we were flying across the ocean together, I figured I’d better find her.

I had four bags of luggage with me weighing a collective three hundred pounds on each shoulder. It was the last leg of our month-long sojourn in London, and I was ready to go home. I decided to pull a homeless and sit on my luggage at the bottom of the stairs. People of all nations whirled around me, and I craned my neck to keep a constant watch on those getting off the tube. I had sat there about fifteen minutes when I noticed a Pakistani woman in a beautiful lime-green sari watching me.

Giving her my best polite American smile, I turned away. I’d noticed that people across the pond were not into smiling as much as they were back home. “Texas friendly” often came across as a little…too friendly. When I looked back at her again, she was still staring. With this renewed eye contact, she walked over to me.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hi,” I smiled back.

“Are you waiting for someone?”

“Yeah, my friend and I got lost and I’m hoping to spot her getting off the tube.”

“Oh, yes. Are you traveling in London?”

I told her I had been studying abroad but was flying back today. She was very
interested in what school I went to and what I was studying. She herself was waiting for her daughter to get off work, who apparently worked for Lufthansa Airlines inside Heathrow.
We had been having a nice little chat when she declared, “I want you to meet my daughter! Yes, youshould meet my daughter Heena!”

“Um, well, I should probably wait for my friend. I don’t want to miss her.”

“Oh, but you must! Come, come! It will take no time at all.”

It must have been the lack of sleep that made me agree. It had been an odd past couple of days and I decided to keep the pattern going.

“Okay, I’ll come meet Heena.”

She helped with my bags and we trudged for what seemed like two miles to the Lufthansa counter inside. A young woman with startlingly blue eyes bounded out and came to greet us.

“Heena, this is Lindsey. She is a student from the United States.”

“Hi, Lindsey! So nice to meet you. You are traveling in London? Studying what? Are you married?”

“Um, no, I’m still a student and—“

“You must meet my brother! He is very handsome and is studying medical school in Pakistan right now. He is almost done, and will be moving back to London soon.”

“Oh, really? That’s cool…how-how old is he?”

“He is 23, and very handsome. You must meet him! Are you coming back to London soon?”

“Oh, I’d love to, but it’s very expensive and—“

“You must come! We have a very big house here and you can stay with us and meet my brother.”

“Really? Well, that would be nice. ..”

“Are you staying here for awhile?”

“No, I’m actually catching a flight in about four hours.” “

“Oh, no! That is too bad! Let me get your email and phone number.”

I couldn’t very well say no. I do like emails from strangers, and if she wanted to pay for expensive international phone calls, then so be it. If she rang, I could always not pick up. Besides, I really did want to visit London again. She handed me a piece of paper, and I looked around for a hard surface to write on. The mother bent over and said, “Here! On my back!”

I did so, but not without a strange feeling of trepidation.

After some hugs and promises to email, I shouldered my luggage and trudged back to my original destination. I doubted I would ever hear from them again. Perhaps they thought I was a diplomat’s daughter with connections and wealth. If so, they were very much mistaken.

Upon checking my email eighteen hours later back in the States, I was surprised to see Heena had already emailed me. She had a unique way of typing. It was shorthand like text messages, but with misspellings that made no sense—at least to me.

Hi Linsey, how r u? Its Hina do u remember me we at the Airport. u met my mum ans she brought u to my work place Lufthansa. i was trying to find out if u have reached in US. hopefully u must have had a nice journey.
i have tried to call u but the number was not going through so can u please possiblly ring me on (0044) 07908488861 by the we are from london.
take care x
thanx
Hina

I found it extremely odd that her email was “honey_jus4u.” It seemed a little jailbait-y and something that would show up in your spam blocker. She also spelled her name differently. Sometimes with an “I” and sometimes with two “E”s. I did write her back, telling her of my uneventful trip home and how hot it was back in Texas. Two days later, she wrote me back.

how r u Lindsey, hope ur okay? i have been trying to ring u but it doesnt get through and it keeps ringing. i just wanted to find out did u get the text message from my brother because he didnt get any reply. anyways hows ur family. can u please do us a big favour can u email me a picture of yours.
i will send u my brothers as well just need to get them scanned. i hope u will send me ur picture soon. can u also tell me when i can ring u as well.
Thank u tk cr
Hina

I couldn’t understand why she wanted a picture of me. I suppose it was to show her brother, and see if he found me a suitable wife. I was starting to realize they weren’t just showing me English hospitality at the airport. They were ready to incorporate me into the family. But they were keeping it on the down-low. I wanted her to just come right out and say, “Please marry my brother so he can have U.S. citizenship.” For now, Heena was still playing the sly matchmaker. Just a bit of harmless fun, I told myself.

Then the phone calls began. The first time, I picked up. I have a pesky habit of being too curious. Heena was on the phone, but it was a bad connection and we had trouble hearing each other.

“Lindsey! We need…picture! To show my brother, yes?”

And: “When are you coming back to London? You need to stay with us! When is your next holiday?”

I could hear her mother hollering in the background at things to say to me. She sounded very excited. So excited that Heena put her on the phone with me. She jabbered away earnestly, but I honestly couldn’t understand one word she was saying—it was a mix of broken English and Urdu.

Finally, I shouted, “Heena! I have to go! I have work now. Bye!”

She called me back two days later. I picked up.

“Lindsey! We are going to Pakistan in November to visit my brother! You must come! Will you come? We will buy your ticket.”

I have to admit, it was pretty tempting. I didn’t want to turn down a free ticket around the world. Then again, I didn’t want to be forced into an arranged marriage. I told her I would need a chaperone, and that I would have to think about it.

She continued to call me incessantly throughout the month but I didn’t have the heart to pick up. It was too difficult to communicate, and I didn’t want to lead her family on. It was like a very persistent first date that just wouldn’t let go. But the stakes were much higher. We were talking green cards here.

The calls petered out after awhile. The messages were shrill and high-pitched, with the mother often yelling in the background. I wish I had saved them. Heena did write me one last email two months after our initial meeting.

Hi Lindsey,
am fine thanx..how r u? dont be sorry i can undstand. i will tell my brother to email u. Lindsey would it be possible for u to email me ur picture please its just that my sisters are really very excited and they are dying to c u. and please do let me know when have a day off or when ur free to chat online. and also when r u getting holidays? the Weather in London is cool not too hot its sunny but cool. If its really hot their come and stay with us in London (lol)
tk cr and plase let me know how soon u can come online and please do email me a picture of urz.
bye heena x

I’m still not exactly sure what Heena and her family wanted from me. To marry the brother? To bring him to the United States? Or was I to go there? Perhaps they thought I was a wealthy American who had a hankering for international love. I’ll never know. But if I ever fly into Heathrow again, I might be tempted to stop by the Lufthansa counter and see if my once potential sister-in-law is still there.